"polarised" poems
If I say you girl
you are inside
my neuron world.
Would you belive?
Or if I send you a mail
MRI scan report attatched.
Will you read?
Belive me or not.
The sparking in
my Vegas nerve are not lying.
An afgan ****
***** to ***
Whiskey to Wine
I had tried everything-
the doctor pescribed.
But, it's my nercotic nerve
stop receiving all signals
It polarised at my SA and AV node
by your high sugar smile.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
the Hebrews call the Greek myth of Icarus
by name: Lucifer - i know man is prone to plagiarism,
esp. in the religious realm, the easier the plagiarism
the easier the governing of men -
for indeed the Hebrews claimed
Icarus prior to the Greeks, the former with Lucifer
and the latter with Icarus -
but how i loathe peasants claiming
medicinal endeavours
of knowing only the spotlight cursors
to curate and environmental care of origin
of such negated ease,
they have no knowledge and no power,
their interests in the subject matter
would never encourage them
to run a marathon for accumulating funds
for a cancer charity -
one word answer? ***** they're basically
***** should have engaged in a family
life before you blamed me m.d.!
take your regressive anger and shove it
up your little bee magnet **** to take
a **** like extracting honey - now i'm ******
but look where i'm writing it: on a colour
of defeat - militant heaven of the archangel Michael
sword in hand and Satan defeated waggling a
tongue - isn't that importune to speak of
the current times with the defence of a freedom
of speech subdued by a fear of insult
demanding? monotheism did as much good
as it shouldn't have - and did as much evil
as it should have - and did, crafting the strict
labouring of judaism's orthodoxy -
so for each niqab there came the madness of
a jewish girl's care for wig - translated into
christianity as the donning of wigs in the 18th century,
and the 17th - bypass the concerns of
monotheists and you came across cuisine
freedoms of mandarin, and the colour backlash
sprinkling to a billionth birth, a land
where the homeless have a mother kamadhenu -
and celebrate Holi for chance of extracted mundane
hue of man polarised with fluorescent ivy
and x-rayed orange... or that's how the thing was said.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
**Borne on waves of solar wind
the void of space he navigates
ostracised, sails the sky
searching the night with polarised eyes.
With beckoning gaze, his look forlorn
watching the world float in space
off-ground-tigs plays he alone
for has no friends to call his own.
Muddy puddles and oceans reflect
mellow cheese, veined with blue
marred complexion, acne faced
through scudding clouds, plays peek-a-boo.
As old as time, a crescent smile
grinning the grin of a Cheshire cat
a melon slice, a boomarang
thrown into orbit, returns again.
Without our friend where would we be
the darkest nights through eternity
no tide to pull the ocean blue
no romance, for me or you.
... ... ...**
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
i find it strange to be politically correct,
without actually exercising any political
career-motive as a member of a government...
because that's what's we're being sold:
to be politically correct, without a career in
politics. doubly strange, to foster non-antagonising
views on everyday matters,
to later realise that whoever we're antagonising
from an environmental bias (rather than
a personal bias) we will never share a dinner with...
so like our opinions mattering in the first place
was by-and-large, just a media hoax to
ensure we were all prescribed the safety of
walking the tight-rope... and never really
designating ourselves the freedom of the constitutional
rights - this leftist bias remains intact,
on the canvas of freedom of speech, however
that freedom allows us to see rural endeavours in talk,
the once appreciated freedom is becoming a polarised
freedom to name & shame... a media hammer or nail...
because it's only freedom when enough people
agree with "us", to allow a bicep expression of
being backed up like some Spartacus...
i mean, i don't agree with most expression,
but i wouldn't **** the hornet's nest with the media
frenzy to appear politically correct... when
so few of us actually have any political power....
being sold free speech, to be later curbed with
political correctness is a bit cancerous....
given that free speech is equated to the voting X
from the age of mass illiteracy...
i don't see how free speech became a vehicle for
acquiring constrained speech dynamic -
when did we forget the chastity of speaking the airy-fairy
things in life on the informal basis, and when did we
become so ****** friendless, estranged, outsiders
to everything that matters... and now, supposedly
between butcher and greengrocer, talking about
the weather in cocktail smocking and bow-tie?
free speech gave us the rights to not ask for political powers...
on whatever governmental tier...
prescribing us political correctness has given the everyday
John the delusion that he can process political power...
the once famous strive for speaking what the hell you want
but not wanting political power changed into
being prescribed political correctness but no political power...
so i ask you... what's the point of being politically
correct, if you gain no political power,
unless you're a rat, a snitch, spying on your neighbour
to grass them out? because that's what political correctness bred,
snitches... those given political correctness laws
were never given any other political power...
added to the fact that they wouldn't have said anything
interesting / provocative anyway.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
The air, superheated, cocoons us
and we drive,
northwards into the heartland
of the desert.
You, black shirted,
your smooth denims
an intrinsic part
of the landscape.
You were born into dust.
I, crisp and white,
a polarised pair
of mirrors for my eyes.
Your hands on the wheel
guide us into the belly of time.
Intent upon a road with no end.
Sunlight hits chrome,
bleeding flashes of forever
into the gaze of any who glance upon us.
The roof pulled down,
my hat is given up
to a vortex of spinning air,
whipping tiny tornadoes
of grit and long-dead weeds
into a dancing frenzy of celebration.
We have no gold on our fingers.
Our teeth shall not itch
with the sugar of a wedding cake.
And we’ll never look back.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC
Pigments of light
draw me to the surface as air
rippled against my skin beckons a
new day.
Between us our contorted bodies gather heat as distant drums
plusate
a primal language long forgotten.
As polarised opposites, we are held
by barometric pressures
with only gravity to our name.
Soon we loosen
& like tectonic plates we slowly drift
heedless of the aftermath above ground.
Shiloh Harmitt
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:39 PM UTC
Eighty dollar Cuban cigars
fast women
fast cars
and a seat on the Board.
Lord,
what on Earth did you do to deserve all of that
Who's yanking your chain
who's pulling your cord?
Suddenly life seems so flat.
Dog ended days
Chips cut with corn or with maize
the life of the lowly
slowly I am beginning to get the gist
of the things I have missed
and I see things must change.
In this City
I can see disparity.
polarised opinions
factions on the margin
Verging on obscenity.
So should we all be stars in cars
have cigars with
fast women swimming through
in a boardroom grinning to, the poor folk
who's winning the war
what is life for if not for the promotion of wealth?
by stealth
and all other means necessary.
A pessary for Pilate
for where the sun doesn't shine
on this hit parade the weather's just dandy and fine
or it will be
when I get
what's mine.
Reserve me a seat on the board
attach the chain and the cord
and start
pulling.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
being a discarded paper bag
in a sunbleached ditch roadside
moment, i rode past on the
stifled cycled exhaust fumes of
the intercity from oamaru back
home: second home, fifth home; how
many times have i left home,
now? being a stinging
sensation in the back of the
throat of some lost child
(me), some lost ******
human (obviously
me), this is the only thing
i'll ever regret being a
{oh, i am just a}
thought process cycling,
stifled, thinking, through
ultraviolet-polarised perspex
there, with
you with him, and he's
making you smile, and my
head hurts
just
a little more and i
fall
a little further down, like
apples drop from trees, like
lies drop from your insides,
and i mutter something stupid and true,
like: "i'll get over it this
time" and stay still *stay
still*, i will get over it this
time, just i, yours {never} truly. so, do
you get that feeling
like you're losing something,
(because i don't need you)
like you're caught mid-fading,
(because i don't want you)
but you can't figure out why?
i hope you feel it in your smile
tonight, darling.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 7:33 AM UTC
Treasure is but a wanderer's lust
seeking utopia amongst the cosmic stars
it's year 2025, humanity's golden age of technology,
and a little white spaceship sets off to colonise Mars
nicknamed Nova 2, she boasts twin light-speed thrusters
polarised windscreens and a body of pure ceramite -
with a whoosh and a deafening bang
she smashes the sound barrier and streaks through the night
[#WHAM! BAM! FLASH!#]
at twenty-two hours they pass the moon
avoid a cluster of meteorite and space debris,
venturing deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness
their minds awestruck, their weary souls free
faced with a darkness that was un-shiftable, heavy
the danger of this mission increasingly daunting,
the longer they ignored their fears
the more the alien wilderness became haunting
what if they suddenly stopped dead
hit a snag or ran out of power?
They only had limited supplies
and the absent sun grew hotter and hotter by the hour
with the silence incessant
the sound of their own voices was obtrusive, grating,
food disgustingly vile, water going warm,
pressure steadily rising, there were concerns of the pilot fainting
--// "CALLING ELISA STARR TO THE CABIN PLEASE." //--
Elisa Starr was the cabin's dutiful cleaner
she'd clear away the astronauts ******* and occasionally mop up their sick -
for most of the crew had adapted to the lack of gravity
alas a few individuals hadn't been as quick
only 3 months in and the air had already grown stale
smelling of faint excretion and sweat,
aching and tired, she was always wiping down the interior windows
as the condensation steamed them up wet
what was the point in coming to space to slave away
when she could just do it on Earth;
once a valued member of society, a highly respectable mother of three,
surely this gruelling slavery she didn't deserve?
-//-----//-
The glowing red sphere of Mars approaches,
their destination finally (finally!) in range -
Earth was dying and this is a chance for us to start again
but isn't it already clear that we'll never change?
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
I can’t help never falling out of love with you
I won’t apologise for being in it.
Swirled, wrapped, scents of us..makes no sense
Our difference drives me wild, chemistry
But.
Polarised frustrations fester
Your presence, your essence I will always feel.
Being a part and now apart
How does a heart, heal?
Does it?
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 4:18 AM UTC
It rains diamonds
On saturn
Perhaps these scales
Irridescent in
Hard light
Emanate from there.
Momma bear twirls
In white ecstatic dance
On polarised ice
Cub rotates in
Pirouette
Waiting to eat
This fish flops
At your feet
Gasping for air
Emboldened
Sacrificial protein
(Left igloo
Unaware
The raging gale
Blew away my hair)
Piscine bone
Zen marrow
Offered
My all my all
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 3:36 AM UTC
the easiest art to abuse is poetry,
after your posed ****
**** **** cheeks
in self-e mode, the easiest
mode to grasp is to a
likened drowning man
grasping for a razor blade...
odd not enough sketches
of the cheeks... but about
how the everyday would play
out after the act...
i just like watching the smoke
of a cigarette breathed out
into cold air like watching rain
clouds disperse for a shot of light;
not that the missed fifth element
of the greeks was electricity
for the pentagonal man of sight sense
taste sense, touch sense, heard sense,
scent sense, and with the fifth element
the sense of thought: dual via either
rational or irrational choice...
so polarised by it that it touched
us like fire's scorch or water's bathed
wrinkled geese, or wind-blown hair,
or earthed body parts in ashes...
because if electricity was not the fifth
missing element, we'd not be taking
anti-insomnia sleeping pills:
we'd be unaffected...
prometheus got away clinging
to a giant hawk that ate his liver once...
but michael faraday got the electric chair
to keep his hairstyle in hedgehog mode
buzzing eureka after eureka.
electricity, or synthetic light
does not allow man to congregate like
man once did round a camp fire for a story...
electricity that synthetic light allows
us to congregate... but only as tourists...
not as storytellers.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
most of the time i'm here,
enmeshed in pixel cobwebs
like ancient television static,
i'm hardly going
to feel ashamed as when
the first television set
polarised audiences so that
entire communities congregated
to the house of one man
who owned one -
don't you feed me that crap
about social media and intrusion
like some sort of voyeurism,
you put up the **** yourself
so you're stripping and posting
the things you want to be seen
of your own accord;
ah ***** where's the professionalism?!
don't make me feel like ******
you with a full consent transaction!
*** and a guilt trip,
should have steered away from easy
money and people like me
forgetting getting girlfriends was hard
and hands sometimes didn't do enough
justice.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
before doing the chores of cleaning
the house,
and happy having cooked a jalfrezi
curry the previous day
because the bonsai ginger punk
maine **** wanted to eat raw chicken,
i ground coffee beans with cinnamon
and later read about david bowie's stay
in berlin with all those fabled tales
of drinking debauchery, akin my own:
since i really really find strangers
being concerned about my health
with that drink-marathon soberness
and dry january odd and worthy of
your typical suspicion with paranoia...
they make me feel like i'm not supposed
to own my own body,
and not be able to be irresponsible with it,
somehow channel all my living parameters
into being sober, eating loads of sugar
and turning into a television zombie,
in a small part of the world, worried about
the world due to polarised media coverage
feeding me pointless opinions i don't
want to have because i simply can't enter
a dialectical conversation with them.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
I add insult to injury and bleed into the glass
O2 reserve blinks on, the time to turn back passed,
stuck in this metal shell of stale air and sweat
protein packs and old newspapers the only luxuries I get
*["Sir... we've lost contact with Nova 2-"
"What?! We'll bring her back if it's the last thing we do."]*
I light a cigarette, let the smoke linger,
flinch as the stub burns down to my finger -
the idiots said there was nothin' to fear,
said there was absolutely no chance I would ever get stuck out here
So why have the engines stopped, dead silent and dry?
Transmission's dead, no one to hear me cry -
the stars around light my troubled, ecstatic, nightmares
as polarised glass shields me from a sun that arrogantly stares
*[720 degrees and counting
various alarms at home screaming, shouting]*
it's fat, it's bulbous, from violence born and bred
the heat sears and it's not long before these walls start glowing red,
water near gone, papers reduced to ashes
outside something gives way and crashes
---//-/--
surprised to be alive, well my heart still beats, if you can call that living
I'm down to the last cigarette, the protein vendor's stopped giving,
lighter's broke, along with most stuff inside,
but I can still light it using the heat from outside
*[at home they try using sonar, think the problem's sorted -
argh but the ship's stationery- no longer in orbit!]*
I hope they find me soon, y-yeah 'course they will
surviving has always been my best skill
--///-////--
but my skin has blistered, eyes near closed
it's boiling but somehow most of my body's froze -
finally the exhaustion kicks in, biting --//-
the puny drive to live fighting
[through evaporating tears]
breathing by instinct
mind growing more and more distant
smoke lulling, so sweet
'spose it-
[YAWN]
it won't hurt to have have just a little sleep -//----/
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
I sit betwixt the laughters,
The margins in between,
Moments unnoticed,
Those easily ignored.
Attention is drawn to instance,
But must be dragged to dereliction.
Worming within words woven,
Cowering in the safety of kissed teeth,
Solace secured as someone scrutinises how to silence the silence,
Grateful for the respite.
Squeels from the pit of my stomach,
Causing only echoes back from my tongue,
Trickling crude treacle, trawls south back through my throat,
Finding no refinement, reclaims residence in my centre.
Waiting to rejoin the cycle and another all clear for launch.
Traceless transaction as interactions lapse,
The regenerative amnion of your “awkward silence”,
Perspectives polarised,
Unwittingly burying me in the hole you endeavour to fill,
Unable to comprehend the precipitous crevasse simple shovelling could not plug.
The ever exhausting pantomime,
forcibly cast.
So I take shelter in intermission,
Where no one need pretend,
At peace in my own trenches,
As unpleasant as it seems.
No need to scale the embankments for a fool’s run at no man’s land.
Though still a subterranean prison,
The siren call of Stockholm glistens in the gloom.
My magpie’s eye lays yellow bricks forward,
Through a self destructive syndrome,
Easing the path with each retreat.
Remortgaging contentment,
Time and time again.
Addicted to appeasing that tidal will: subconscious.
Welcome the bailiffs later,
To collect debts of regret,
Postponed event horizons,
When I’ve no injunctions left.
If only absence bellowed as loud as laughter.
You would hear me.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 4:48 AM UTC
*Feet throb through well worn shoes
after a brisk walk to central station.
We keep our ears plugged with our beats
to finally find seated, at furtherest point;
Backs of heads, napes, and collars
mushroom away, stare blankly ahead -
polarised sunnies paint them bright;
choked only by an assumption of gain.
And all I see is a tiny reflection of me.
Here in my world another day begins:
a mourning of suited, tired paramours;
in this cosmos of peopled isolation.*
_ __ ___ ✒
●○
°
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
*Feet throb, pulsing thru well-worn shoes;
after a brisk walk to central station,
we keep our ears plugged with our beats
to finally find seated, at furtherest point;
Backs of heads, napes, and collars
mushroom away; stare blankly ahead -
polarised sunnies paint them bright;
choked only by an assumption of gain.
And all that's seen is a tiny reflection of self;
here in our world another day begins:
a mourning of suited, tired paramours;
in this bustling cosmos of peopled isolation.*
_ _ __ ✒
●○
°
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
I won't react
to your matter of fact
your polarised view
your online cue
I won't react
to your social pact
to the weight of the noise
when you throw out your toys
I will react
to the empathy you show
for being there
when everyone said no
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 11:34 AM UTC