"prolix" poems
from the plains drawings of smudging hands
and the palms of warriors
whose caves glittered in symbolic otherlands
flowing into yesteryears with shifting tones
abstracting melodies awry
in the songs of language growing,
from the blood of worldly pains
and passionscapes of grounded glees
which surge in transtemporal veins,
to the gifting of a poem;
cosmic movements
ever novel
in the constant flux of fleshy presence
follow us in meaning—
every dot and cursive plane,
carries more than caligraphic feeling
beneath the graphing of our patient, formal, brainy gestures
(often blind to fools in Spring and better fates
of wholly kissing lovers over flower-oaths)
whose blindness in such sightly feeling,
graph so many moments black:
syntax, manner, unformed poems of wisdom’s grandeur;
stifled in the academic dust.
9:30 pm
above: praise gone awry. 12:52 pm
still, this universe expresses its possibility
through this minute verbia;
prolix trivia swinging by
the inquiries of existential mania
and the hope of solid, open value.
1:29 am
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:52 PM UTC
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
They say what I want to say better than me
Read Homer and Ovid, Basho and Su Shi
Chaucer and Boccaccio they've stood the test
Read Donne, Spenser, Marlowe, Jonson and Raleigh
Read Shakespeare and Milton and all of the rest
Read Swift, Pope, Blake, Tennyson, and Rossetti
The two Barrett Brownings are of interest
For feelings romantic as true as can be
Keats, Coleridge and Wordsworth are some of the best
Read Larkin and Betjeman if you're depressed
Read Wendy Cope to enjoy all of life's zest
Yes please don't think I despise modernity
Read Ted Hughes and Sylvia, Motion, Duffy
And how about all those I haven't addressed
Yeats, Auden, Joyce, Longfellow, Poe and Shelley
And all of the others I'm bound to have missed
They say what I want to say better than me
But what of the poet, with poets obessed?
In prose I am prolix, in speech stuttery:
So where will you find my emotions expressed?
On MySpace, on Twitter, read my poetry
It says what I want to say
Oct 7, 2009
Oct 7, 2009 at 11:12 AM UTC
Play on.
Pretend.
Drum your anxious fingers out
In sync with the drip-drop of the melt,
Seeped prolix, distraught faucet mouth
Leaky kitchen sink, we drowned
Everything we could think to rinse
Meaning from
Down the drain. Our thumb prints
Scrubbed smooth away,
Quicker than crumbs
We followed and rationed and named
Stale keepsakes to keep us thin through Winter.
Thumb drummer, play on.
Pretend.
Facetious rhythms could kindle us
Warm enough to hibernate.
Thumb drummer,
Play on.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
"I can tell you that Dada was a leftist,
anti-bourgeois, non-Art birthed from WWI
and not some aleatory root to postmodernism
off-shot from a lurid acid rain.
I know that diffraction can be seen
on horizons in the early morning hours
of summer along smooth or dentate curvatures
and that it can have hues of blue, purple and
a soft-handed massage of orange that gingerly
applies pressure to your retinas with sugar-water.
If only eyes had lips that opened and closed.
"It is said that action is the birth of Manyness
and that non-action brings one's soul back to the Sage Mind,
the universe of Oneness, the cup longing to be fulfilled and how
upon brim overflow it longs to be empty once again
because of the relationship between Yin and Yang
and how one cannot Be without the other
and why perspective can change "full" to "empty"
so that the vicious cycle can never truly, truly end.
The difference between French Vanilla ice cream
and plain Vanilla is the degree of creaminess.
Fill up a bathtub and let it soak into my skin.
"There is no way for me to avoid being prolix about the things
I speak about in normal, day-to-day conversation. Science and reason
have accursed me to traverse this reality with the utmost care and precision
of language and society has forced pseudo-logic down my throat like
a bird screeching as it is forced past my pharynx and larynx.
Its sounds are amplified, beak-blared from my nostrils, and its wings are violent,
stretched against my neck skin, creating a pale-skinned, ship anchor image from my shoulders up.
I'll try to sing for you when you reach my trapdoor, I don't wish to eat you.
"I do not believe in anything because with everything comes a something,
a reason for its being. They are, 'from reason,' 'in reason,' and/or, 'for reason.'
There is no escaping this thought.
There is no escaping criticism.
I will find the Truth, mathematically calculated to infinity
from knowable circumstance and perception.
I will know everything and I will believe nothing."
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 9:02 AM UTC
the common words used
don't qualify as diction
hold no versimilitude
leave me to ponder what is so compelling
about the word like
that you have to use it
several times
in every sentence?
i hail a car
in time's square
i'm going to Harvard
the world's premier academy
where i won't be asked
to stop using "big words"
but instead receive diatribes for being prolix
because they're too pretentious
to admit ignorance
you!
how dare you try
to say you never
shoved your tongue down my throat
no fancy words
no "flowery fluff"
there it is,
now fight it!
I hide in my room
pain isn't pellucid
in the dark
EEEE!
it's a womanizer
mujeriego
or a bat...
murcielago
i always mixed up those two words
an idee fixe
as i declaim
to anyone who will listen
in my Faux-cab-you!-lair-EEEEE!
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 4:38 AM UTC
I have never been a man of many words.
That is you would not call me by any stretch of the imagination bombastic. Nor would you refer to me as long- winded. I try to be as concise as possible.
I feel that most people have a select few adjective to describe themselves.
Personally chatty, diffuse, discursive,flatulent, loquatious, palaverous, pleonastic, prolix nor verbose would be on this list.
My words are not ample aplenty bounteous bountiful generous plenteous plentiful profuse or super abundant.
And when i make a speech it is not oratorical or overblown...
I am not pompous...I try to be as consise as possible.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
We used to be so close, so inmost, so opposite and disposed and yet so equal and lazy that we were one.
Opposites attract and then get distracted. Equals distract and then get attracted.
We are opposites, we are equals, we are strangers.
We were opposites, we were equals, but today we are just two strangers with a routine of talking everyday about stuff that never existed.
We are two points intertwined by a circular line that keeps moving without our consent, lost in a infinite time space.
A friendship disguised, a feigned tolerance, a mutual and misunderstood need of acquaintanceship between each other.
A prophylactic and procrastinated love that wants to keep distance, deviating itself from the deep suffering.
But what suffering?
The suffering was only the avid fear by pain that turned us into two unaware and afraid of everything.
We are singular.
We are plural.
We're diminutive and we're augmentative.
We are two laconic passengers of the wacky train without driver that is the prolix relationship of humans, love and hate.
We are two regular strangers in relentless pursuit of deterioration of our love as a solution for all in our lives.
We are two remote lovers in relentless pursuit of deterioration of our lives as a solution for all our love.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
I would humbly put forth the idea, quite prostrate, that it would do us some good if we were to put aside, for a time, our epistemological certainties and archetypal savior fixations and, instead, opt for a more robust, ocher-hued ontological preeminence: putting the what before the why.
Only then can one, say, sip hot herbal tea from an old pink bone china teacup and, without thinking about all the things all the time, for once -just- feel the sun's warmth on your aged face as it begins its set over a half-eaten cotton candy sky that is epic af and reminds you of Peter Pan and then Robin Williams and then whywhywhy and then something random and weirrrd, and, in doing so, you can watch the lack of shittogetherness, of which duly occupies the very seat of your character like a bully usurper that hits you bc "he loves you," melt into a very (very) temporary oblivion and revel in what is before you without feeling paralyzing angst that is, usually, soo angst-y that you gotta pronounce that **** in German as if you were Schopenhauerly sitting at some non-descript desk in some non-descript room with your hand stroking your truly descript crazygeniusguy hair that is some kind of proto-Wolverine hairdo (and you wonder if Stan Lee was cryptically tipping his cap to S's philosophical pessimism with this peculiar gesture; consider googling it but don't because you've already googled too much sheeyt today), thinking (or brooding) about how much of a ******** Descartes is with his whole, yuhknow, theory about some ******* secret nanoputian angelic chemist that sits at the pearly gates of the Pineal Gland and performs the sacred transduction of the divine ghost, or whatever. Otherwise you are, like, consumed with analysis, which is a complete ******* bore and - let's face it - a thoroughly transparent attempt to sound smarter than you actually are.
This herbal tea I'm currently drinking has "rose hips" in it. Dear botany, that image is fun.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
If you would allow me, I would like to invite you into a world that I'm in, and then into a world where I would like to be in. The surplus of this thing called madness has overwhelmed me so. It has etched it's presence within the peripherals of my vision and the groundings of the world around me. I'm doing my best to refrain from the usual written prolix; my most verbose dialect that seem even ambiguous to those of a higher stature. I want you all to comprehend and peradventure shed a scintilla of empathy; the bedlam that is my mind keeps attracting the mad and the sleeplessness.
The monotony of repetition and the lonely nights of nostalgia. In unison, the Asylum within the corridors of mind houses such emotional consequences and dares to formulate an ominous construct; derived by the copious amount of my many iniquities. I am never at peace.
Give me a silent "dark" that coincides a placid slumber. Let me drift within the winds of a comatose state and the ringing of the Sandman within my ear; the melodies of sleep produced by nothingness. I seek such a slumber that transcends that of delving into the subconscious of the brain, but instead the subconscious to reach inside it's own subconscious. Like a dream within dream, but with no dream.
How absurd.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
I'm downright parchy when you're icy
Slammin' wet when you're dulcet
So glum...lolled...you're nowhere onboard
Alacrity is farced as simpers scarce
Prolix spells ahead as your radiance effaced
Stunning silence!
Shan't be scraggy better be scoutty
Lame ruse meeds its match...
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Jack jumped last night.
We might have expected it
had we not been so unsuspecting.
Those blue periods of his,
I'm sure you've witnessed one,
were walled in somewhat by the
swelling tides of years
and years
and years.
When they came, they were
quelled by the very occasional red mark.
These punctuations
when they mercifully visited
would open doors for him, in
which our brother, neighbor,
father discovered strange liquid
tendencies to ailing strength.
Too many blank-out nights
could find him and his new
battery bickering the old childhood
verses. Too many four-of-the-clocks
would cue the choragos his
specter-critic's eye to deign a
Plan on our friend's blue
stationary.
A smile might have
mailed it straight ahead.
Perhaps it was last week when the
boat met the shore, some heinous
delivery of packaged, patent-business
sealed reformation, salvation.
In the midst of his violet smile
the cogent steam engine had a chute
into which it might heartily crash.
However it came remains to be seen.
What we have all seen this morning
remains our family's chief export.
Jack jumped last night.
He ascended the hill with his red hands
full of ****** punctuation marks, and
he spouted full-rehearsed
all those lines he'd learned in
grade school. Like a prolix
Gertrude complaining of her thirst.
And with the singularity of purpose
that haunts even the sharpest eyes,
he completes the trek to his three-foot tall Kusinagara
with his asthma wrapped around his neck.
Victory is a queer bird. Its song is never heard
the whole way through.
He breathes in weightlessness,
regains his bearing and waits for the
lines to quiet down. No one should leave
in the middle of a recitation, regardless
of the quality. At last, "Richard Cory"
reaches his terminal syllable and
our dearest man searches for his place in the music.
And it's just a minute,
just a minute,
just a minute,
jumps.
Jack jumped last night
Just as he said he would,
And had we heard him say it
We'd have thought "He could. He could."
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
Yellow lit talks
Beside a borrowed car
Empty parking lot
Underneath the stars
Three feet apart
We mindlessly converse
About nothing and everything
Prolix and terse
You render me breathless
My ghost lungs deflate
You exhale the stars
And I respirate
I am so tense
With minutes too swift
Too late; you’re gone
My hands must have slipped
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
of blissbrick meanderings
smacks straight into
purpose, full
don't number
nameless incubating
prior to hatch
unimaginable unknowns
may yet manifest
one potential alteration:
me, singer in this
ambiguously yay rap duo
Vernacular Spectacular
Spitshit Linguistic
or maybe Prolix Helixed
first album:
Straight Outta Whoville
you may know
but you never
quite know
the One is THE
ultimate storyspinner
weaving all our tiny threads
into tapestry bigger
than grey matter
can muster
let it
let go
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
A man I knew once
Of nobility and pitiless prose
Forked tongue, a mind who blunted those of ferrous wits
A soul nurtured by the forest ewe
Adverting stimuli, in solemnity he sits
A flicker of passion in his throat arose
Promptly licked by that silent promise
Condemned to obscurity, like firm soil he is composed
Ardent and sullen like any cracked timber,
He remains fixed, as the dead in peaceful slumber.
All and none, brothers of the pupil akin
The zenith of event, he has already been there
Visions of splendor, grandiose pulchritude, and ruin
Of his that mine eyes seek do not they dare
Of mine his eyes have never been so cursed
Blank but fruitful what glory he has seen
Of things beyond all mortal belief is he so well versed
Encased in lye and pewter flesh,
No hands were laid upon that sconce
Preserved in ****** garment, immune to life’s thresh
Did not he ignore a man, but rather lack response?
Him lacking had no name, but the case of which him befell
I called, ‘tis true, beckoned him here
And not a nod in my direction
Yet to beseech a brook at the chine of a knell
A thoughtless benediction
But deluded I, spent drunk immersion in this life
Drowned by rushing torrents and temporal maelstrom
A reward of prolix strife
My thoughts composed of endless lies, theories
Countless deeds of fitful right and wrong
Yet he, so pure, have thought nothing like myself
No speech to taint his canvas
Nay, he’s different, of this I’m sure
He’s not diseased, he’s not impure
For it is I, of adamant ardour,
Who should seek his mindful cure.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Incomprehensible murmur,
With the paragraph of rhythm,
This is spoken with precision,
This is tokens of decision.
Clearer comes the thinking,
All this clarity is linking,
In the choice that’s somewhat pivotal,
We are heading to the principle.
The principle is singular,
The third eye slowly opens,
Causing massive bursts of intuition,
Slowly, deeply comes fruition.
Dissolving all digression,
Of the subject which is changing,
Of the ego growing weaker,
And the capturing of spirit.
Nonsensical arrangements,
And the quality of concepts,
As they spring forth from the chasms,
And the truth is born from spasms.
Decoration of the poems,
That are bounding in the ether,
Revelation of the notions,
Now disguise them as prediction.
Listen to this, listen to this,
Ask this question, ask this question,
What picturesque is slowly shaping,
With the inhale exhalation?
Here is the gift of presentation,
Of allegorical equation,
It is fabled, it is legend,
It is myth in mead fermented.
In a drunken state of passion,
Drunk on prolix word-elixir,
Here we are now, here we are now,
In this fine-tuned endless moment.
Now keeping with this concept,
Shall we look a little deeper?
Looking at the present moment,
Philosophical emotion.
With everything in motion,
It’s a constant transformation,
Now here’s the complication,
When everything’s vibration.
The solid dense hard matter,
Is creating an illusion,
Make your mind like flowing water,
And you’ll see pass the confusion.
I feel it in my chest now,
And I feel it in my heart,
Pure as light this information,
Coming from all creation.
Now if this seems a little muddled,
And the data’s far from clear,
I have just one suggestion,
Which is halt your calculations.
Let us take the scenic route now,
It takes a little longer,
Due to dancing in the stanzas,
More suggestive, less corrupted.
It is less about the concept,
And more about feeling,
Like a lost one timid grieving,
And the purposeful believing.
I hope you get my meaning,
And the meaning full of lessons,
If you’re looking with your logic,
They will all remain elusive.
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
Empty words fill
Empty spaces,
Wasting our time and
Using our efforts to
Impress an empty audience.
The words are normal,
Effortless,
Sleepy.
Tedious and tensionless
They sweep the imaginary landscape:
Wasteland.
They speak with easy access to
Shallow hearts.
Slight stabs hold no pain--
The blade is too dull.
This bore sickens me;
These words hold no pull.
Goalless structure has
No gold.
Wasted breath on nothing.
Now change:
We are the words that make life worth it...
...Poets.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
To Save Strays Deserve Lagniappe
Ruff lee, e'er since
aye waz za lil whippersnapper
watt wit dis awful temper, yet
obedient to a pooch loving Aleut
til present moment, Asian ole mangy coot
this hot day (woof faux pas
dipping into animal shelter
donated water bowl)
filled to the brim with smoothie fruit
flavored slaking, moistening, cooling,
sans lallygagging tongue
doth wipe phlegmy ooze away,
where nearby a kazoo
playing labradoodle
accompanies mum
muttering prettifying self,
via quasi preening snout
when squeezed
automatically issues
***** tonk sound imitating hoot,
where passerine twittering
fly night passersby
toss bone fied token loot
and a Norwegian
bachelor farmer named Knute
Rockne took immediate
liking to yours truly,
who when scratched
itchy fur patches remained mute
imparting unconditional love
to petting man's best friend
hoof right then and there
Isaiah felt as top underdog
momentarily distracted
Fermi n Rico as petsmart necessary fix
reduced to that as newshound ******
oft times in desperation
shine shoes ala boot lix
usually rewarded with bona fide prolix
about such a docile mix
breed to old for chase sticks
to learn super champing cheap tricks.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
For we have suffered ample
We aren't naive nor imbeciles.
We’ve had enough and refuse to *******
Ultimately standing up to the oppressive regime of lawbreakers.
We do have rights, some dignity to uphold.
In these dystopian times,
Some ancient manuscript of our rights is in decay after years of mimes.
But is the mere way of upholding our laws.
The committee with Ambedkar maketh the constitution prolix yet perfect.
Let the criminals be punished,
Let the victims be given justice and
Let equity prevail.
Torture me, wound me but awareness about our rights is not going to halt.
Unfortunate are going to be those who assault,
For the victims are not the ones at fault.
Articles 14-31 testify our rights,
Taming the animal in us to stop the bleeding fights.
Simply blaming others won't do,
But it is up to us to respect each other’s dignity too.
The finest from the finest set of rules is imbibed in it.
Our godforsaken spirits rooting for justice and equality are lit.
Lit with flames of years of turmoil,
while the dominant ignored the state of our own soil.
Of what worth is an old, old paper?
Justice to the mistreated, power to powerless, equality to the oppressed and sentence to the hater.
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 9:41 AM UTC
Queen of spectral shadows hiding in her mirror
with a gossamer shawl coiled upon her nape.
Where sunbeams drape, she refuses to appear --
a hostage of somber fear not longing for escape.
The waterfall's frozen over,
the river no longer pours
when love cannot show her
the daylight anymore.
Mystic maiden in a labyrinth of graves
clinging to her orisons that go unheard.
The story's blurred by prolix waves --
we could paraphrase but the poets are lost for words.
The canopy's an illusion,
the firmament splits at the seams
when love feels like an intrusion
that stalks in her fortress of dreams.
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 7:59 AM UTC
you were
the biggest folder
in my Evernote
labeled Prolix Ranter
because I got sick
of scrolling your ****
and wanted precise
dosages
I deleted it
then swallowed
my tongue
and for so long
no words would come
then you trickled in
iridescent thought bubbles
with minds and time
all their own
I don't know
how to pop them
but they sure as ****
know how to find me
and make my fingers
crave
the pen
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
Nauseating persiflage pontification
by aeolists with hollow minds,
it's a zugzwang situation,
so stuck among the prolix.
Panglossians in one ear
pessimists in the other,
a hiraeth longing for hygge,
yet stuck in the social mire.
Nonneutonian fluid vacuum,
imminent immersion of initiatives,
halting inundation of discerning,
heading toward a humming flat line.
Suddenly I adimpleate, with joy,
an archetypal suggestion floats in the air,
I excuse myself from the aretalogers,
and hunt the primordial source.
With legwork and inquest,
here and there on the scene,
I am defeated, misfortune,
alas, absorbed back into the quagmire.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC