"positional" poems
Curtains, veils of virtual vice
So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.
Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-porn pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.
It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.
I **** I **** by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.
I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.
It's a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.
I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.
Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.
But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.
Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.
happy flights :)
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Are there strategies to displace binge eating
with binge doing?
Wouldn't it be swell to get $ for binge coding?
something like:
poem.each do |word|
money = word.compose(your.wordstream)
end
More efficient monetizing of your thoughts.
More efficient cars and buses.
Correlarry: more paved roads, driveways and concrete surfaces,
therefore, more runoff pollution.
It's not the end game
yet, but a vast,
complicated middle game
with closed centers
and deep positional
Play.
Will our grandmasters make
a mistake real-time playing?
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Pertinaciously vituperative irrefragable determinism. Inscrutable axis of spontaneities’ imaginative. Perplexity’s prognosis to prospectus. Elan vital’s preternatural perpetuity. Cohesive coherency’s opaque opulence. Space-time continuum’s natural induction expressed as identity. Exponentially tangential imagination’s immaturity. Entropy catalyst blonds. Spaciotemporal telemetry tactician’s tellurian terrene. Protractive analyses dimensional delineation. Reflectively refractive positional empathy. Prophylaxis protocol. Objectified manifest's self inductive diminutive minutia iotas of interstitial edict. Graspy greedy stingy frugal mingy minions. Manumission’s indentured servant sail.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
thirteen men came together, who shared a common goal
each one persisted on the field, to bring glory to their football team
employing skills they'd been taught, on the oval they put in their best
struggling against the other side, to win for the team
they'd not be disgraced, their competitive spirit rode high
the lads unified in battle, they played as a solid team
each man drilled and trained, none had defeat on their minds
positional play was all important, they'd not be a routed team
their football team had a draw on Sunday, the thirteen strove to win
as a cohesive unit they tried well, but the time clock disfavored their team
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
So we find ourselves, once again, succumbing to the very anticipations of our ever-entrenched customs. What lies in store for us, is not yet revealed. But trust me - my deep, spiritual and connected partner of positional variation: just go with it. The musky scent of agarbathi is sensually captivating amidst the fiery secretions of India. How powerful is your experience?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
thirteen men came together, who shared a common goal
each one persisted on the field, to bring glory to their footy team
employing skills they'd been taught, on the oval they put in their best
struggling against the other side, to win for the team
they'd not be disgraced, their competitive spirit rode high
the lads unified in a battle, they played as a solid team
each man skilled and trained, none had defeat on their minds
positional play twas all important, they'd not be a routed team
their football side had a draw on Sunday, the thirteen strove to win
as a cohesive unit they tried well, but the time clock disfavored their team
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
there is a delight unique
(which is mispronounced
by all, actually, u-nee-cue)
after thousands of poems
composed and disposed,
smack dab read, two- fab-you-lust-
fulfilling new(new (to HP), anyway)
poets who have left me
brighter but blue
with one option, two problems:
*De doc he say, son you in a bad way,
wake to neon flashing ear to ear,
a l t e r n at i n g
smiles and grimaces,
face flashing
unceasingly
like a lonely
orange red Hotel sign
irritating the dark, all night long*
two poets,
offering either hope or despair,
and I am bereft and bewildered,
by two new to me poet~scriveners,
with such distinctive and oppositioned
positional views of life expressed so well,
making my Pity #9, feeling prissy and yet prophetic,
as these two make want to cry/smile with every read
of theirs…and throw in the crying towel…wet with tears …
*and the summer breezes, carries us leeward,
to the sheltering side of my island*
READ THEM!
(see below)
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
Somethings in life is just a symbol.
All the power they process is run by others.
The Pope is the symbol of faith.
But anything, he propose is control by other voices.
Similar to the Queen of many countries.
Where the Prime Ministers makes the powerful decisions?
We notice the symbols most in beauty pageants.
Where the women are required to act under certain provisions?
And any controversial move create a demotion.
It's strange.
It's true that many we think would be the most powerful.
Are just there for the people.
Parents seems to be more stronger to make decisions of their own.
And yes, parents operate under certain restriction.
But nothing more than the positional symbols.
It's better to president.
Where you can veto proposals of Congress?
If they refuses to agree half way.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
I don't write erotica
not because
I am Chinese
or
on account of
my being prudish
oldish
pedantic
sanctimonious
fearful of public condemnation
nothing as such
it's just that the subject-matter
doesn't fit my poetical scheme of things
and I must give way
to others who have such forte
the poetic stage is theirs
and I wish but to be among the audience
to witness their play
and listen to what they have to say
I look at the universal
(this covers more themes than I could ever imagine)
not the microscopic individual
(should *** be brandished as a product
for public consumption?
why do bed-rooms have doors?
entry VORBOTEN -
private property--no intruders
no voyeurs, no spectators-
as simple as that)
what is art
and what is vulgarity and obscenity?
who is the definitive authority?
after all
writing is democracy
every writer is free
to choose their subject-matter
no author should have the audacity
to condemn another
it's effrontery
otherwise--
as all right-thinking people would readily
agree
yet
****** poetry
is quite easy
to write
the images , the metaphors
the nuances, the allusions
the rhythm, the plot,
the vocabulary
are within the reach
of most poets
(only if their interest lies
in this field)
****** poetry
revolves around physicality
the anatomy
of the human body
two bodies-
or one body plus another-
in secluded conversation
of skin-touches-skin motion
positional modality
the heavy sighs
the heart racing
the fluidity of the lovers
as they seek to drown
in the sea of ecstasy
where the dying is
stronger than death itself
the unity
that sets the lovers free
(haven't I over-spoken?)
I don't write ****** poetry
because that's not my poetic territory
and it could spell the death
of my creativity!
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC