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"primitive" poems
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
0
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
Bucket List? -- Not Me!
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.   Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them. Here then is what I might call                                                   My Reverse Bucket List Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere    Barcelona, Spain    Venice, Italy    Oxford, England    Jerusalem, Israel    Luxor, Egypt    Varanasi, India    Hiroshima, Japan Pompeii, Italy Other locations    Galápagos islands, Ecuador    Great Barrier Reef, Australia    North Woolwich, London Churches    St Paul's Cathedral, London    Sagrada Familia, Barcelona    Coventry Cathedral    Córdoba Cathedral, Spain    Blue Mosque, Istanbul Other structures    Taj Mahal, Agra    Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland    Royal Festival Hall, London    London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.    Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)    Bayeux Tapestry     "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England    "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil Events    Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife    St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)    Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997    Oberammergau passion play, 2010    Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
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38
I whatsapped you through my nokia And is it your existence I crave? Or does my mind order What is beyond the border Unseen like the little light bulps in the sky I whatsapped you through my nokia And is it your fingertips I need? Spending minutes on Semantic and hours on our news feed And high lights of our day See my days are all the same I ask myself questions and I find answers In the shape of instant messages Vibrating through my phone; And as if it’s exhaling some deadly poison It rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and stops… I whatsapped you through my nokia Asking you “you there?” But you never answered Because your iphone cannot show any whatsapp notifications Coming from hopeless thinkers trying to figure out the typed mysteries of life…. Because your blackberry Is too black to turn into a satisfactory vision Of what your future should be; Because your android Is practically messy And willingly complex Like meteor showers hitting your phone Every time the truth vibrates In the shape of unanswered questions For the answers are there… But our phones are so smart they hide it; I wahtsapped you through my nokia Asking myself Is my nokia a primitive technology? A shameful scar on the scale of science Like syringes ******* all the blood from the unstoppable sweet rush of statistical knowledge I whatsapped you through my nokia…and all this comes out Is it me being silly, or us being shallow? Please do not whatsapp me the answer For am tired of green screens And boxed spaces I need clean streams Of fine faces And eyes that glimmer Rather than phones that shiver… I shall remind my phone To remind me That I don’t need it anymore…
0
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
The "Whatsapp" Paradox:
I whatsapped you through my nokia And is it your existence I crave? Or does my mind order What is beyond the border Unseen like the little light bulps in the sky I whatsapped you through my nokia And is it your fingertips I need? Spending minutes on Semantic and hours on our news feed And high lights of our day See my days are all the same I ask myself questions and I find answers In the shape of instant messages Vibrating through my phone; And as if it’s exhaling some deadly poison It rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and stops… I whatsapped you through my nokia Asking you “you there?” But you never answered Because your iphone cannot show any whatsapp notifications Coming from hopeless thinkers trying to figure out the typed mysteries of life…. Because your blackberry Is too black to turn into a satisfactory vision Of what your future should be; Because your android Is practically messy And willingly complex Like meteor showers hitting your phone Every time the truth vibrates In the shape of unanswered questions For the answers are there… But our phones are so smart they hide it; I wahtsapped you through my nokia Asking myself Is my nokia a primitive technology? A shameful scar on the scale of science Like syringes ******* all the blood from the unstoppable sweet rush of statistical knowledge I whatsapped you through my nokia…and all this comes out Is it me being silly, or us being shallow? Please do not whatsapp me the answer For am tired of green screens And boxed spaces I need clean streams Of fine faces And eyes that glimmer Rather than phones that shiver… I shall remind my phone To remind me That I don’t need it anymore…
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50
We're here! No party? Ha! Who’s ugly? Leave your pity I'm not afraid Everything’s primitive New Mother's old Father's cold A universe of historic shame Casting shade The assertion of intolerance Blocking righteousness Grabbing ignorance by the pores Let infant nails dig for evolution The bold face of madness Biting to be truly free Sanity expands -ism’s explode Pushing hearts Forward Moon Star Traveler Be you Be here - with me Against hate One with the human faith One for love
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Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 2:03 PM UTC
Moon Star Traveler
Zero is enduring zero is deathless. Nothing is up to it none can mirror it though forever it's an open case. The eyes are yet to see an open face! Because like it's nothing is in perfect shape purely a perfect circle! Nothing matches it as like Fathima is none else! Ever more sprawling pi decimals never go unnoticed propelling to the end surge before her. Before the original one Fathima is yet to be mirrored. All the planets turn circular before the unseen perfect circle. Fathima nails it snapped it up circled it with her hair! Before the furthest sighted eyes, the dot at the earth's centre at its pool of primitive water. Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair thus supercharges the water! It finds the cut, the golden ratio, constant continuity in her hair's inner flow. And the Big Bang happened there, their breakthrough! The potential worlds to be from the first drop of water she gets them all buzzed out. From down the rock bottom, from the zero null Fathima finds and raises the sun! Nothing is comparable to it on the ground nor up on the high, we only see the fire of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
0
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 12:06 AM UTC
Zero is Deathless
Once I undertook a journey, upon the very face of our entire world. To view for myself the many pictures, and written descriptions in all the geography books and History Classes, National Geographic magazines and movies seen. A Quest to see with my own eyes what I had only experienced second hand. In my mid twenties, like a dream, one foot in front of the other, I went about exploring. I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands, Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry, fried snake and even monkey brains. Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands, Along the shores of Islands and the coasts of many lands. Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects and cultures, smiling and laughing with the families and children of all of them. Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men, heard their chants to their gods above, the moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land. Clapped my hands and moved my feet in their ancient mystic dances. Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood. Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the face of the God of my youthful teachings, disappointed when I did not see him, or Her. Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted to me by Red robbed Monks from within their chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments. Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of nearly forgotten once great Civilizations. Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning. Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks, Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways, rented motorcycles and cars.  Walked perhaps 1000 miles. In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years. And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?" "What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"   All indeed, fare questions. When a boy, I read a simple five word line, “Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and Horizon Lust compelled me.   The next obvious question you might ask is, after all that; “What did you find?” That answer is very simple, I found myself.
0
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
. . . . . . . . Seek . . .
Once I undertook a journey, upon the very face of our entire world. To view for myself the many pictures, and written descriptions in all the geography books and History Classes, National Geographic magazines and movies seen. A Quest to see with my own eyes what I had only experienced second hand. In my mid twenties, like a dream, one foot in front of the other, I went about exploring. I sniffed and tasted the scents of foreign lands, Incense, Sage and Frankincense, fish curry, fried snake and even monkey brains. Walked in lush Jungle Bush and Desert sands, Along the shores of Islands and the coasts of many lands. Heard the voices of 30 divergent Dialects and cultures, smiling and laughing with the families and children of all of them. Set beside the fires of primitive tribal men, heard their chants to their gods above, the moon, stars and the sun, the ocean, the land. Clapped my hands and moved my feet in their ancient mystic dances. Drank their tea, Kava or whatever they shared grateful for their offered unselfish brotherhood. Stood on the flanks of the tallest Mountains in the world, on my toe tips, to try to see the face of the God of my youthful teachings, disappointed when I did not see him, or Her. Found instead an inner tranquility, imparted to me by Red robbed Monks from within their chants of Peace and wise earthly enlightenments. Strolled the cobbled streets of two thousand year old Cities. Walked among the ruined remnants of nearly forgotten once great Civilizations. Explored Modern European Citadels' of wealth and learning. Over time rode on planes, ships, buses, backs of open trucks, Horse pulled carts and human drawn rickshaws, taxis, subways, rented motorcycles and cars.  Walked perhaps 1000 miles. In all a journey of the mind and heart lasting three years. And why you might ask, "What qualifies you as a pilgrim of any kind, to travel so far, and wide?" "What was I looking for, what did I hope to find?"   All indeed, fare questions. When a boy, I read a simple five word line, “Seek and thee shall find". Curiosity and Horizon Lust compelled me.   The next obvious question you might ask is, after all that; “What did you find?” That answer is very simple, I found myself.
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53
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map. We approached the city known as Dis, with its vast army and its burdened citizens. At last we reached the moats dug deep around the dismal city. What destroys the poetry of a city? Automobiles destroy it, and they destroy more than the poetry. Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . . Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers interested in god and what man has done to man to improvising primitive tools for survival. Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring in the nuclear fire – excellent – during the decline of western civilization. On the other hand, I hope our current problems are only temporary and it’s just a matter of time before the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle. Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us. One feels love and devotion even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent. Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance: “Either we have hope within us or we don’t. It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense no matter how it turns out.” It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief. Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks. Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity. Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth. When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands! When the laws are broken, what of the city then? We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope, where history has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped in only as contraband. Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity. That person, or city, is consciousness. Two ancient female poets are a revelation, the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city. Our enemy eventually becomes our brother, his misery lifted by coming to her city.
0
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
City of Hope
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map. We approached the city known as Dis, with its vast army and its burdened citizens. At last we reached the moats dug deep around the dismal city. What destroys the poetry of a city? Automobiles destroy it, and they destroy more than the poetry. Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . . Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers interested in god and what man has done to man to improvising primitive tools for survival. Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring in the nuclear fire – excellent – during the decline of western civilization. On the other hand, I hope our current problems are only temporary and it’s just a matter of time before the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle. Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us. One feels love and devotion even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent. Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance: “Either we have hope within us or we don’t. It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation. It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense no matter how it turns out.” It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief. Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks. Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity. Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth. When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands! When the laws are broken, what of the city then? We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope, where history has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped in only as contraband. Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity. That person, or city, is consciousness. Two ancient female poets are a revelation, the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city. Our enemy eventually becomes our brother, his misery lifted by coming to her city.
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48
you sowed this **** into my brain... why do you even "think" that i want... you?              i, want your children... the meme-mutation is what i'm after...    and there are plenty of useful idiots to allow me to process the intermediating processes for: the sigma, "accomplishment"; which is unlike what infected mushroom's -   trance party track sounds like, outside of my own head. why do these people even think i'm after their genes of memes?                 i want, their infantile replicas...                  i want to craft a worthwhile curiosity, on a canvas, that that they call their gene replicas, children, and... like why called me... easy meat..                  einfachfleisch... what?     i'm not here for these news' anchors... i'm here for their children... nibble nibble nibble chew chow cow tow and main...             prawn crackers... ah... news anchors are easy targets...     slightly pointless 20x bulls eye honing devices... it's their children...      i want their children...     i want their cognition to become replica of wheelchair bound infirmaries; why?     oh... you know... football and wrestling, given the Qatar investment plan... the whole sport "thing" became a tad bit boring...   had to resort to secondary sources of entertainment; children of news anchors? the secondary, "last", albeit, the best resort;    schindler...   required a list,      to become reincarnated... and revive a **** a heartlessness of an reincarnation     anomaly:   i.e.: what, a limited number of people, to begin with?!      so the rest is primitive "a.i."? now i'm starting to think... thank the blue indians for their culinary innovations... but when it comes to their theology?                            **** 'em; did i advocate that? if i did... within what pronoun guarantee of advocacy? playing the grammar card...         which pronoun? the plural singular, or the singular plural, or the gender neutral?    thank you jean-paul sartre,      for the...  "i"... i simply love, this revised concept of a unit...            the revision clinging to the royalist affirmation of pronouns... i.e. 1 would say... so...          and 1... would, so, will, do so. **** the pronoun debate in Canadian politics...    if i have to resort to this? then i will... like your plain citizen...      may "i" speak within the confines, of the royal, one, given the example:    one might suppose... to be the former, and the current, highest, etiquette? gender neutrality of pronouns... last time i checked... one was never allowed pronoun stature... why not address this conundrum, to begin with?! oh, right... too late... too many loud mouths without a guillotine... so, basically, a cow fart's worth of argumentation.
0
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
I non Q
you sowed this **** into my brain... why do you even "think" that i want... you?              i, want your children... the meme-mutation is what i'm after...    and there are plenty of useful idiots to allow me to process the intermediating processes for: the sigma, "accomplishment"; which is unlike what infected mushroom's -   trance party track sounds like, outside of my own head. why do these people even think i'm after their genes of memes?                 i want, their infantile replicas...                  i want to craft a worthwhile curiosity, on a canvas, that that they call their gene replicas, children, and... like why called me... easy meat..                  einfachfleisch... what?     i'm not here for these news' anchors... i'm here for their children... nibble nibble nibble chew chow cow tow and main...             prawn crackers... ah... news anchors are easy targets...     slightly pointless 20x bulls eye honing devices... it's their children...      i want their children...     i want their cognition to become replica of wheelchair bound infirmaries; why?     oh... you know... football and wrestling, given the Qatar investment plan... the whole sport "thing" became a tad bit boring...   had to resort to secondary sources of entertainment; children of news anchors? the secondary, "last", albeit, the best resort;    schindler...   required a list,      to become reincarnated... and revive a **** a heartlessness of an reincarnation     anomaly:   i.e.: what, a limited number of people, to begin with?!      so the rest is primitive "a.i."? now i'm starting to think... thank the blue indians for their culinary innovations... but when it comes to their theology?                            **** 'em; did i advocate that? if i did... within what pronoun guarantee of advocacy? playing the grammar card...         which pronoun? the plural singular, or the singular plural, or the gender neutral?    thank you jean-paul sartre,      for the...  "i"... i simply love, this revised concept of a unit...            the revision clinging to the royalist affirmation of pronouns... i.e. 1 would say... so...          and 1... would, so, will, do so. **** the pronoun debate in Canadian politics...    if i have to resort to this? then i will... like your plain citizen...      may "i" speak within the confines, of the royal, one, given the example:    one might suppose... to be the former, and the current, highest, etiquette? gender neutrality of pronouns... last time i checked... one was never allowed pronoun stature... why not address this conundrum, to begin with?! oh, right... too late... too many loud mouths without a guillotine... so, basically, a cow fart's worth of argumentation.
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105
The first thinkers were poets Naming Mother Earth Beginning symbolic thinking Of nature, death and birth Though themes are often repeated Love, Beauty and God Poetry in the guise of Religion A prophet or a fraud The poet resurrects the Primitive Through allegory and similes Disarming the unknown like explorers Sublime Prophets and Visionaries They must lay bare those treasured images That must be expressed Unraveling and revealing the sounds At each soul’s behest Encompassing the entire Cosmos So lyrical the beat The poet’s excitement flows outward Laid at the Reader’s feet So original, individual She won’t examine or explain Letting go the festering feelings Disturbances in her brain He exposes his dark, wounded psyche Just to release and express Such capacity to see and compare Hyperbole at its best I love, I hate, I suffer A special dance in rhythm and rhyme The poet as a buffer Lessening the pain and sting of time Laden with symbol and feelings She gives you sweet relief From something urgent, revealing Confusion to belief Through a cinematic kind of seeing The poet purges to transform By leaping through Alice’s looking glass She never was one to conform Quite intolerant of convention Just like The Mad Hatter His passions immune to all logic In syncopated patter Jamming up the poet’s mind Struggling for expression Seeking order out of chaos An infantile regression Cleaving to his imaginary world The poet breaks out into words Creating sound paintings to be unfurled So his own agony is blurred She succumbs to storms of passion With instinctive techniques Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion Out of hand flows mystique The poet mines from his unconscious The Reader is not blind For every single line and symbol Means something to the mind Causing an inner liberation Enlightenment or flight It is a matter of life and death When darkness turns to light.
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Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
An Ode to Poets
The first thinkers were poets Naming Mother Earth Beginning symbolic thinking Of nature, death and birth Though themes are often repeated Love, Beauty and God Poetry in the guise of Religion A prophet or a fraud The poet resurrects the Primitive Through allegory and similes Disarming the unknown like explorers Sublime Prophets and Visionaries They must lay bare those treasured images That must be expressed Unraveling and revealing the sounds At each soul’s behest Encompassing the entire Cosmos So lyrical the beat The poet’s excitement flows outward Laid at the Reader’s feet So original, individual She won’t examine or explain Letting go the festering feelings Disturbances in her brain He exposes his dark, wounded psyche Just to release and express Such capacity to see and compare Hyperbole at its best I love, I hate, I suffer A special dance in rhythm and rhyme The poet as a buffer Lessening the pain and sting of time Laden with symbol and feelings She gives you sweet relief From something urgent, revealing Confusion to belief Through a cinematic kind of seeing The poet purges to transform By leaping through Alice’s looking glass She never was one to conform Quite intolerant of convention Just like The Mad Hatter His passions immune to all logic In syncopated patter Jamming up the poet’s mind Struggling for expression Seeking order out of chaos An infantile regression Cleaving to his imaginary world The poet breaks out into words Creating sound paintings to be unfurled So his own agony is blurred She succumbs to storms of passion With instinctive techniques Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion Out of hand flows mystique The poet mines from his unconscious The Reader is not blind For every single line and symbol Means something to the mind Causing an inner liberation Enlightenment or flight It is a matter of life and death When darkness turns to light.
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64
Lithe, pharmaceutical muscles regulating microfiber hairs Draw from the primitive neglect and sin A clarinet changes the chemistry of champagne Inside Humanity again A stock infection of planets and galaxies and their debris Small enough to be e coli and atomic dreams Beading with the warmth of breath, persisting, Naming dragons and archers in the infinity, The cocktails brew people at the seams Their sentences clapping the breeze Into a day, or a season, or her hand leading
0
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
Circadian rhythm
Slide into me Tight rigid flesh Aching breaths hitting Pulsing lips riding Crimson cheeks Lingering wet fingertips Flayed and primitive Grazing the surface Ritual essence denied Deeper base of purity Carnal frames clutching Erupting into form and shape Becoming essential and visceral Instinctive undulating Reaching the orogeny Cresting over solid embrace Luscious tumbles Twisting skin I slip in you
0
May 10, 2021
May 10, 2021 at 6:31 PM UTC
Deeper
I love a good debate, [science mixed with illusion] and this year was no exception: the debate on the best shapes for a kite from design implementation, inception and execution some sturdy string and industrial-strength glue the machinations of whether to use plywood or bamboo and of course built by your own fair hand such was the intensity of discussion it continued with an after-lunch stroll on the beach, where the uncles drew their prize-winning geometry with a primitive stick in the sand a question on the mathematics of aerodynamics aside its currently a battle of the cyclic quadrilaterals and documented film of it successfully tested and tried; years of perfection honed by the skills of Fatherhood to know instinctively the difference between the brilliance of genius and the borderline just plain good If nothing else has come from this I now know [so as not to lose] K = p/q over 2 or K = ab – sin Ø [are the formulas to use]
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Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
Debate about Kites
I am tired, really tired... I am tired of my talents not being recognized I am tired of constantly proving myself I am tired of being disabled I am so tired... Tired of not belonging Tired of being invisible Tired of being worthless I am very, very tired... I am tired of exchanging fake smiles I am tired of meaningless conversations I am tired of appearing dumb so as to get help I am just tired... Tired of being useless Tired of failing Tired of not dreaming I am extremely tired... I am tired of being apologetic I am tired of being left out I am tired of being ugly What I am I saying? What am I really tired of? Why am I tired? I am tired... Tired of being speechless Tired of being powerless Tired of being afraid In fact, I am broken down... Broken down by being black Broken down by being African Broken down by being primitive
0
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
I AM TIRED
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms will talk in ancient tongues & sway the tribes of men to eternal love, & endless ammunition of the soul. spiritus. kin, galactic & the golden fire. throb the saga of man, into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas. we bury our dead in flower clippings or skull bits. [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport] thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon. hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland, her lips ruinous. cement slabs and coils of fault with vast artistic possibilities. these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting & rattling bone masks grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics & death. their teeth are yellowy awoken. this is all seen globally, via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech. or video. dreams impact reality impact dreams in such that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222, evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge. & it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind with countless projected memories.         [streamed alternate realities] fills the belly and the brain, but all those unhooked are skating. sweet meat market. ghost harddrives. poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men & their poolside parties. they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons, their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit. they hang chains from their necks & spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click lickings. they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled on old flowers & worship archaic cassettes. cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions carve wooden planks from groves of great oaks. great oaken powers. their creators chew gummies and bend time to uphold a proposed history of perfection. they master pong from their crystalline towers, & hire mathematicians to write conceptual skate-deck algorithms, solely for fun. non-profit.
0
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:49 AM UTC
future primitive
in the year 2462 those with nails protruding from their palms will talk in ancient tongues & sway the tribes of men to eternal love, & endless ammunition of the soul. spiritus. kin, galactic & the golden fire. throb the saga of man, into hip ****** illusions and combustive color schematas. we bury our dead in flower clippings or skull bits. [skateboarding rises as the highest form of intellectual sport] thrum and plum-bum the sewers of electric babylon. hive city reaching past gasp and wasteland, her lips ruinous. cement slabs and coils of fault with vast artistic possibilities. these skate-lords from their heaps, their clans, augmenting & rattling bone masks grinding themselves into meat-bit heroics & death. their teeth are yellowy awoken. this is all seen globally, via tele-cast-com-core-mind-warp-tech. or video. dreams impact reality impact dreams in such that the cathode cortex filter, invented circa 2222, evolves into a demi-god, a solar charged demon of unlimited knowledge. & it mutates the psychosphere  of our mainstream public mind with countless projected memories.         [streamed alternate realities] fills the belly and the brain, but all those unhooked are skating. sweet meat market. ghost harddrives. poor leftovers called children of the once-was-men & their poolside parties. they leap the rubble of centuries old plastic icons, their boards, their weapons, their seeds and spit. they hang chains from their necks & spew black flame from their sunshaded boot-click lickings. they drink from large bottlesof elixer distilled on old flowers & worship archaic cassettes. cults of cyborg women with gem-tipped-blade-additions carve wooden planks from groves of great oaks. great oaken powers. their creators chew gummies and bend time to uphold a proposed history of perfection. they master pong from their crystalline towers, & hire mathematicians to write conceptual skate-deck algorithms, solely for fun. non-profit.
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60
Your pre-frontal cortex is delectably oral amidst this maze of psychological violence. Oh, mistress of certain uncertainty, I cannot articulate the essence of ontology, as human language is inadequate. But, you truly capture the flow of irregularity in this mass mockery of societal fabric. Therefore, I simply appeal to our mutual and primitive impulses. Let us be rough, despite the misguided assumptions of those who claim to have affiliation. I like old school choppers, because they are not polished.
0
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Sociopathic Integrity
Life is different from the visions of stories. Built on over coming obstacles, finding love, and glory. There is a difference between life and death, one you sleep, one you wake, and most take for granted each breath. Pure evil lives among us, ****** women, selling drugs to our children. Sending them to school within that community occupied by villains. There are among them, pressuring them, and they will break, with no back bone these days, soon the youth will be fake. What is the point? God  whom built this place flourished with beauty and green, and we slowly yet rapidly with a pace ruining it with cement, bricks, and machines. Why does one man takes a stand?  There is one man, and he is kind, but he has no support.No one in behind.Can you hear the cries?? War rages on in a world who claims to be civilized. War is primitive, so we have no need to bring bloodshed.Tell me another lie, as I rest in my bed, looking in sky, counting stars with one eye, is the only joy I can get, when all around me, those I've known too the ones I have gotten know continue to die. Truly a world with great potential, but those masked faces, killin the idea of the though of life, isn't coincidental.With words corrupted to project the opposite, The ungrateful, the not nice. The soon to be forgotten. we looking at the beginning of a fallen to be torn apart by greed, selfishness, planting an abundance, unfruitfully amount of seeds.Harmful deeds, and decision made for those who have no voice, what choice do we have, if our right was never made, and we fight for freedom in which we never had, in the times of dark or light. By: Emmanuel jv Hernamdez 1-2-12
0
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Life View Through My Eyes
Life is different from the visions of stories. Built on over coming obstacles, finding love, and glory. There is a difference between life and death, one you sleep, one you wake, and most take for granted each breath. Pure evil lives among us, ****** women, selling drugs to our children. Sending them to school within that community occupied by villains. There are among them, pressuring them, and they will break, with no back bone these days, soon the youth will be fake. What is the point? God  whom built this place flourished with beauty and green, and we slowly yet rapidly with a pace ruining it with cement, bricks, and machines. Why does one man takes a stand?  There is one man, and he is kind, but he has no support.No one in behind.Can you hear the cries?? War rages on in a world who claims to be civilized. War is primitive, so we have no need to bring bloodshed.Tell me another lie, as I rest in my bed, looking in sky, counting stars with one eye, is the only joy I can get, when all around me, those I've known too the ones I have gotten know continue to die. Truly a world with great potential, but those masked faces, killin the idea of the though of life, isn't coincidental.With words corrupted to project the opposite, The ungrateful, the not nice. The soon to be forgotten. we looking at the beginning of a fallen to be torn apart by greed, selfishness, planting an abundance, unfruitfully amount of seeds.Harmful deeds, and decision made for those who have no voice, what choice do we have, if our right was never made, and we fight for freedom in which we never had, in the times of dark or light. By: Emmanuel jv Hernamdez 1-2-12
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13
Just because you have kids doesn't mean you are a man it just means that you are old or mature enough to contribute to humanity's population(if that is even the case) just because you have muscles doesn't mean you are a man it just means that you are strong enough to do physical labor for humanity just because you have tons of girlfriends doesn't mean you are a man it just means that you are in a stage where courtmanship is at it's peak for the benefit of humanity just because you have tons of money doesn't mean you are a man it just means that you have contributed something to humanity in which you are getting pay for it just because you went to war doesn't mean you are a man it just means that you had enough respect for the country and your family and consequences were dealt to you because of humanities behavior the list of masculinity traits can go on and on masculinity is primitive femininity is evolving and it is time for men to stop indulging in their primitive ways for the survival of humanity.
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Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Masculinity
Such a sight to behold. The beauty of sitting on your warm behind. Cool, filtered air blowing, drying your sore eyes. Staring at two glowing tail lamps, full of rage and light. Time waves good bye, like a widow left behind. Composed,civilized minds decline into untamed―primitive impulses. Instincts drive them, hoping it will hasten their journey. The flow of traffic shows otherwise.
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Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
Traffic
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues      Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
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Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
Anonymity emanations
This planet orbits a yellow sun like ours. It is in the Optimum Zone to support life. Sure enough it has a wide variety of flora and fauna. Highly intelligent life has evolved in its seas and oceans. Its continents, however, are dominated by a species of primates. Over the past 300 of the planet’s years they have developed Some fairly high technology. But they remain carnivores Who regularly commit genocide. They cut down swathes of natural forest To grow chemically protected Genetically modified nutrition-sources. And they mine their planet empty Of its mineral riches. The planet’s ecosystem is being rapidly destroyed By them. Socially and psychologically they remain primitive. Yet they possess the means to blow their world To pieces. With heavy heart I have to advise We sign this planet “No Entry” For the foreseeable future. “Forbidden” indeed. A planet we call MW Orion 8478-3 That its natives call That ever so common name: “Earth”. Paul Butters
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Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Forbidden Planet
Museums as art Art as museums Sail the trail to my mausoleum Psychopaths and physicists Psychiatrists and philosophers Philanthropists and pilots and painters
 Declare now, that these are our days – Our hours, and our days These are our city, our hours Our time, our days. 
This is our world – At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it And searched it and found it wanting Of civilization that I could so easily supply By means of wounds and iron And brawn and truth (and just a tiny touch of influenza darling) By means of our Lord, Who grants us all that we desire If only we **** enough of those he did not choose. This is our world – And we shall make it what we will Make it in our own image Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong Raise it to hate no one But to love itself so deeply That all other love seems hateful in comparison. This is our child, love Yours and mine.
 Here the first shall be last And the last shall be first But once the first are last they shall be Last Last       Last And once the last are first They shall make it so they can never be last again This is our primitive accumulation Of necessary materialism Let’s cultivate matter To make objects that we can place on shelves And in cases – These are our cases And we love them as we love ourselves
 Museums as mass graves Mass graves as museums Kiss me in my mausoleum Priests and prisoners Prostitutes and prophets Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
 This is our time – And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons Buying ample earplugs To seal in the silence So we can somewhat say “look there is peace – Look we have done it In our time it is accomplished” – 
 This is our peace – And we know it by the signs The lions and lambs lay quietly together In our brass-barred zoos For as long as shelves and cases Are intact and the first are first And the last are last And the civilized are organized and holy There is peace – Oh, look We made peace! And as for Solomon and Socrates – We take their words to weave through our new wisdom And when we re-chart the constellations We shall give them each a star And salute them once a year When they come around the universe Oh, look How wise we are! Mass graves as art Art as mass graves There have been no better days There has been no greater time Politicians and pornographers Professors and pirates Psychologists and pastors and pianists
 This is our time – And we are doing with it the very best we know how The last are toiling and trying And the first are trying to think to try – But there is a shortness in our hours And a violence in our peace There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom And disease in our cities And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases. This is our world – We crafted it and declared our truth to be true We sculpted this, our colosseum Please inscribe my mausoleum With “we know not what we do”
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May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
of dissolution and mausoleum blueprints
Museums as art Art as museums Sail the trail to my mausoleum Psychopaths and physicists Psychiatrists and philosophers Philanthropists and pilots and painters
 Declare now, that these are our days – Our hours, and our days These are our city, our hours Our time, our days. 
This is our world – At 14:92 I landed here and claimed it And searched it and found it wanting Of civilization that I could so easily supply By means of wounds and iron And brawn and truth (and just a tiny touch of influenza darling) By means of our Lord, Who grants us all that we desire If only we **** enough of those he did not choose. This is our world – And we shall make it what we will Make it in our own image Teach it that innocence is not knowing the difference between right and wrong Raise it to hate no one But to love itself so deeply That all other love seems hateful in comparison. This is our child, love Yours and mine.
 Here the first shall be last And the last shall be first But once the first are last they shall be Last Last       Last And once the last are first They shall make it so they can never be last again This is our primitive accumulation Of necessary materialism Let’s cultivate matter To make objects that we can place on shelves And in cases – These are our cases And we love them as we love ourselves
 Museums as mass graves Mass graves as museums Kiss me in my mausoleum Priests and prisoners Prostitutes and prophets Pioneers and pilgrims and pagans
 This is our time – And we are dispensing it in spendthrift increments Buying threadbare bandages for our cavernous canyons Buying ample earplugs To seal in the silence So we can somewhat say “look there is peace – Look we have done it In our time it is accomplished” – 
 This is our peace – And we know it by the signs The lions and lambs lay quietly together In our brass-barred zoos For as long as shelves and cases Are intact and the first are first And the last are last And the civilized are organized and holy There is peace – Oh, look We made peace! And as for Solomon and Socrates – We take their words to weave through our new wisdom And when we re-chart the constellations We shall give them each a star And salute them once a year When they come around the universe Oh, look How wise we are! Mass graves as art Art as mass graves There have been no better days There has been no greater time Politicians and pornographers Professors and pirates Psychologists and pastors and pianists
 This is our time – And we are doing with it the very best we know how The last are toiling and trying And the first are trying to think to try – But there is a shortness in our hours And a violence in our peace There is inherent foolishness in our wisdom And disease in our cities And there is death upon our shelves and in our cases. This is our world – We crafted it and declared our truth to be true We sculpted this, our colosseum Please inscribe my mausoleum With “we know not what we do”
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99
Storms. I like storms. Sometimes they start slow with ominous, cadaverous clouds, slowly rolling, tumultuous. A few drops of rain, frigid and fresh, speaking in a pattering argot on my roof. Calm, soft rain. Rain that lulls me to sleep. Sometimes they are fast and sweet. An ephemeral rush of raindrops, mellow cannonades of thunder, trees still verdant, green against gray. Sometimes they are hot and volatile with lightning so bright it hurts my eyes, thunder that roars and permeates the quiet. The wind screams, rain batters my windows. These are the nights I do not sleep. I sit, thrilled, listening to the primitive barrage, the aphotic chaos, remembering that this is how it feels to be alive.
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Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Storms
So primitive that it should be criminal like a limited pyramid of minimal innocent citizen, inhabitant, or denizen infinite vision and mission subliminal principled, committed and disciplined addicted to the privileged derivative affirmative velocity, motive inquisitive inhabiting, uninhibited, where prohibited
0
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
Denizens of a Dark Derivative
I love going to the place where you are floating on the edge of agony and ecstasy. My distraction, like yours, is something that goes beyond. Nothing intimate between two is distasteful or ugly. For me it is the intimacy and vulnerability that make it electric. I am pleased to see that the wetness between your thighs acknowledges your desire. This dance of pleasure is  woven into the tapestry of ****** passion. Kissing, searching out every hidden pleasure site on our bodies -- touching and stroking, as we kiss -- playing between our thighs, excited by the wetness and hardness that greets us -- spreading our legs and looking at our hidden beauty -- tasting, smelling, inhaling our essence -- spending hours doing this -- feeling our ******* those lightning strikes, through our mouths, faces, and bodies. This is not a fantasy. We who hunger for this - and it is a hunger - are in tune with our primal minds. Our senses ache to be pushed to new limits. Our minds become filled with intense imagery - driven beyond the verbal to a much more primitive realm. I respect limits, but I also enjoy expanding then with a nudge here and there. After all that is how we grow. I appreciate the precious gift of surrender and the tremendous leap of trust one needs to surrender. Trust and communications are the keys to the kingdom of pleasure - as in all I human relationships.  It's time for your surrender.  M
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Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
The strike
Tiny black bulging dots Marching in a skewed line, They hunt down, The syrupy hints left by your sweet boxes... To fill up their primitive huts, so no fellow ant dies- hungry. I wonder often To myself, Humans with green, blue and yellow revolutions, And Bt products, Are perhaps the only species, Which suffers the worst hungers known. I haven’t seen malnutrition in ants.
0
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Ants