"pontification" poems
How tenuous this grip we have, how slight our hold remains
When all around loud braggards boast that power now pertains,
We see the banner headlines splashed across our daily rags
And redneck demonstrations cleans the streets of Spics and ****
When blood runs in the gutter as the battons rise and fall
And whilst taking tea in style the filthy rich ignore it all.
The blonde leader of our nation struts, postulates and brags
While the rest of us skive off around the corner smoking ****
Our kids ingest confusion as they loiter on the street
Unknowing our delusions make illusions held, replete.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our hold remains
As our allies shower cold distrust convinced our fault inflames.
What chance of clear redemption, what remedies revive
When truth is lost to darkness can our honesty survive?
Reputation cut to shards, confidences ******
That leaders of community no longer hold our trust
When white is caste as black and then to green and then to grey
And sanity refuses pontification one more day.
How tenuous the grip we have, how slight our holds remain
As twilight turns to darkness caste against a larks’ refrain.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON, New Zealand
25 July 2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
Give it all you got
Only option left to choose
Tip your cap
Turn your back
Throw up that deuce
But, who woulda knew
That clarity of concentration
Comes from unexpected deviations
From our anticipations
Suddenly
Shipwrecked
Lost at sea
Starin at that deep blue green
Like, it's just you,
And me
And we are the masters behind these sails
When our stories told
It'll be the stuff of fairy tales
The true master misses miserably alot
What matters most is
We take all our shots
So this is my position
Listen up
I don't give a ****
About you *****
Who don't give a ****
You on the sidelines of the game
What's it gonna take for you to lace em
And step it up?
I see you suckers pacin'
Over self-made situations
Like destiny isn't something we participate in
But what if we switch stations
Movin' makin'
Anxious Amplification
Got that body breakin'
Beats to shuffle strutin' feet and
Our music's the motivation
Our life, our part
Art over every evocation
Trumpets triumphantly proclaim the pontification
Sifting, shifting the breeze
The time, they are a' changin'
The rhythms's exquisite equations
Derivative of internal escavated wisdoms
Whimsical inquisitive exploration
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 6:58 AM UTC
so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your god **** face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.
Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey
it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy. the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.
a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.
i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."
i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.
I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.
I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.
I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.
I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.
I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.
I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.
I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.
I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.
I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.
I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
More tagalong
more chirping, the people kind
and hibiscus flowers in my mouth,
and so much effort to grasp each age and eye of mine
in two pastel-sticky-fingered hands
after hearing "pontification" uttered
in my head, so far off ago,
despite the delight still sifting
through my opal waves of brain,
some iridescent sponge,
absorbing sensuality,
roaming freely in the park,
contending with philosophers and bums
yet confusing the two heads
under a waxing crescent,
bright like an angel's sickle,
a pearly scythe,
just the moon and the reckoners
with no home base.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Do you want to sketch all your life
Or learn to paint a master piece?
Do we not sketch to learn, to develop, to grow?
So why do you still sketch?
What more do you hope to learn?
That people are vulnerable?
That you can hurt them?
That you can leave them?
Are you not tired of sketching outlines?
Don't you long for tonal quality?
For careful composition and a considered pallet?
I know your secret!
That the canvas scares you, terrifies you even.
All that you will be revealed on that unforgiving scape.
That expanse of white which must be filled and not by charcoal and line.
You will be revealed, exposed and displayed for all to see.
You will be revealed in the shading,
In the sensitivity you give to light and to contrast.
Yes, you will be revealed...
But in it you will be filled in.
You will have no freedom to remain as an outline of a man,
With all hidden in fine graphite lines and hastily hatched shadow.
You will have to mature as a man, as an artist of the soul
And set yourself free on a canvas with confidence and brush!
What a liberation!
Will the first canvas be a masterpiece?
In all likelihood no!
But it will be a beginning
And how can you consider yourself an artist if you never paint!
How many sunflowers did Van Gough paint? How many chapels?
Was he satisfied with any of them?
And was each of them worthwhile?
Paint my friend, take up your brush and paint.
Use colour boldly,
Reserve fear and reservation for other pursuits
Or better still leave them from your pallet altogether.
Be sensitive and subtle with your treatment of the subject,
frame her well, carefully
But be bold.
There is little point in holding back.
Do you want your canvas to scream, "Hesitation!"?
Paint or don't, but if you choose not to, declare it to the world!
Do not act like a painter, talk like a painter and look like a painter,
If you do not paint!
Declare "I like to sketch"
And sketch until you bear no longer to leave a subject unexplored in a monochromatic if artistic hiatus.
Be true, be bold, be clear and when you feel the time is right paint with the same honesty and boldness with which you sketched.
Then it will be a true training,
Not the pontification a of a trainee conjurer working above his station.
Complete your apprenticeship, graduate,
And step forth into the world.
Confident, upright, paint brush in hand.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
RECORD: TINY LITTLE ROBOTS
FROGMAN: CAGE Teh-rouge-ANT!
Johnny Five's and Suzy Two's: Especially Brads and Janets.
From brad three and janet one
to johnny five and suzy two.
one pontification begets the next,
only to fall in sum-E unpredictable-way.
we mean,
everyone I know feels left down by their other and fallther.
even my other and fallther fell,
left down by their other and fallther.
-- Chuck, Frogman
"[R]ule forty-two.
All johnny five's and suzy two's wild stings
more than a milee high-way
mayn’t lever the short.”
-- The King, as approved by The Qculoween
Johnny Fives's and Suzy Two's: Oh, [R]ULES [R]ULERS [R]ULE!
Always [R]uling to TOE the LINE!
Well,
[R]E
[R]I
[R]O
***
4 {KNOCKS ON MY} 2 {EAR DRUMS}!!...
i hear my hearts beat of tidelord fun.
STOP: TURN SELF
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 1:55 PM UTC
Me: What's so hard about the first line?
Also Me: There's nothing difficult at all! It's just like baking a cake.
M: In what way, would you say, this is at all like baking a cake?
A M: Cakes, in a way, are a composition. They can come in a variety of flavors, from mundane munchies to extravagant favors.
M: You comic, that's pretty much everything in life; are you hoping to seem as if somehow you're wise?
A M: Before the first pour, a whisk or a spoon or something more, one must consider intention, constitution, and culinary inspiration.
M: it's a cake, that you bake, where the flour is the base, sugar the taste, and colors meant to decorate.
A M: No need to simplify, I ask that you rectify your pompous pontification.
Myself: writing, baking, what does it matter. We write, we bake, that's all that matters.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 11:25 PM UTC
so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your god **** face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.
Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey
it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy. the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.
a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.
i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."
i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 4:25 AM UTC
i have all the time in the world
and i'll have all the world in time
all the world as in
you
because my world is in your heart
and your heart, will in time, be mine
the desire is real and desire leads to action
ah, but not to desire your skin on mine
though that addresses me with a smile anytime she pierces my consciousness
and now, instead of personal revelation in the form of
perfect poetical pontification
comes the inevitable disdain
i can't help but be disgusted at my own sappiness
i can't help but read these words and think
"holy ****
you're such a ****
what the hell are you writing.
do you even understand it?
you have no idea what you're writing."
and I lose my inspiration
and I'm left here.
every.
time.
so ***** it
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
The sun
It breaks forth through a quilt of clouds
And it shines down on me
Me, bundled in a scarf stitched with iridescent thread
Walking, with intent
My mind falls into familiar patterns of thought
The tiredness of monotony and the buried hope of eventual freedom
Some nights I have vivid dreams that scare me into waking up
Those dreams feel realer than my waking life
Real life feels dull, repetitive, lifeless
A gear stuck in it’s designed rotation,
Propelled by the surrounding gears that have also given up dreams to submit to the status quo of drudgery
What is this anyway?
Senseless pontification
Calling everyone a phony
But what happens when the finger is pointed back at me
And I have to reckon with my own disease?
Because I can see what’s wrong with all these systems and how “they” perpetuate it
But me too, I perpetuate too
And the pain of the world just feels too big for me,
And I just can’t please everyone, not even myself
But it kills me
To see us devolving into people in love with their image,
Kissing their reflection,
While our hearts turn cold and we become social media activists who are largely disconnected to the marginalized experience
Disconnected from our true, simple and beautiful humanity
I can’t bear to witness this descent in us,
Especially when I see it in me
I just, don’t want to think so much about it anymore
Whatever it is,
I just can’t figure it out
And it makes me angry
And wonder if I’m a misanthrope
Because it seems like no one cares,
And I’m starting not to care now,
But well,
Who cares?
But I do care, but it takes scary things for me to show I do
Like the feeling I get thinking about someone I really love leaving
But I don’t show it on a daily basis
I’m just a frazzled, mad person
Touchy, irritable, paranoid
Charming, but deceptive
Smiling, but lying
Because when I’ve told the truth
No one cared anyway
Or they hated me for telling it
What’s the point of this string of thoughts?
I don’t really know
Except that I had to get them out of me somehow
And unburden myself from the heaviness
Of these leaden thoughts clanging inside of me.
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 10:24 PM UTC
Flashing lights spots centre stage
it's the start of the fashion parade
one by one out they come
twisting and turning so all will get an eyeful
Lithe and pretty doll house material
little plastic smiles on their cute perfect faces
show time for the pigs in the seats
that treat them like cattle or sheep
It's utter mayhem backstage
girls fitting into dresses poorly made
just a pin here a seam their
most will forget their underwear
A conveyor belt of fantasies
a pontification of fashion
a way to dream unrealities
that you want with a passion
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
Nauseating persiflage pontification
by aeolists with hollow minds,
it's a zugzwang situation,
so stuck among the prolix.
Panglossians in one ear
pessimists in the other,
a hiraeth longing for hygge,
yet stuck in the social mire.
Nonneutonian fluid vacuum,
imminent immersion of initiatives,
halting inundation of discerning,
heading toward a humming flat line.
Suddenly I adimpleate, with joy,
an archetypal suggestion floats in the air,
I excuse myself from the aretalogers,
and hunt the primordial source.
With legwork and inquest,
here and there on the scene,
I am defeated, misfortune,
alas, absorbed back into the quagmire.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC