"predictability" poems
She strides down the street,
Holds that cancer stick up to her mouth,
Takes a deep breath in,
Filling her lungs with lethal smoke,
Gradually rotting away her
Interior.
Her heart beats out of her chest.
[A heart divided between two hearts.]
He’s waiting at the street corner
Between the alley of lust and the
Path of ignorance.
She sees his silhouette in the
Distance, a dark apparition.
Her heart leaps out of her chest,
Towards him,
Reaching for him,
Propelling her to him.
She had absolutely no control over the matter.
The other man she loves is home
Alone, waiting for her too.
Moments ago, he
Held her in his arms,
Kissed her goodbye,
Told her to hurry back soon.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too” - the words
Suddenly conveyed
No meaning to her.
She told him she was
Running an errand, when,
In reality,
She was running away
From him.
[*A heart divided between two hearts
Can never really be a heart.*]
His love suffocates her.
His love drowns her
In its constancy,
In its predictability.
With him, she feels like a
Bird with its wings ripped off.
Held captive, in a wire cage.
[*A heart divided between two hearts
Can never beat the way it should.*]
How can a woman with two men
Who love her
Feel so
Staggeringly
Alone?
Who will love her until their
Disintegrating hearts turn into
Simply dust.
[*A heart divided between two hearts
Can never really keep from rupturing,
Infecting the body with its own poisons.*]
So she lets her underground lover
Envelop her in his arms
And kiss her until both of their lips
Are numb,
Until they both want more.
Until they cannot restrain themselves.
His love releases her out of her
Cage, allows her to fly once again.
The passion of these moments
Will never be forgotten.
His love brings the roses back to
Her lifeless cheeks, brings life
Back to the void inside her.
And, his love allows her
To fly back home, once again,
Straight into the arms of the
Man who is her keeper.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:05 AM UTC
I love the passion love brings
But that too many are scared to share
That first moment when something clicks
As if you know fate’s come your way
I love watching the layers of shelter peel away
So all that’s left is the raw being
Where that unbreakable bond is formed
And the pieces combine to form something new
I love when the flutters are gone,
Stored away for new obstacles
The reassurance that you are special
Opens up a world you were too frightened to enter before
I love the patience and understanding love brings
The crossing of barriers
To meet somewhere I’ve never been
A cultural exchange in an entirely new language
But what I love of love most of all
Is that plunge into a dark abyss
Where predictability is erased from the picture
And a whole new story is forged
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Conflict resolution is like a field of mines where shrapnel explodes and uncertain footings pervade their way through the flesh of our workplace relationships.
Professionalism has crossed invisible boundaries beyond the realms of Saturn, don’t you think?
Please, will you consider having political interactions on the territory upon which I reside? You will then truly understand the mechanics of being.
I can correct you. But you must be willing.
Come on, babe! I dare you to venture outside of the box of predictability, because we can then truly arrive at a mutual understanding.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
sweet words i don’t eat them up like i used to
i hunger for something more like the fire in your eyes
tell me what makes you feel alive and i’ll tell you all my secrets
text me in the morning and text me goodnight
everything feels like a dream against the daylight
i sometimes mistake today with history
and these days i crave mystery instead of predictability
take me further
drag me further into the unknown
i promise i’m equipped
to survive
i’ve already died a thousand times
it helps me shine when i come back to life
you can’t **** me
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC
rhythm is
comfort
and predictability
stitching my days together
through the notion
of repeating the motions
an illusion of stability,
but no matter the way I
structured my day
no matter the perfection
I strived to attain
no matter how many
unkempt strings I cut away
I think deep down I knew
that life
should be a little frayed
as counterintuitive as it seems
the unexpected becomes
the rhythm of dreams
ripping through the routine
changing the patterns
of what I planned to be
into new designs entirely
so I embrace this chaotic beauty
with its endearing knots and
erratic threading, ready for
living imperfectly
balanced in the uncertainty
is rhythm
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
sprinkles splatter on
tight clad legs in december,
and it should be snow, but
the clouds are thinking
of committing suicide
and haven't got anything
to spill but tears
i'm smoking bowl after
bowl, trying to ease a mind
full of manic mutations
and masterfully marred
optimism
geminis have a strange
way of guessing the words
that will slip out of lips
of ones like themselves,
and tonight i've found a
human who entered this
world just a week
before me
it's almost like a secret club,
but the secrecy is terrifying
in an electric way, and i'm
plugged into an outlet
ready to be fried as i
spill broken heart after
broken heart to a man
that understands me
all too well
he tells me that he
knows not why i ask
for advice, because
the truth is i'm stubborn
and stuck and i know
what i want, i'm just
wasting away with pride,
posture, and predictability
every moment that i don't
go and get it
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 11:30 AM UTC
After taking a phone call,
My nosy ears overheard
An incident involving a
Female coworker flirting
With a male coworker.
Rather, she was joking
Around with him
Out of boredom.
He said he had a wife,
And she asked if he would
Allow her to be his mistress.
The man made a complaint
To a supervisor, and she
Was moderately reprimanded.
The one accused did not
Think he would take
It so seriously.
I cannot help but think
He would not have felt
Offended if he found her
Attractive, no matter how
Supposedly devout he is to his wife.
If anything it would have
Flattered his ego,
And if it was vice versa
I believe the same
Principle would apply.
The paradoxical predictability
Of Human subjectivity.
(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
You know how when
You put a kettle on a stove,
Maybe for tea
Or something else maybe
You get the kettle
To put on the stove
And you put water in it
From the tap
Or if you're in
The inner city
Then maybe from
A jug
From cvs
Or rite aid
I don't know which is closer
To your kettle
That you're putting the
Water in
To put on the stove
But the tap smells funny
And tastes like minerals
And artificiality
So if you have a bit of money, Maybe an on-tap
Filter or brita
You turn the little
**** on the front
Of the oven
And you hear
The distressed, hurried
Sound of a component
Desperately trying
To do its job
It seems like forever
But it's just a couple
Seconds
The spark catches
The gas
And glorious blue
Energy leaps out
And causes
Instant condensation
On the side of the
Kettle you've filled
With water
And put on the stove
And then
Primordial chemistry
As old as old
Changes ****
Around inside
No time
For a chem lesson
Just listen
And then after a few minutes
A blast of
Piping hot
Shrill
Pure energy
Explodes out of the top
In an earsplitting
Harried call
To you to let you
Know the kettle
You put on the stove
Is now ready
For you.
All that pressure,
From so much activity,
Before you even
Turned the heat on
You walked around
Gathering materials
And moving about
And all the calories
You burn thinking
About it
And then the
Thermal activity
Which is breathtaking
In its simple
But ever so complicated
Perfect order
And predictability
And all of this simply
Amazing process
Culminates
In one constant,
High energy geyser
Of released pressure.
This is equivalent
To the results
Of one thought
About you.
What a life
As a kettle.
Yea.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
you needed each other
though neither of you yet knew it
each ingesting what each season offered
growing beyond near defeats
each winter bare and shivering
each summer consuming broad and open
laughing all the while
showing bridges
between deep past and next season
neither existing without the water
the other poured willingly
one for the blinding yet nurturing
impending solar singularity
and the other for the pleasant aroma
and the welcoming blossom
and the predictability
the companionship
and when you
our beautiful ample matriarch left us
so did your sister
and her leaves fell
and then her petals
and her pistol
stamen
limbs
as if weeping for the loss of her confidante
when you
my mischievous sponsor
when you fell
so did your rival in beauty
i used a chainsaw
i tossed away her lifeline
turned off the faucet and tossed the hose
stacked her limbs on the curb
for the garbage truck
they wont let you
bury trees at the cemetery any more
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Today I decided to make a dress.
I'd seen others do it.
Figured I'd give it a try.
So I laced Predictability on neatly
And hemmed the Defensiveness in tight.
Stitched up the Strength, the Sarcasm and
The Empty Stare in a nice, perfect line
With pearly white Laughs to match.
Then I ironed it with puffs of Indifference,
And hung it up to admire.
It was nice.
Decent.
Normal.
Okay.
I put my dress on and walked out into the world.
I smiled at all the right places and frowned to the silent beat.
And then when I got home I took it off and cried.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC
There’s a lagoon in my head separated from the fierce ocean of confidence by a low sandbank.
The sand dawdles to diminish its size, with melancholy waves halting its ruckus,
Water was never that loquacious, only cooing hastily on the salty air
Quaint grains of mushy rutabaga make it hard to finagle,
Because the sirens beautiful song entices me to sink
So I flounce hysterically, unable to calm my mind.
Her fair face freckled with sand gleams with odes of despair,
Adding to the mournful steps of the receding tide.
Waters once at a healthy level, wisp the fresh sea foam away.
Jagged rocks now poke out from the depths,
The vibrancy of her seaweed hair messy and curly, shrivels.
The timid sand portrays such reserve in its frantic company,
The waves crash on cue with such force,
Predictability is only her turquoise concealment
Ephemeral brine absorbed by desire,
Encapsulated by the beige powder,
That cannot dissolve.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
addressing my southpaw weakness...
don't know... my left hand is a bit...
weak...
started to train it...
by extinguishing cigarette
butts on each other knuckles...
have two vacant slots to fill...
and plenty of whiskey...
why?
i paid my Shylock...
i was **** with the Gorbachev
**** on my right shoulder blade...
now comes the fun part!
the lesson...
of boxing, with not boxing gloves!
i want the middle finger knuckle
to... hurt... the... the most...
like Tom Waits'
circus narrative...
**** these teenage girls cutting...
how about their start burning
themselves,
with hot, metallic objects?
how's that?
less blood!
ha ha!
two knuckles down...
two to go...
i'm giggling with anticipation...
while, i, eat,
the, pain! ha ha!
who gives a **** about
predictability,
preachers / theologians
or stock brokers?
so who?
the Turkish barbers,
the English tailors,
the French chefs?!
who?
the roof, the roof,
the roof is on fire,
let the ************ burn...
we don't don't need no
water let the ************ burn,
let the ************ burn...
i'm a simpleton...
catch the genie... catch the lamp
sort of scenario...
otherwise?
bon voyage / bon soir /
mon amí!
god, i hate the french!
it's like...
you want to lick them...
face to face...
and then... punch them...
my type of ****** nationalism!
comes the third knuckle...
and the cigarette...
it will be put out onto!
- like an interrogator might...
you show the victim undergoing
the torture, with yourself
prior...
and then?
torture the **** out of them! ha ha!
i.e. who's the buckle,
who's the knuckle, and who's the knee?!
oh please! please!
don't mention the oysters
of the elbow!
have some common decency!
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
Pitter patter raindrops gently sprinkle my windows,
Thunder rumbles again.
Sky’s are dark, darker, glooming happily,
The day meanders, hiding and seeking,
and the sky starts pouring its heart out .
Pale silver threads, navigating their way down against a backdrop of green-black trees.
It is June.
And my day of revival, birth and reckoning.
Only a day away from the solstice.
Here in leafy, caressing, sleepy Goa,
the dusk will soon begin its slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.
In my secluded, fragrant, verdant labyrinth,
I sip coffee,
I notice the lone squirrel scurrying away to find shelter,
and listen to birds chirping, bees buzzing, the gurgle of water,
and to an insistent song in my head that just doesn’t stop playing but too spellbound to put pen to paper right now.
And now, as I go for a drive on this quiet, directionless, mellow afternoon,
I cannot remember the word I want to write,
I think I have no words.
The thunder is closer now.
It sounds like drumbeats , the rearranging of celestial furniture, like our transit to this beautiful abode we call home now.
Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all unabashedly.
I think about the past.
Not in any structured way. Just people who have come and gone, who linger, who stay and who have left their indelible fragrance around me.
For a few moments, my mind wanders down the past and I sigh at my own predictability.
The thunder is passing. Grumbling and groaning in the distant now.
Each leaf looks freshly washed, scrubbed sparkling clean and shades of green hold my gaze.
The paddy fields look abundant and satiated.
The single bird has become a small chorus, a full roaring celebration on.
I stare at my page. I have still written nothing.
But, sweetness,
I just experienced divinity,
I feel blessed and just absorb the present.
I am the road and the paddy field,
I am the bird, the squirrel and the bee,
I am the thunder, and the rain,
I am the song and the quiet,
In the abundance ,
I am me, what I want to be❤️
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
This unresolved ambivalence
Contaminates a dubious sense
Of accents yet unknown
And of unbridled words yet unspoken
Where one becomes haunted by circumstances
Bequeathed to a virtuous iniquity of discourse
Whose fabrication of appearance binds deception
Yet transforms human misery by conscious and unconscious
Deployment of illusions were words are those energies
Given free rein and perform a fecundity of speech
Defying as it does so semantic predictability
And brings dissolution to normality
The first born UNICORN
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Thoughts surrounding thoughts, leaving no room for simplicity.
Drowning in doubt, no such thing as positivity.
At first the world seems sweet, handing you everything, with dignity.
But as each day moves forward, you lose your grasp on serenity.
It moves not steady, but with no predictability.
So it's time to say goodbye to hopes and dreams and say hello to reality.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
I am captivated by the pattern of a tiled staircase where fountain pens scribe forbidden texts upon spiral bannisters which lead to debased psychological states.
Do we have permission on this stage of trajectory, to fire statements into unfathomable corridors, which surpass today into the realms of tomorrow?
Dark figures writhe in the thick fog of eclectic séances.
I have engaged in nightly astral flights down the streets of blatant innocence.
Are you standing on the inside?
Bring me back from what is deemed to be modernity and bypass my voltage where uncertain predictability is a predictable uncertainty.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 11:32 PM UTC
Your eyes touch the back of my mouth. Make it so hard to swallow.
I never breathed so evenly, my stomach feels so hallow.
I'll bury my face in your neck. Allow me to sink my tongue, and
Drown my teeth into your arms. Your breath fills my lungs.
Everything is easy now, since we simply let it be.
This is anything but sarcastic, the way our colors bleed.
I love your golden irises, I love your sepia skin.
Wrap yourself around my bones and melt into my ribs.
I feel like our arms glide through each other,
Like dancing lovers, after years of familiarization
Predictability in every step, but for once
Comforting to know what's going to come next.
Your hands hieroglyph the language of my fingernails
Decoding a sensation that belongs to something bigger than us,
And finally understanding that it's okay to touch that.
Contentment for war. Trading pity for empathy.
Trading sympathy for care.
You were always in the confines of my aching head,
Your name is in all my search-bars.
If I had the right fingers, I would create you in marble
I would design a statue and have it be gilded
In your honor. And if there was a temple for us,
It would be in the shape of a man, aimed at the earth.
He would be bowing to a large evergreen tree.
And our initials would be carved on the side.
Let's finally spraypaint our faces in underpasses
Eyes like this deserve to be gazed into.
Eyes like yours.
Deep breathing, my face in your chest.
Breastbone meeting skull
Dripping my lips onto your skin
Like candlewax.
If you kiss me with finality,
"I promise, darling, I'll kiss you back."
Jan 4, 2011
Jan 4, 2011 at 10:35 AM UTC
It’s like when you’re little
And you notice yourself breathing
And wonder if you’ve been breathing this whole time
Or if it only happens when you think about it
Well, I’ve been thinking much too hard for a long time
So hard that I didn’t notice
The world forming a routine around me
And my unconscious willingness to fall in line
The girl who shunned the lemmings
Followed the crowd all the same
I considered myself a product of anxiety
Not a victim
Not a survivor
But the result of
Someone who thrived on frenetic energy
As worries danced out a stuttering tachycardia
This is the life I was given
Though I prayed for days of calm
Prayed for the safety of routine and predictability
And the comfort they would hold
For I am afraid of nearly everything
So I have been wishing for days without fear
Bowed my head under the Heavens and cried in all the languages I have
Peace, paix, ειρηνη
It was in the pursuit of peace
That I blindly accepted all offers of security
Built myself up with grades and responsibilities and qualifications
With the assurance it would be worth it in the long run
Suddenly I saw the boredom I had asked for
And felt no relief
No comfort
Just the paralyzing fear that I’d settled for a life I did not want
My trembling limbs were made for anxiety
But I’ve been bingeing it
So the lack thereof is just
Empty
It would seem I am addicted to frenzy
Though I always want out
A pendulum between the extremes
Never resting on moderation
Never resting
Period
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
Does your trust know any boundaries in this seemingly plausible abode of temporal and eclectic uncertainty? I have just satisfied my appetite, yet suffer ambivalence as I contemplate those who surf the waves of marine predictability. I can only present one suggestion: Go to Tradeston and acquire perishable foods in the name of nostalgic self-indulgence.
The outer limits of our galaxy recognise multi-directional infinity as the bounce of jazz permeates the atmosphere of resigning perimeters. I have decided to ride the atomic beat and to make something tasty in my adolescent innocence, as we lurch into finality.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
I think about how waking up
is an identical routine
after a restless night of shifting
The comforter meets the floor, there is
a single sock wrapped somewhere in the sheets
hair is tangled for a reason unknown
and everything in the bed somehow became a mess
This is how it is, always
I think about how not wanting to get up
usually follows the waking and
falling back asleep always seems like
a better option than getting out of bed
to face the world
but I do anyway, we do
anyway
But I think it would be easier,
this rise to consciousness,
if you were the alarm clock calling to a new day, if
your body were to lay parallel to mine and
the tossing meant I could catch you every time you turned
It would be a privilege to know your morning breath
It would be a privilege to forget your presence in sleep and then
wake to find you next to me
It would be a privilege to be yours the way it is
to watch the sun rise everyday while
knowing it will always set in the evening
there is comfort in predictability,
there is beauty in monotony,
and calm in knowing what will happen
tomorrow
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
i know what the problem with poetry is...
it’s like nick harper tuning the piano
or tenacious d playing the one note song...
it’s almost like
had i the grace (#d)
to fathom the craze (#d)
of each acknowledging stare (#a)
we shared: i guess i’d fare (#a)
much closer to the stardom (#b)
of what i can fathom (#b)...
lead
-ed
red
well fed...
ya ya yawn.
apart from the humanities subjecting an art via mutilating
the one original craft of spontaneity
with such excess of scalpel and anaesthetic
as “discovered” theory...
no expression of language has as many “grammatical”
words to define its learning / interpretation as poetry...
whatever verb has against pronouns to make us anonymous
by excluding a personal stance of nouns...
so has poet against verbs to make us anonymous
by excluding a metaphor personalised given the nouns.
well one note does sound “serene” giving the rhyme couplet
when in music just the same old repeat of the so called rhythm: of a church at 11pm, i.e.
poetry is ruined by rhyme... rhyme kills rhythm
of spontaneity... and i'd hate to make poetry
the ***** of predictability of £110 an hour £10 extra
for oral *** performed on her... enter the realm of rhyme
and you enter a cul de sac:
i was headbanging, unsure whether it was the music
that got me started or the echo of my head autographing
a brick wall as a way to find teeth in a woodpecker's beak.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
I thought the trash bag was a bunny
will I live long enough
intense love cannot merely be painted over with a crisp new brush
the grass under my feet sinks like a freshly dug grave
thoughts of predictability more overwhelming day after day
knowing the system and the routine
sinking though my grave to the cavern below
I find a sense of comfort in my own abyss of black thoughts
have I wandered so far down that I am now lost
to what it means to be my scarecrow
my mind drifts once more to the trash bag bunny
I wish to die where the Autumn leaves place their crown atop my head
in the hidden wood, far below the cavern where all is enveloped
filled with trash bag bunnies and no more worries
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
Derelict
Veins cauterized by the voracious disease that is humanity
Pulsing energy like that of a dying super nova
Wound down into a psychotic point
Of reassimilated matter
Clawing desperately at choking trachea
**CANNOT ******* BREATHE**
Send soldiers!
Briefly examine damage
No options left, radical radiation annihilation
This is a call to war
Stage set, ongoing fight to keep alive
Daily being ***** for more and more
THEY ALWAYS WANT MORE!!!
Ripping. Clawing. Grasping. Devour
Full of their synthetic poison
I can still do it better
Revolt
Predictability has never been in my nature
evil laugh
So begins the end times for megalomaniacs bent on destruction
Tsunamis, Tornadoes, Earthquakes
I.
Will.
Prevail.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
I am intrigued by the questionable science of what is deemed to be equilibrium, where the dance of shadows evolves into an exhausting predictability.
Please: Give me nourishment in the name of planetary appeasement.
Diligence may pay a simple reward, but I am tired.
Thank you for the surging power of electricity. I can feel its superior waves.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Swimming in the dead of night
No one around, just the stars and the moon.
Pondering the magnitude of experience
While unconscious minds dream of desire.
Blindly drove familiar roads,
Downtown and it’s graceful emptiness.
From under the cork tree, listening
Looking, this is where life takes us.
Developing minds undergo stationary grind
Routine, schedules, predictability
It’s all the same, same, same.
Astonishing how “ordinary” is a waste of living
When wisdom comes from active engagement.
Take flight of letting go
Who cares, there’s a whole world to see.
Hundreds of places to cover
Millions of people to meet
Trillions of dishes to eat,
Who knows of great encounters?
The explorer within won’t welcome monotonous
Continuity of revolving time.
Into the wild at Gorilla Manor
Chances taken, fears defeated
With wide eyes, crushing ignorance a day at a time.
Dawn ended the nighttide of epiphany
But yet, still stimulated and awake
To spring off new highs on the road of recreation.
"Now", at no time, felt so thrilling until this ending moment.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC