"planar" poems
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
Alright,
I'm standing
in a rain soaked field
looking due North at the
stacked glorious nothing.
And the vapid brands that
stamped and covered these walls
are an echo of their vibrant
former hues.
The people drive round
and down trying to get
to their brown house maybe.
The parking lots are planar
grey graves, commemorating
the former lives of the
ghosts of shopping malls past
dying ghosts of shopping malls past.
Right on, I'm
walking through the Holocaust
memorial with my coat buttoned
to my throat. The dying lights of
the Sharper Image really makes
a mockery of what they left.
There is the shell of a Banana Republic.
There's Old Navy, Gamestop, Footlocker
Shoes. This is the food court where I hit
on that girl who ended up being as
forgettable as a food court meal.
Okay,
now I'm
looking out just one mile south at the
excavators pushing the dirt and the rock
Digging into land bought by the City,
to build up a new store or twenty
This new real estate is assured to
bring "vibrancy" to our local economy.
Those old stores aren't the right location
so let's just leave, they never existed and
a single family of mallards swim is
circles in Yorkshire Lake. Calmly watching
as the engines get closer, not really expecting
their time is over to bring in the future of
the ghosts of shopping malls past.
Another ghost of shopping malls past.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
"Abre sua aversão;
Eis que um nauta fala:
- Mestre, vês somente sofrimento no amor?
- O amor pode conter fuligem e até mesmo grasnar, porém uma vez sentido é como parcel:
não se desfaz fácil dentro do peito.
E mesmo que nos faça presente o basto e dorido retrocesso, o medo,
infindável de obstruir a todo esse amor, mais infindável é o anelo que o amor causa-nos.
Estamos sobre escombros, mas o amor é como papelotas angelicais…
Desce ondulado cheio de idas e vindas, corrupiando até a estabilização.
O amor é granívoro, come pequenas as sementes dos defeitos nossos,
belo como o grande milhafre-preto a planar no céu.
É como a retriz que sente o vento a tocar, é o ósculo entre o paraíso e a imensidão.
Oco somos antes de amar.
Somos como o barril quebrado sem vinho, esperando que o tanoeiro nos venha resgatar.
Encher-nos a transbordar.
Ouça o execrável grito do ódio, sendo cancelado pelo dulçor deste imenso sentimento.
Ouça o esfolar dos descrentes, incorpóreos.
O amor é um reverbrar eterno de luz em cada alma,
é a calma, e a batida de cada pulsação.
Não se pode obstrui-lo, ou excluí-lo da vida,
pois ela o traz em cada vibração.
Como um frincha encontrada dentro de nós,
convertendo aos poucos cada problema em solução.
Transformando o ingrato em um romântico facúndio,
criando paz em meio a escuridão"
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
A vida é o jogo de emoções total,
É jogo sem regras, sem costumes,
Quando a temos, muito formal,
São mediações de perfumes!
Mas se eu não gosto afinal,
Ou se eu amo meu amigo,
Sentimento é ser informal
Importante se o consigo!
As misturas de regras são vagas,
As vagas de sentir, são viver,
E assim afinal, planar e dizer,
Te amo ou odeio, faz cócegas!
Sentimentos não são de dizer,
Palavras, não sentem o que fazer,
Carinhos, toques, gestos, são prazer!
É assim, um cheiro a perfume natural,
Sentimentos, são trocas de atenção,
Quem nunca sentiu chegar no plural?
Sentimentos, são energia no coração!
E assim sempre vou mostrar meus sentimentos, sejam duros, suaves ou possantes! É isto a natureza informal de eu chegar, junto de todos aqueles que no fundo, eu considero!
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.07.25.02.11
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
Sinto o meu corpo voar como um passarinho,
Nos teus braços, sinto conforto do nosso ninho!
Os teus olhos, são a alegria do meu caminho,
E quando chego a ti, sinto mesmo o teu carinho!
Sinto-me a planar no ar como uma pena,
A energia que vem de ti, me é tão amena,
O teu perfume cor de energia tão plena,
Teu abraço único é meu, querida Liliana!
Nada é igual a ti, à tua doce presença,
Tua imagem, sempre uma boa lembrança,
Respiro melhor, estes sonhos de criança,
A vida contigo, é agora a melhor aliança!
Sinto-me tão grande no teu aconchego,
Sinto-me vaidoso da tua companhia,
Sinto a tua presença com muita alegria,
Beijo teu, eu vejo e logo de vontade, pego!
Esta noite eu vou deitar-me alucinado,
Descanso sobre a almofada apaixonado,
É tão leve minha consciência, abobadado,
Vénia pela noite a teu ser, por mim amado!
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.07.23.02.08
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC
In the temple built from straw,
humanity gives way to something animal.
Primal chanting of age of songs
and the hypnotic undulating of carnal dance
mark that spirits of the eldest
have arrived from their planar journey.
In the temple built from wood,
baubles have been blessed by the watcher.
Portraits crying oil, and statues carved from ivory
that slurp up spoonfuls of goat's milk.
Even the patron's tongues are sacred;
spouting the language of the birds.
In the temple built from stone,
all entrances have been sealed from view.
The scriptures are now so sacred
that they resonate only within these walls.
Soothing secrets for the selected pious
who give God their gold so graciously.
In the temple of the wolf
there is but one parishioner present.
No doors, no floors, no walls or ceilings;
just keen eyes and a mind unclouded.
Breathing and dreaming worship
within his body most holy.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
the last time I cried this much
is when the last boy from a few years ago
came back to me starry-eyed and rosy-cheeked
professing how he felt like a rockstar: and I realized in my heart he couldn't be for me, so I had to end it, but before that
I cried in my stained floor, broken floor, all mine,
alone for the love that never could be because I was too fed up
and he couldn't be only mine. I've prayed to leave this life,
to have my life with his bony knees and his brown eyes,
not the life I've known before: the life in his thin arms and his beard I could live in, maybe, is it full of secrets, those hairs?
the way his eyelashes come down: and it pains me to think this.
don't you ask me if you are bad for me because my man you are not, nowhere near it: all these issues stem from me, please understand:
I am trying, don't misunderstand the yearn and the pain that comes from the screams in my dreams: my throat needs to speak and when I am like this its just her coming out, the little girl,
you said we'd do it, we'd do it:
my toes curl onto the glass edge: planar and around the room, it spins a never-ending scape, today I needed to sleep but I couldn't care less about the impact of this on my flow: but my health must sustain and it must be okay.
in the sky something silvery drops behind the walls and painting prepositiosn that litter my writing still: I even tried learning your language, why, why, whereabouts, why, why, whereabouts, why, why, whereabouts, where are your hands? I asked if you could be a good man and if you could treat me right. I asked you to not hurt me in those ways, you know what ways, you know you said okay, to those ways to the whys. mia, mia, eres mia, mia mia, eres mia. eres mia. mia, mia. eres mia. mia, eres. eres mia. mia. mia. mia. por que? eres mia, mia. mia, mia. eres mia. mia, eres. mia. mia. mia. mia. mia. eres mia. my eyes glance at that blue bulb watching for a white wall to appear: mia, mia, eres mia. mia. mia. eres mia, mia, eres, mia, mia, eres. sleepy eyed. I care: yes, I care. I cared so much I'm that child behind, I'm that woman that's behind: ring or not, legality or not, don't leave me behind. my rips holl backwards and forwards, the ancients they scared me and my eyes are heavy. eres mia. mia, mia, mia.
Oct 14, 2021
Oct 14, 2021 at 5:27 AM UTC
Stasis to stasis,
stations of the cross
lost in a basement
beneath some planar baseline.
I hate time.
I'd rather daisy chain rhymes
like claymores arranged
in gateways;
bouquets of daffodils
and baby's breath
on a grave.
Slain means dead,
they say.
They say a lot of things.
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 10:55 PM UTC
evermore,
sent silently
to mindless receptors
to silence
the screaming
they resonate across
planar lifestyles
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
I've dipped my brain into arcane,
The power from another agent.
The power to become a saint,
Such sanity begets contagion.
My mind is split across the planar,
I see beyond what has transpired,
No fear, or smear, or peers to cheer with.
I see the end, and it is near.
My friend, I knew that you would come.
This work we've done, it led us down this path.
Our minds were one, our paths were some,
We reached too high and turned awrath.
I stand above, yet still you lurk,
I have become a perfect being.
My mind is flawless magic clockwerk,
I am a part of everything.
And in a single hurricane
No vain, no gain, no strain, no pain.
The world has gone. The puppetmaster
I have become and raised disaster.
I won. In victory- defeated,
Mistaken was in chosen path.
I see you, friend from world we lived in
And giveth you this sacred chance.
A genius that is mistaken
Is dangerous, but lies therein
A chance for mind to reawaken
From its misguided faulty dream.
A genius is but a starter
That still may choose a stupid path.
It's wisdom, friend, that makes us smarter,
Not knowledge of unclear past.
The world will end, I send you inwards,
In loop that threatens to unwind
With you, my friend, becoming victor;
Forgive shortsightedness of mine.
Our understanding was... distorted.
We stand together, now- as equals,
Our brotherhood, once more, restored,
We stare into the vast abyss.
When deed is done, I'll wait you here,
We've got so much we've to discuss
Before we get to disappear
Into the void amidst the stars.
I hope there'll be a variation
Of us within these mystic planes
To wisely propagate creation
And get to understand arcane.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC
I’m Triaxial,
In geometry,
This X, Y, and Z…
Caged by coordinates–
So planar, unfree
And time’s forward flow,
Just won’t let me go,
It’s sometimes too fast…
Then, relatively too slow
There’s a down direction,
That pulls with oppression,
Gravity’s fixed force–
A constant compression
When force is innate,
I’m stuck at it’s rate,
Sunken and buried,
By pressurized weight
And, in this void,
Nothing’s destroyed,
Change is the constant,
From which all is deployed
While my perception,
Is a small projection,
Of fundamentals,
Below our detection
I myself am just an extension
Of laws beyond comprehension…
I’m suffocating, blind
Stuck here, in this **** Third Dimension
Jun 15, 2025
Jun 15, 2025 at 5:02 AM UTC
Consider the experiential planar
state of mind,
as cosmic typhoon butterflies
and deities alike unwind.
What horrors await the assault
on our state of conscious,
does the ephemeral abyss really
reflect the monstrous?
Collisions smaller than scale continue
to move destiny,
sparked by nothing more than infinitely
finite energies.
Move against or for the unseen
current affair,
in an effort to surmount and watch the fabric
Of space-time as it tears.
Only then crippled by what really may
be out there,
Something we could never truly hope
to bear.
And that is;
Space.
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 6:11 PM UTC
and sometimes, you
are like starlight, for you fade
with the colours of the dawn,
and only when quiet reigns—when
shadow overtakes shadow, when
adoration slumbers in golden, curled chambers—
do you arise; spinning, and just discernible,
you reflect on charred and distorted surfaces,
sometimes curving, sometimes eclipsed and
forgotten.
to be unmade, to arise from the
planar and float in myriads indescribable:
the object of your temperate love.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC