"precursors" poems
armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/kill/mercilessness, no quarter,
no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial, and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break
I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,
nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…
composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC
I am a certified expert in the sequential pushing of buttons,
this pushing performed, on a good day, in concert with the
expensively purchased, somewhat rare mental model of
the workings of a recently commonplace variety of machine
dependent at its core on the minuscule presence of increasingly-rare
earth metals allowing for the conditional flow of groups of electrons.
These machines, like their precursors, are further dependent on
the supply of slightly less increasingly rare combustible material
for which armed conflicts are routinely fought and many have died.
My interest in the machines began at an early age,
enticed by the illusion of control, and on the whole,
I think, motivated by the idea that these machines
processing information, the core mechanism of reality,
might be used to create understanding.
In the interceding years, it is increasingly apparent to me
that while some are used for this purpose, most,
like most things around me, are controlled and engaged by
multi-personed organisms concerned primarily with:
1) self-preservation AND
2) the collection of, and limited divestment of,
unit notions of rarefied value, insured by the
existence of another similar organism valued for its
1) self- and nearby-environs preservation AND
2) recent track record of insuring continued relatively easy access
to the aforementioned important combustible materials.
—it is generally considered to people's credit that this notion
of value is thus-derived and no longer as frequently derived by virtue
of possessing a metal which, while of certain non-combustible use,
is basically just pretty rare and really, really shiny.
I find myself again shortly in a need of convincing such an organism
that my button pushing is of sufficient quality,
on sufficiently frequent good days,
that it should consider me a temporary part thereof and divest,
of itself to me, sufficient units of value that I might happily
continue to push buttons on its behalf in the pursuit of further units.
I am, for some reason, somewhat less than thrilled with this prospect
finding it, despite its marketability, a maybe less than important enterprise.
I am existentially concerned by the idea that my whole value may derive
from my button pushing, and is thus further dependent on
the availability of rare-earth metal and also-rare combustibles.
In some delusion of importance amongst 7 billion plus similar primates
and a unfathomably vast universe,
I thought you might be interested to know
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
*concerning the last lines... all we can do with the Cartesian Libra is add adjectives to it, which is contrary to what the existentialists did by simply modifying a furthered abstraction of the compounds 'i think' and 'i am', via the inverted comma(s), otherwise known as dittoing, sic, prior said, or re-, true to the oddity; a king will continue to question his position / being a king by not thinking about it, hence his uninhibited delusions, hereditary, very much genetic; and hence someone who precursors his being with much concern for thinking, the inhibited delusion, self-serving - both are adjective expansions of the Cartesian Libra, just added qualities, given both are facts requiring a slab of marble to look like Rodin's kiss - or approximate, with therefore being the chisel, and so dependent the end product, indeed a slab of marble at first, but not necessarily Rodin's kiss at the end - perhaps a Notre Dame gargoyle...*
i am what i think,
that's what i came up with after
reading some of the bio sketches -
even though the truth is that
i am what i own -
thinking is the part that comes last,
if i own a bed and a roof over my head,
i end up i thinking about being
homeless - but sometimes you do find
the ones that are inclined
to be what they think, the extremes
we call them - supreme anti-materialists,
it's not satisfying to own a house
or a phone, more is required,
something tinged with transcendental
counters - they "own" a home
but rather not live in it, already the
looming fairy of heaven tells them
of an unnatural life expectancy -
some might say thinking a form of
uninhibited delusion sketches,
like i'd be a venture capitalists taking
a weekend away in Hawaii while
some ridiculousness of poverty in India
was to blame for my jet streams and
carbon footprints - they keep the
inhibited delusional in cages without
a chance to sketch - because the uninhibited
delusional have all the freedoms
that Versailles could allow - or...
uninhibited delusions of non-thought,
inherited, hereditary,
versus inhibited delusions of thought,
mutated, self-invented...
this could very well be a "magic" square
with two further variations, i.e.
uninhibited delusions of thought (psychopathy)
inhibited delusions of non-thought (coma?
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
muse,
*she/her has no master, only a mastery;
she, comes compulsing, a physical pounding,
a throbbing impervious resistant to logic or medicine,
which is the so very ever, the peculiar throbbing
of a principled particular “present participle,”*
*write of compulsing is her mocking suggestion.*
*a presence, punishing urging, pas de choix, obey,
submission; write freely but not free, compose or
decompose; is there a difference, no, not, and so ordered,
demand surrendered, how? how? this taking and giving,
can a single act dichotomy be so fulfilling and so emptying?*
<>
wake daily to water canvas, the waves, dabs of paint
protruding, irritating. provoking yet presented silenced,
repetitiously calming, motioned framed within the
white edged sand, the bound-surround of the living painting.
eyes alight, eyes delight, this daily emergence unto
a tapestry devoid of human interference suggests
a differentiating reality; now I understand the how of a
world’s imperfections constituting, tooting its own perfectionism.
this is not lake water; no single flat stone skipping nor
a concentric rippling to a slow death; this is seaward-
bound, an oceans subservient tributary, contributory,
a river, bay, sound - precursors to a vast atlantic infinity.
this is metaphor; this a still life of the perpetuation metamorphosis.
<>
*the muse exhales; as do I subsequently; what difference?
none, she replies to herself, tween painting artist and
verbalizing poet, the un-still life creation, always, always,
different, the essence of diversity in a singularity sameness*
7:13 AM Thu Jul 29
2021
S. I. Sound
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 7:59 AM UTC
*i vent, i'm sure you heard of the invention known as the ventilator... it's like a lung-clone-subservient of a "nanny quality" of automating the words: breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... it precursors the in and outsources the *out, there's a cult-like-scheme involving the use of... the stated tools... worthy of a suggestion that epitomises August as the month of harvest - i.e. the sun finally sets to auburn crops and **** me, isn't the bread rightly puffy?! toad-squidgy aye aye? go on, give us a burping caricature of a squeeze!*
imagine uttering the words:
i hope your mother lies
eternally run-sacked with hopes
of former ****** glory,
***** bleeding,
as if a Mongolian horde just passed
her with a glorious encore of
clapping to match...
because that's what i assert
as been done to my mother,
you don't even understand the verb
or adjective or conjunction behind
the noun.... after all, you're an African
Muslim and a pyramid builder,
a *******
jaded jock-strap and gag's
worth of you the Ben & Jerry...
praise the Koran
but don't understand that behind
each noun there's a collective grammatical
structure, **** you English political correctness,
**** you! **** YOU! have your Reagent's Street
and Oxford Street, have 'em!
behind the noun all grammatical categories
follow suite... universal noun, what category
for the particular? ape transforms into apish,
or Quasimodo or ~ape, nouns are units,
like centimetres, forget the other things, unless you:
let the shoppers drop dead like flies!
but imagine saying the words:
i hope your mother gets gang-raped by
an equivalent of a Mongolian horde;
yep, Mongolian necrophilia.
you said it to my mother, and i'm mourning,
alive, and counting.... once more... so **** you*!
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
at times, i wish i hadn't learned to love so much.
there is always a lingering weight in my chest;
my heart, already fragile enough,
fights to carry it through every waking moment.
hellos are my favorite things, but they're merely precursors
to the poison of goodbyes, to the sickness of loneliness
and the yearning to be elsewhere
in other places, with certain people.
tears fall as quickly as grins go from ear to ear,
roaring laughter easily fades into deafening silence,
and this wishy-washy soul is one i could never get a hold of.
but what would i be without love,
without the burden of feeling?
what would i be without the days spent day dreaming,
the moments i run out of breath
from gushing about people and moments,
the nights spent crying all alone,
and being vulnerable to the world,
but feeling the best of it anyway?
i love, but i hurt.
i hurt, but i love.
and that is all that matters.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 10:29 AM UTC
i don't have a low self-esteem,
or precursors to justify
usage of internet paraphernalia;
i don't have a phone,
i don't use dating applications;
if anything i'm looking
at the hurts of globalisation
from a village perspective;
and to me, it all just looks like:
cow took a **** cow didn't take a ****
cow bowed on all fours to sleeps
to keep a patchwork of grass
dry from the rain... cow slept standing...
back then you just had to walk to
the next village to ***** in the gene pool...
now you're expected to travel to paris
for genetic diversity and a love story
worthy of the boredom of writing
hunting the digression of dating:
is monday the 12th of July good for you
and the imaginary caveman? no?
i thought so... watching rain in England
in sunglasses kinda precursors
naturalised use of sarcasm, given
the Great Wall of China and Hadrian's:
an army of Scots just jumped the wall
like 110m hurdle sprinters! what we to do?!
what we to do?! wait for the Mongols...
ah ha.. all in all.. good luck
and *cheerio(h)! ol' chap! bowler hats ahoy!
bop bop... like bloated frogs bopping along
to Sherlock looking at an aquatic snail trail
deciphering Cluedo.*
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 3:14 PM UTC
What I told you yesterday had an impact on tonight.
Combined with what I said today makes it kind of frightening.
I've been extra-sensitive to coincidences lately.
My mind readily noticing when irony strikes.
If I've told you twice, then I've might as well told you a thousand times:
my friends are not good people,
and I'm not very nice,
So take a hike.
What I said two thousand years ago just echoed back tonight.
Recalled saying it just yesterday,
back in a different life:
My friends are all I have,
and they make me feel alright,
so if you've got a problem then go and take a hike.
Ninety million years ago,
dinosaurs roamed the earth.
The bulky massive precursors
to all of my friends' births.
They say a man can be judged by the company he keeps,
and these are all just metaphors,
but we've got claws and jagged teeth,
so come and get yours.
I spend my time with predators
learning to prey on the weak.
They accept me because I know all of their secrets
in a language I've spent two-hundred million years learning how to speak.
I've been extra-sensitive to coincidences lately,
like how all of my friends have such thick skin.
I suppose it's got something to do with my past lives,
the way they let me in.
I said it yesterday and I'll say it again.
Stegosaurus never stood a chance against Tyrannosaurus.
A well known fact amongst my friends;
Believers of evolution and survival of the fittest.
One day we'll rule the earth again.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
There’s nothing poetic about it
A broken heart
Precursors are set
Gut feelings long before anything takes place
Something instinctual sits in your stomach
Your insides turn into a witches brew in a cauldron
As anxiety boils up
It’s coming and nothing can subdue this unstoppable natural disaster
This isn’t hurricane or a tornado
There is no possible way of out running away from the carnage that will soon ensue
The heart is tied to the tracks and the bullet train is right on schedule
The call comes
Being understanding is courtesy
Words released under each breath do not match the ones lingering in your head
But you don’t speak your mind
How could you
It ends and the heart along with it
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
his guiding spirits have spoken:
she is the heart's love
distance, time apart--
or whatever factor--
coffee-sipping lips dismiss
with satisfied, sudden smiles;
the precursors of most agreeable nods
and, even, at times,
a familiar conclusion:
"is it not so! if she is
my heart's love, doesn't
the rest of me--all
of me--love her just as much?",
crowns this lonely man's
pronouncement answer, from his guiding spirits,
to the same oft-beseeched question
~~
..Sat. Sept. 4, 2013..(C)2013 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching
into the poet's heart
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations
there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy
When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down
Enough!
unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,
"the night shall not disrobe you,"
that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping
surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script
and he gets that...
where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue
it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,
perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams
<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/
9/5/17 13:55pm
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
keep barking
what,
mongrel?!
never to a chemist
what, suddenly there is
no notion of a cognitive
mongrel, i.e. a bilingual breed
of man?
i found that people
complained about having
a mixed-ethnic rooting,
never was the case translated into
the cognitive element of
vocab...
you are allowed an ethno-allowance
"stipend" and be left off
the hook if your mother was
white, but your daddy was black,
but then it comes to
possessing two languages,
good luck Buck!
akin to psychiatric disorders...
the pills don't work!
tell that to a chemist:
the **** was i doing all this time,
so running, cardiovascular
oxygen to the brain will solve
all the problems?
the last thing you want a chemist to hear
is: the only medicine is exercise...
i'm not saying it's perfect,
but to suggest that all pill taking
is bad makes the study of
chemistry: pointless...
might as well be studying
arachnophobia!
if i actually did make it into
the profession i'd be as much hated as
a police officer...
chemistry: bad...
make sure you wash your teeth with
cow dung extract,
and perfume yourself with
freshly plucked daffodils then!
jobs retain a tinge of absolutism
because relativism doesn't exist between them,
the only relativism shared is
the relativistic fact that such jobs
exists, and can exist because
they are coexisting...
a bus driver coexists with
a cabbie because: e.g. e.g. i.e. a mechanical
means of travel...
psychiatry undermines
the benevolence of a chemist,
by over-simplifying
the case-study of a cardiovascular trainer...
the **** is the point
running a treadmill without
generating energy?
you can't suddenly explain
to a chemist:
your pill aren't worth popping!
well, that's one way of saying
the currently exploration
of the impotence of antibiotics...
that worked...
but what's the point of telling
a chemist to suddenly "dig the groove"
of divorcing himself from
synthesising synthetic mimics?
- and instead analysing analytical
precursors?
a chemist is not going to suddenly
rephrase his quest
to agree to:
a futility his own work -
culminating in an effective
plagiarism of nature isolated...
but then popularising biology
and physics reduces chemistry as
being the Quasimodo of science,
a hunch-back ugly-face of endeavour...
a science crucified in terms
of modern ethic...
once the only adventurous
branch of science,
now the most ethically conducted
patron of rigour...
it has truly become nothing
short of a farce...
something worth being ridiculous,
but not inclined to be subject
of ridicule.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
Enslavement beyond yearnings,
tied to the precursors
of times submitted before.
But I'll never be held in solitude,
our right's to never be shackled.
We wear our freedom with pride.
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
. “No, don't warn me I know it's wrong
But I swear it won't take long”
- Yo La Tengo
“Relations are more important than the things they relate,”
your old comrade said, in the late afternoon session,
in that city behind the taciturn mountains, his hair
now colorless as snow, which came late this winter,
not unexpected, but a surprise none-the-less,
like an off-color joke at an increasingly drunken
party, filled with relations and old friends, who
had come from – but enough, this sentence is
to long already, and must stop now! But why?
Won’t it just be followed by other sentences?
And they will still be connected to the last.
But, again, why? Is everything connected?
Perhaps, yes, in the bigger picture, but we can
not always be in that position, must glide like
rivers, understand through concrete images,
cement our small innovations in place, and
re-enforce them -- béton armé it’s called, in France --
Oh! France! Land of Paris, capital of the 19th Century,
with its naïve progress, its precursors, and its
unconscious serenest seeds, rêves and nightmares.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
Allowance of difference transforms not entirety, but perhaps enough. We are cast all over the place. By chance some grow. Seeds of diversity bloom without genetic precursors. Hybrid’s forerunning amalgamations were somewhere in time not as pure. Half-bred mongrel dogs the same. Romulus and Remus suckle a wolf-bitch surrogate. Even after hardships and trials together, turn on each other. Conditioning may not change what is inheriting, but has its influences. Feral children of ancient mythography become heroes of a Rome, who has since seen rise to popes. What injects change into society? Today’s biotechnology gives birth to genetically engineered seed of change. Who bows to New God, by its name Monsanto? Collectively, third-world nations in a final Round-Up. Extermination business as usual.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:56 AM UTC
the quintessential beautiful day
but there is shadow etched in the patches of light
there is taste of misgivings in sweet afternoon air
the heart sketches its dreamscape
but distant thundercloud ripe with storm encroaches
but it is the image that intrudes
a vision from the inner mind
that sends precursors of darkness into my perfect day
an unsettled mind always creates dark creatures
to hunt down and haunt my best moments
why cant i leave myself alone
why must i hound my own footsteps with these dark tidings
the vision that creeps into my heart
is of the girl i left in the mountains
and what joy she would find here in paradise
if i had only
if i could only
would have...should have...didn't
why must i hound myself with all the possible things
she wouldn't even lower herself to talk to me
and i just beat myself up with desires to rescue her
she should be a forgotten bad dream
she should be forgotten....
the quintessential beautiful day
but all i can see is the tombstones of sorrow
and the paths not taken
it will change
it will change
with time
i will leave this dark girl behind
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
We're drenched in the sweat of our precursors because they've walked this way long before we were thrown into the mix.
A continuous and branching path is the trek for truth.
Progressing together, we separate as we go on,
Only to meet up again at the coming together of roads,
When all knowledge is connected and implemented in an Earthly heaven.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Grandest mothers of infinity
Hydrogen powered entities seasoned in the golden years of expanding illuminating the universe peering from my night sky
Exploding your cosmic rich guts to form our eclectic experience
From love thirsty suffering endless happiness
Iron sprinting in my heart and veins from the bellies of gas burning fiery giants shine their smiles with beautiful faces
Flares shooting from a creator that does not think or feel-just acting as an is
Born from tightly hugged and squeezed by gravity’s riches swirled for billions of years until bam!
A sun god is born
Conceived in the universes filaments
Of still gases huddling up against the cold dark reaches of outer space voidness
Precursors to intelligent life waiting for it’s first blinking eye with a tear holding a caress
Emptiness turning into something with viewable aesthetics drawing musically shredding pleasuring our minds
Until our stars grow then donated to universal orphans waiting to be born as poets or fools
Musicians
Artists
Or human pollutants
Ignorant to the grand exoskeleton of the bunched galaxies entwined into filaments stringing along
Harmoniously singing in non audible dimensions
All galloping apart faster than seconds ago
Faster than physical perceptions-only godly retentions
Expanding energy from mass accelerated times human perception unknown
Like mysterious love letters place in a lavish garden for one’s truly
Like minuet ancient footprints in antique beach sea soggy sand
Transcending our space and concealed time locked in your heads
As we sleep
worlds without end
spinning weeping
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Among desolation,
Hidden, buried deep,
The vaults of gods,
Lost secrets do keep.
Though all creation
Succumbed to the blight,
The precursors foresaw,
And sealed their might.
In dark chasms below,
Do great engines lie in wait.
For the predestined time
To fulfill their grand fate.
Though those now above,
Twisted and broken,
Sing of wicked things,
That should neer be spoken,
They will not inherit
What remains of this world.
Their end will come,
When the stars lie unfurled.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 1:24 AM UTC
my eidolon is my equipoise
your voice is vice versa
I would deal only in ideals
if not cursed by my precursors
what came before I came before you
conditions my condition
Im bringing down what brings me down
content in forcing your contrition
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
the following poems are precursors to
what became a sleep-deprivation
thought experiment:
- crown of myrrh / c'est la vie!
- coming to december
- hydry jawa (hydra's consciousness)
- misery humour...
at first there's only the subjective observation,
but that is soon followed by
an undeniable objective fact - that:
these poems were written in frustration
at not being able to solve
the times' (15th november 2017)
súdokū puzzles no. 9455 (difficult)
and no. 9456 (fiendish) -
out of a mere subjective account,
i found my body dulled by a seeminngly
perpetual sleep,
not morose, or numbed,
disorientated, but somehow muted.
my reaction was obvious:
you need to be sleep-deprived -
the actual thought experiment happened
rather unexpectedly...
what i found the following incident is
that, in rare conditions,
sleep-deprivation can allow the mind
to transcend a regular pattern of
sleep-rest, and engage in sleep-deprivation
overdrive...
i only have one decent proof...
but it's a **** good one...
hours of being constantly awake?
since 7pm yesterday...
from 7pm today, at quarter past
10pm, that's: 27 hours 15 minutes...
the times 20th november 2017
súdokū puzzle no. 9467 (fiendish) -
and the proof is the solution, completed
in under 10 minutes:
6 2 5 9 4 8 1 3 7
9 7 3 1 2 5 8 4 6
8 4 1 3 7 6 9 5 2
3 5 9 7 6 1 4 2 8
7 8 4 5 3 2 6 1 9
2 1 6 8 9 4 5 7 3
5 6 8 2 1 7 3 9 4
1 9 7 4 8 3 2 6 5
4 3 2 6 5 9 7 8 1
the actual answer to puzzle no. 9467
will only be available in
the times 21st november 2017
t2 supplement, and if in desperation
you can only receive four clues
before midnight...
but i'm cheap,
can't be bothered to pay 75 pence
+ network access charge...
for four numbers,
when the ******* phone number
consists of eleven numbers.
believe me, i never thought that
sleep-deprivation, as a thought experiment
could achieve a lucidity of mind that
the otherwise sleep-recovery sometimes
merely dulls the mind...
notably via the dream fabric;
not so long ago i found dreams to be
exhausting,
very much like the iron curtain -
they bugged me...
intellectually depraved -
this velum somnium,
just like the velum ferrum spawned
the cold war, psychological warfare,
false information, distortions,
exports of a "utopia" having been
established, nonsense of every calibre...
no communist thought it was utopia,
but some people on the other side
of the iron grip must have thought so...
or were subverted into thinking it was so...
hence the end result:
the current zeitgeist.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
This cave held secrets, of that he was sure.
It was filled with ages of debris.
Already they had found the bones
of two australopithecines.
He squatted near the latest find,
A flake of stone, stone that had been worked
long before **** sapiens’ time;
when our precursors walked the Earth.
He felt the stones weight in his hand,
Cool to the touch, the well-made blade,
Sharp enough to skin a deer-
a treasured heirloom from this grave.
His mind wandered, in the cool dark of the cave,
to think of those who worked this stone.
They were driven from the Eden of the trees
and struggled to survive on the grassy plain.
In a night without fires’ comforting glow;
In a night full of sounds; roars whispers and groans.
He grasped the stone tool tighter still
He had never felt so all alone.
Then he was rescued from all such thoughts
By the vibrating call of his I phone.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
The golden drops of dew
Shimmer in the sunlight
Casting a glow over the
expanse of lawn
Green and gold paving a path
Silken carpets in the haze
of the morning light
Trees bursting with life
Filled with leaves
Dark green opalescence
awaiting their destiny
As days move toward another season
Bringing a cornucopia of color,
bountiful and bold
Lingering remnants of summer
Mixed with precursors of fall
As days shrink and sundown
creeps closer to the dawn
Twilight casting shadows on lawns
Another day and another season
blending one into another
8/16/19
www.brucelevine.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07485W4Q1
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 11:50 AM UTC
are you sure that we're supposed
to be buried in earth,
earth the closest we resemble
as ash...
are you sure?
just wondering, because i've
just stopped looking through
my grandfather's rea ding glasses...
and what i saw through them...
was akin to having your eyes
open, underwater...
perhaps this whole one-size-fits-all
coffin packaging is great
to cut corners and run the treadmill...
hell, floating murk
of cremation on the Ganges...
if the druids were to be stirred...
the eyes of man,
ought to be buried in the sea
or lake or river...
the other body parts?!
dunno...
because that would rob
me of the authenticity
of where I'd like my eyes to be buried...
or rather dropped into...
apart from the eyes and the brain...
i guess the druids would prefer
the modernised version of events,
given the progess of science...
donor flesh...
even the heart doesn't
exactly fit a burial worthy of
the earth... you could in earnest
bury a heart of a wild animal,
when performing a burial rite...
but there's something
comical about the inverted necrophilia,
a higher tier of hue...
there is a dead man,
but a part of him is still living,
in another...
hence my sour taste in,
peace be upon him, Christopher Hitchens'
atheism, banking on genes,
and an eternity solely via genes...
genes are but atoms...
i see...
a heart of my calibre
beating for 10 more years in
a foreign body...
and all this...
with the exausted poetic eucharist
of Christianity...
and before the techno-tenticle
explores...
a complete inversion
of necrophilia...
a subtleness of life...
and the endless possibilities therein...
at least by cremation:
nothing is sacred, all is elemental...
not this, from dust you came,
but unto wax you shall return...
Madame Tussauds *** doll
precursors, and a stag night joke
about ******* a helium sheep...
with all due respect,
peace be upon him,
there are more avenues to eternity,
than in the immediate sense,
atomist, procreation and the passing on
of genes...
unless you are of course
a modern day Portuguese ****
with the no. 7 roy-al white...
less about prostitutes tier C,
certainly not tier B (strippers and
the sugg'ah daddy teasers)...
no, we're talking Gattaca ******
tier A... surrogates.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC