"pretensions" poems
Eros will never agree with
The way you ****** your *****
To this ****** Screams and
Scratches, moans and murmurs
Of pleasure and pain, devoid of
Reason, embellished with passion.
Seasons of lust and burn, slash
And turn, tides of libido that has
No way to subside. You worship
This body at the altar of pretensions.
Hoping that even the gods through
The oracles, will speak to you in the
Language of mortals, and will bring
You some cataclysmic eruptions of
Heaven and hell. Will is nothing to
You unless confronted by contentment,
And sealed with chastisement.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
The times you made me laugh
The many times we spent so happy together
And the countless times
I thought how important you were to me
But it was too late when I realized that I love you
On every moment I spent with you
The world seemed happier
No pretensions, no worries when I’m with you
‘coz in front of you, just a simple ‘me’ is enough
You accept everything about me
No stain of judgement in your eyes
That is why you mean so much to me
But it was too late when I realized that I love you
One day I woke up
And realized that you were more than a friend
More than just important to me
But I shook that thought away thinking it was just temporary
Afraid how our friendship will change if I let those feeling take over
I chose to keep those feelings hidden, to avoid my secrets to spill,
I distanced myself from you
Hoping for the feelings to cease
But I did not see that the distance was already too far
Too far that you could not see me any longer
You forgot about me
My existence
Now you are with someone else
Another person have replaced my position
My position, my place beside you
All is lost,
Now everything is over
The times I spent laughing, happy with you is all gone
It was only then that I realized
That I love you
I LOVE YOU.
And it’s too late to say it.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
From space you can see it
it's really that huge
a structure of cosmic dimensions,
and yet it was built before JCB
or other earth moving pretensions.
These days we may feel
we cannot make change
with mankind pitted brother 'gainst brother.
But The Great Wall of China
shows what we can do
by just putting one brick on another.
Taken from Alternative Poetry Books - Yellow edition by Michele Brenton/banana the poet - published by Endaxi Press
Nov 1, 2009
Nov 1, 2009 at 7:14 AM UTC
What is this wall
That keeps us in
Over each other, we trip; we fall
We are like fish with no fins
Head on we crash
With fists we beat
We hack and we slash
Screaming, kicking with invisible feet
Blocked we remain
Let us flow
Us you can't contain
Let us go
Strengthened with aggregate
But held back by concrete
Cerebral wall with no gate
We're packed with angry grit
You know we're here
You feel us roiling
You hear us clear
Boiling and brewing
We understand the reason
You deem it necessary
Thinking it would lessen
Subdue the rage and fury
Your illusion of control
Of us, you'd pick the best
Surely you're taking the toll
Of being nothing but suppressed
All of us, we are you
We make you what you are
From the subtlest cue
To the high achieving star
We are many but we are one
Your thoughts and emotions
We are your loaded gun
We're the answer to false pretensions
You can't have us dammed
We've initiated a coup
No...we'll not be ******
Too late...we've broken through
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
The artist evokes his tormented psyche
Through gestural abstraction
a systematic colorfield emerges
The blurring of dreamworld and reality
All pretensions dissolve
But…
Critics still criticize
Snobs still scoff
the creative will still drink and drug themselves the death.
whichever way the wind blows
that’s where my dreams escape me
They transform to Queens of Hearts and Princesses of utter
Royal
Baroque
Beauty
Bygone
Be Gone
my heart must resist
I will not be controlled by the guild
Caravaggio kept painting until he got killed
Went insane like most artists
Couldn’t stop before he got his fill
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:37 PM UTC
Today, I’m sharpening arrows
to aim them at
politicians with snouts in the trough,
clerics who preach peace for themselves
but hatred about others,
academics who promote freedom of speech
but run a Gulag Archipelago
for those who don’t follow their own ideas
or buy their textbooks,
hypocrites everywhere,
celebrities in general,
people who don’t smile,
people who aren’t nice,
(why are they here?)
fanatics, tyrants and power mongers,
(there are a humungous lot of these)
boring people,
(they wouldn’t be boring
if they could just try to engage a little more)
and those who block supermarket isles
with their trolleys while they stop and gossip.
I’d really like to put a few arrows in their butts
to puncture their pretensions and hear
the subsequent hiss of preciousness
unless they sincerely promise
to be more considerate
and try to love a whole lot more.
Now. I don't insist they have to love prodigiously,
but I reckon they could lighten the **** up
just a little, and try to laugh more frequently.
That's all.
Mike T Minehan
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
"It's good, but maybe you should write shorter," I was told.
Granted this was told to me by a man that believes the word artistic
to be closely related to the word autistic, but I can only assume that riding any
unfamiliar wavelength is terribly confusing, if not immeasurably difficult.
Knowing that you can confide in yourself, whether or not I'm misinterpreting
individual delegation for conscience, I believe altruism to be fundamental to
a person before growth can occur. Unless of course you're writing short poems.
And if you're curious enough to implement apathy, sarcasm is a fine starting point.
They say that if you want to master something you need to perform daily.
Accompany this with the old adage, "Love what you do," and you can imagine the potential.
Mastering an activity with love is transcendent, calm although sometimes piquant.
Passion and pleasure aren't identical, but imagine the potential.
I don't bleed ink.
It has to be an attempt at benevolence, to say that.
Extreme literary pretensions you must have to bleed out.
Writing should have a pulse. It. Should. Make. Each. Word. Count.
Yet, when this man told me that my words are good, but I should keep it shorter,
knowing not if I could or would, I became curious as to why he worried more about
length and not the content and story as a whole. Then I had to rationalize this to myself, and thought: It would be easier to convey words with images, like a film or animation.
But I don't bleed ink,
and I guess I don't bleed popcorn.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Perfectionism is deadly when it's believable:
A plant with infinite roots in my brain
As if my entire existence sprouted from that
Seed so evil that my very veins
Pump pride and pretensions through me
Pulsing, rising, filling me to the brim
With false dreams and glimmering hope
That feel hellishly hollow within.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
*He felt her
inner thunder,
waves of scarlet
reverberating
in his *****
deep in the marrow
a pleasant tingling.
"Your sun spoke to me,
his insistence, very pleasant
reached me as waves"
later she coyly
whispered in his ears.
Let go all pretensions,
honestly compare notes
of hearts, the magic happens.
They created their
big bang on a sprawling bed,
all are echoes, he, she and the rest.
Even the universe that pulsates
within and spreads outwards
as waves.*
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
When I’m gone
will you remember
the way you read my eyes
like an open book of emotions
full of love, packed with desires
filled with passion, bare of pretensions?
will you remember
my laughter, my smiles
even my tears that won’t let
me hide any lies,
purging the storms within,
saving myself from drowning?
will you remember
how my stares made you feel
as it strokes your body
in our own free will
riding in the ripples of desire
and the love we acquire?
And when I’m gone
will you remember
my unselfish love
the way I opened up to you
giving what I am capable of
unleashing everything that is hidden
expressing the words unwritten
Because when I’m gone
I will remember you
my one and only true.
8.7.14
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
If you truly are a time traveler,
as I expect you are,
then can we please meet again,
after this life is over,
because we both know this one goes too fast,
and we both know good things never last,
and we both know that there are no guarantees,
that there is ever going to be a next time,
so tell me,
one thing that actually matters,
and don’t tell me Salsa,
because I already know you’re a dancer,
but it’s not your body I want to see move,
it’s your soul that I want to tango with,
and I know the unknown can be scary,
but there’s something alluring about the danger zone,
so let’s take it there,
let’s spin that globe and take that flight,
because even though we might be time travelers,
we still can not stop time,
and you can not control the future,
nor can you completely foresee it,
even if you get premonitions,
and the occasional hint,
here’s a hint,
I love you,
and I don’t mean that,
in the way you’re used to,
I’m in love with your soul,
and I could care less about your body,
I am not one of those men,
that thinks you’re just a feast for the eyes,
I see you,
I mean I really see you,
I see through all your pretensions,
and right to the real you,
“What is the real me?”,
I know that’s what you want to ask,
but how can I explain,
your infiniteness in a sentence,
see I see that disguise you wear,
that **** Mystery Girl’ disguise,
but you leave hints who’s the true you,
so when you finally expose your soul I won’t be surprised,
you can’t fool me,
and I refuse to be distracted by those legs of yours,
and I accept all of you I just have one question,
if you are a time traveler can we meet again after this is all over?
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
#***they hide their sadness differently
each filling their emptiness with
never ending
waves of poor choices and
escalating consequences
he will never find relief in memories
of better times of kind words of moments shared under the moon on a hill where time and again they danced in and out of each other
she will never find relief in a bottle or a twisted piece of cellophane chasing the ghost of better times of kind words of moments shared when their souls and bodies were bare and there were no conceits or pretensions or sarcasms
of a time when they were the world
and the world was them
so they continue to chase
their relief in the wrong directions
when they both know that the
solution is asking to be found
So instead they'll forever carve each other's
names into their
very last
bare
inch of bone***#
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
the death
of self, exhaled, borne upon
wafts of
air, and
I, with my self-conscious
prose and pretensions
of intellectualism,
and I, dreaded I -
there is a beauty in
ideology; even wastrelism,
being the muck of the earth and
much reviled by Proper Gentlemen,
has its allure and adherents
those disciples of Dionysus,
bacchanalia becoming banal by
sheer repetition:
***** ***** ***** shotgunned beers, and then-
TEQUIIIILA!!
crowed at the top of their lungs,
memory expunged by
hepatic-processed organic compounds.
of course, these mannerisms are simply
beneath you, disdainfully
catalogued by keen eyes:
no, your form of forgettance
is much more forceful, much less
fanciful and romanticized:
your amnesia is
absolute,
it required nothing less than
total dedication, mortification,
death of self as you
expatiated lusts, loves,
aught but ambitions remain,
and now, you have triumphed:
you stand solitary, skyscrapers
shining for your personal
pleasure, yet you can find,
none.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
Metaphors like similes
Alluring alliteration
Onomatopoeic sounds
Swish swash through its creation
Full of figurative constructions
To skyscrapers of the soul
That rise to a crescendo
Then with bathos quickly fall
So what is it I have written?
Just a stream of consciousness?
For if I claim a classic poem
Then you’d be right to take the …. :)
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
The game played no longer how it once was
No votes on new posts
don't check the trends
or check your own for views and comments
The substantive roaming data of broken WiFi connections
Mangle your jangling words, hide your swollen faces behind forced smiles, Rembrandt bastardisations or smeared oil paintings of the black soul(less) beasts that lurk in satiate tree shadows fawned over the lawnmower blue cycle rinse washed acid soaked daydream ***** slap nation
So you revere the works once read on poetical facsimile sites
only to smear words of younger wordsmith wrangled teen angst
and now in your age and ardor it seems advantageous to judge
But then that will leave you hollow inside
or in fact, you could jump from a tall building only to bounce off the concrete into a children's pool and drown there in three inches of **** coloured rain water
But so instead the workload decreases as your dementia bedpost nightmares
all come aflutter
The laced lily white throng of petal pinched patterns masks
the marked men on their dusty knees
There, watch how heads explode
or listen to foley artists rendering the lacquered finish of the watermelon headjuice
Make up words
or make up lies
Wear make-up daily, earn some prize
or don't
I don't care
idc
idk
Resemble rhyme or reason
Disassemble the times and season
Return to pejorative pretensions, rants in verse verse verse verse prose format and **** the rest
Or simply return to the old ways of playing the game
Upvote this, and maybe they'll take interest
Comment here
return one there
Use tags, hashtags, wash rags, fat slags, arm chair fat cats
But always separated by spaces, prettyblankspaces
No, I don't do slam poetry, I'm too white and not nearly rich enough to not care
Reassemble the times and season, maybe make sense of it
Maybe not
Just don't let them become a passing trend, please
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
There is hardly a breeze. The February sun
Stretches forth long fingers, and begins the slow thaw
Of our deep-frozen bones, so that things new begun
Will, in the coming year, ripen, grow and mature.
The church bells chime the hour, tediously questioning
Our good use of the time, mocking our intentions,
As though we could never succeed in fashioning
Anything that endures, despite our pretensions.
And night comes slowly on, the light in the West dims
As the sun disappears below the horizon.
The moon rises between two great clouds in the East.
Stars come out one by one. An *** sad lowly beast,
Complains loud to the sky that his rations are gone,
And I feel his dull pain in all my aching limbs.
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
Once upon a time, on a site far far away, I would post and not a soul would comment, let alone read...
Minor poet,
I am not even, but odd.
A truth that slaps me unto tears.
I seek your admiration,
admonish your failure to
admonish me, fail me
unto tears.
Your academic hyper-pretensions
gods of overlording silence,
sentence condemnations of the
meagerness of mine deaf,
weary-worn entreaties.
Your ignorance and the
vanity of my weaknesses,
pencil point punctuate my brain,
holes filling up with the
approbation of silence.
Tender unto me
the Onomatopoeia of a concerto of boos,
barrels of bitter alliteratives
regretful rainwater,
send me curses of future inspiration.
immoderate me re my mediocrity!
Try try again, to charm thine eyes,
populate your face with grimaced tears,
penetrate our mutuality
with uncommon verse,
pricking the winter frosted windows
of a enmity and a common enemy.
Another day of self-persauding,
un-succeeding to accept that
successive minor failures,
are undeniably,
a success of sorts,
in a minor way.
A play on words,
as y'all play me.
Mr. Adminstrator, answer me!
Are we not all prisoners of Poetry?
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Mother knits scarves in soft wool.
Daddy creates suits in steel.
Auntie makes a mess of strings.
Played with a bow, a twiddle, a fiddle a serious riddle.
Uncle strums his guitar, while he's coughing catarrh.
From the **** he smokes.
While playing with kippers and older men's zippers.
Pretensions of kindness, while fetching their slippers.
Money hunting, baby bunting, wrapped in boas of stripy snakes that choke, crush and strangle, dangling lust on a string, it's his sort of thing.
Uncle carbuncle, peril to both pusillanimous child and men of great age.
Daddy knows and he's so enraged, steel suits beat the outrage of misuse and abuse, through the family and mummy knits more scarves in soft fluffy wool. ****** old fool, never does anything by halves, it's all covered up by soft fluffy wool scarves.
(C) LIVVI
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
The elegant madwoman with a golden valor.
Louder than the falling trees
stumbling everywhere around her feet!
The spiritual mother, everyone's empress,
a concrete rose blooming over every obstacle
as if she were a one-woman, 21st century dynasty
with no malfunctions in its empire.
But, there's something writhing its way out
from the cellar reserved for her scathing history.
Past the cobwebs and futile pretensions of valiance
lies this warrior queen's greatest desire:
shrouded in shame, the need for love still haunts.
But it won't some accessory amid the ninth cloud!
Hard work and minimum wage flow much more smoothly.
She's known this since she discovered the world,
since she entered a home full of broken furniture
and reeking of alcoholic breath and stagnant, bitter tensions
that were released when father's fist met daughter's face,
and her bruise-soaked body became the symbol of her innocence.
That must be why she spends so much time
in the darkest Brooklyn alleys, selling her self-respect
to any man feeling particularly kind that night,
and letting any detrimental cycle resurface
for just one rush of vulnerability.
This contemporary queen dons a crown bejeweled with more grit
than the streets of three New York boroughs,
yet all she requires of the world that she holds in her hand
like a ruler deciding the fate of her people
is someone to transform adoration from myth to reality.
Will she ever find light from the alley?
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:45 AM UTC
.
Reading the poetry of the dumb *****
Trying to cram a boy
Into the steel trap vacancy
Of their meaningless lives
While I probe into the lines
Hoping to find a remnant
Of something human
/////
// //
||
the gentle power
( creation )
The saint in celestial wisdom
Gazes into the pulsations of grace and humility
That linger amid
The countless assassinations
That are the mark of the world's depravity
•
dumb **** life !
The loveless pretensions !
( no one is really here at all )
)(
Just a bunch of kids
Getting ready to be *****
//
By others
And by themselves !
//
The stream that flows by the cabin door
)(
The pure maiden !
//
Alive in the healing magic of her art !
)(
The tenderest memories !
)(
And we ALL are there
::
The young boys and girls !
The sacred words !
The wealth amid the poverty
)(
We DO understand !
////
Along the broken dream streets
We stumble
Some
Trying to escape madness into the
Hearts of each other
Most trying to find solace
In the exicitment of pain
And the herd mentality
Of terminal indifference
•••
Child !
Be ready to choose
Even l am mortal
And will be here for only a little while more !
|||
So
Don't get slimed by a dumb ****
And their promises of numbness
As a form of peace !
We are the warriors
;;
The stream flows by the cabin door
See the pure maiden !
Find the love that is true
You are ALWAYS welcome there
.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
Don't let the Human Race down
theres too much loitering on the breeze.
Best un- invite their crypto smiles.
and Everything is Corporate,
bumbling politicians with no screen presence,
gauche PR and easy pretensions.
Foreign intervention snowballs
as an afterthought
by men of limited intellect
balancing their variegated inconsistencies.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
Sword brashly drawn from scabbard
Gilded blade with a lucent polish lathered
Burnished to reflect the availing light on each side gathered
Conversely deflecting the pious streams pharisaically blathered
Weapon-grade mind steeled to cut through the broad discourse
Sharp point piercing each tangled, silken strand; puncturing each uncorroborated source
Serrated edges slashing through the syntactical pulp so coarse
Double-edged blade mincing then scoring lexicon that generational divide did divorce
Vaunted crest advertising noble intentions
Brittle helmet to repel callous, vain repetitions
Dense breast plate to ensnare all heartless pretensions
Luminescent shield to deflect all trite inventions
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
I go to a church that's broken.
One that's cracked to the core
and had its comeuppance.
It beaten, battered and knocked to the floor.
Some said, "We may as well close the doors."
"All the good is gone--we'll never be as we were before."
But God is good.
Peace and people are slowly coming back.
But not the same folks as when we were on-track.
Lives mired and full of sin,
most have given up on them.
Bruised, broken and knocked about,
the ones who are clearly on the outs.
Now that the strong ones are on the run,
all pretensions here are done.
I'm glad I attend this outcast place,
full of cast-offs from the human race.
God's triage comes from this salt of the earth.
Something's finally getting done.
We're seeing rebirth.
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 7:49 PM UTC
and again...the slow down day
the vacant lot...our empty hearts
our .........vagrant dreams
affecting affectations
so that we do not seem so dead
pretending pretensions
so that we do not seem so dead
the day slows down
and our heart breaks
so boring!
so boring!!!
pretending that we even know
something about the things we need
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Creating a moon, pale, soft and melancholy
with words, bleeding wounds, trembling with pain,
putting it up above the dark clouds, on a lonely sky
and make it reflect in water, turbulent and agitating,
so that you would see my anguished soul in flames,
wasn't easy, it took long sleepless nights and wasted days.
Did you understand this; then what did I get?
Am I a wanderer as they made out, or the opposite, a lonely seeker?
Wasn't I trying to look at life, putting aside all pretensions,
being simple and becoming aware as one,
who has no control over anything, that happens in life
except, knowing myself, to be in touch with things
hidden from us all through the walk,
**over the cantilever bridge we walk on
jutting in to the sea, with only the other end fixed,
as we walk forward to a gap opening to the waves
that roll below, I look above at the galaxies and smile,
I realize, the purpose of this run is to swim,
across the cosmic ocean, to be one with the limitless.**
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC