"propulsion" poems
The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.
As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.
The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.
The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Zeus and Amphitrite
edge of the sea
reflecting down
looking up
god or goddess
reflecting the same
draped in gold
Hercules Coronal Borealis Great Wall
superstructure feathered on the shoulders
skyward brilliance reflecting
shaking future stars
comets meteors meteoroids asteroids meteorites
rain down around
deafening sound of the greatest thunder bolt
hear me
hear her
**** this
**** that
roll good times
patience is virtue
zero point
generosity kindness affection pleasantness
waiting on the ecliptic plane
sun and heavens
where
hummingbirds dragonflies soaring creatures
rise out of the abyss
propelled and lifted
seahorse air bubbles octopuses chant
straight ******* propulsion ****** velocity
magic of the darkness
ready set giddy up
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
A six-legged Asian cockroach just washed up on American soil, and it can lay eggs on ice.
Roaches are infamous for the myth that they're one of the few species that could survive an atomic bomb. It's not science, but even Adam Savage and his gang of Myth Buster's say it's beyond myth: a human croaks after ten minutes of exposure to 1,000 units of cobalt 60. But for roaches, 10% of their population survives after exposure to 10,000 rads - hell, it's better than zero.
This new species is the most evolutionarily persistent thing ever - if surviving means anything, it win's life on earth, hands down.
But I'd rather be a monkey.
We **** up and **** ourselves everyday. We slip and **** ourselves with power tools, or smash our fists into soccer referees and manslaughter oops **** We shoot ourselves off of propulsion equipment to see what happens. Bone-crunching splatter ****
From 100 feet up, we look like ******* mad men.
But the roach shows up carefully and gets **** done with nasty perseverance. The roach with vapid speech and wide eyes, glued to efficiencies and body armor.
To exist plainly - to work, eat. and sleep - is done best by roaches. Success is a cockroach.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
One day I felt that sleep would do me good, and that one day just never stopped.
Falling without feeling,
without thinking,
even knowing.
This steadiness sees nothing end.
A constant,
a stagnant,
there's no such thing as propulsion;
no say or do of any kind.
Just this bleak, empty void, that fogs up my mind.
Begingings must come for an end.
I'd stay there, just not here.
Next time I might know when.
You stood across, the corner's gaslight.
Watching, baiting, biding your time waiting,
tell me what you mean by those words.
But I can't ask.
I forget, I'm asleep.
That night is so long ago.
I'd wish it back here, replay the scene, in the doorway.
Change my words,
just this once.
One last time.
Instead, I'm asleep.
Stare into the white.
Stretch to see,
understand what you mean,
there is no possibility.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
3D Printing
Proud owners of 3D Printers !
Makers of 3D Printers !
Designers of 3D Printers !
What you are creating
Does't hold a candle
To Designer-maker-owner
All-in-one models
Created eons ago !!
It is the female of
Every species of mammals !
Bones, flesh, blood
Nerves, memory cells
Power plants to convert
Food to energy !
Control systems to regulate
Regeneration of fresh cells
Filter system to provide
Clean oxygen to
Fuel the Power Plants
With Powerful binoculars
Audio production mechanics
Audio receptors to pass on
Grey cells enclosed in
Secure and hard shell
Strands of fine hairs
To cushion impact and
As thermal insulation
Protection shields for
All sensory units
Efficient drainage system
Propulsion facilities
Guidance and command
Center for all activities!!
Processors working 24/7
Processing gene information
Tweaking and fine tuning
Some info and trashing a few
Data storage many TB more
Than many data centers could
Offer with minimum
Upkeep and maintenance
Self-Encryption capabilities
And above all the ability
To produce both male and
Female of their species
All from getting just
One ***** and
ultimately infusion
of LIFE
Into the product as casual
As our breathing.
Do we know the creator?
Different Religions have
Different Names for it
But all the same it is
THE ONLY ONE
That counts :-)
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
The Rise: powerful.
A great reminder of self.
Reflection of Fall.
Don't let it hold; not today.
Please, just keep going.
Propulsion: drive to break free;
Free of the Fall's grip--
Freedom for another day--
And another Rise.
Momentum: back in the game.
The cycle renews.
Driven back to the top now.
Unstoppable now;
Greater than ever before!
Rise above it all.
Look down, laugh; never again.
This Rise is THE Rise!
Never falter; never fall!
No, never again!
Not now that there's--a new doubt:
Just the potential...
Just the possibility...
Momentum plateaus--
It was too good to be true--
Momentum fading.
Should have learned from the last fall;
Should have known better.
Momentum's lost now,
Don't let this Fall be the last.
Reflection of Rise:
Let it hold; another day--
Please, just one more day.
The Fall: unavoidable...
The Rise: powerful.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
I'm sitting at the bottom of the pool
impulse turns pulse turns heartbeats in my eardrums
it's uncomfortable, to say the least
oxygen is in the great beyond
lungs twitch
my head throbs
panicked propulsion
comfort.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
a mishap fudged together in a blur
by the onerous fate autonomy
a throw away girl
death addict
in a racket of echoes
fingernails
******* and spit
for relics of witchcraft
in a foot licking satanic ritual
she picked him
like a con mark
for the realization
of her shadow dream
to escape from form
in a shaking bed
spread herself wide
feeling the black sound
like musical water
to drown in
with weight
that holds immovable storms
of brazen villain's and glistening *****
who pumped her mouth like gas
for obliterations throat bashing she loved
causing the hideous end of herself
splayed straddled a ****** archaeology
of kisses withering in an ancient pudding
razor peeled ******* blooming
betrayed whorish curdling screams
in a deviant propulsion
glitter mucous and blood
drizzled from her lush red smeared lips
with tears of mascara
in a ghoulish basement
an object of desire for demons
on the ceiling
she abandons all hope
lubricated her **** and ****
opened her thighs
for a freakish novelty
of soaked vibrating machine gun tongues
for a hemorrhaging orgiastic suicide
her blade slit tongue
still undulating
and pinned it in bits
to a **** toy
******
for valentine's day
her love and guts like a buffet
glamorously featured
with photo pics
in Mademoiselle magazine
smiling cockeyed
drugged and staggering
she put a rope
around her neck
as if in an embrace
and blew her brains
a spiraling horror
of diabolical appeal
in a ghastly enterprise of roulette
of pants off dance off
scattered gauze bikini
and a head wreath of hair
glittered like a half-eaten pomegranate
under disco lights
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 12:01 PM UTC
Sailing over white fluffy clouds in an aluminum tube
The occasional glimpse of earth thirty thousand feet below
A muted roar as mighty engines drive us through sky
Just over a hundred years ago only birds could fly
But modern jet propulsion drives man to greater heights
Over soaring mountain peaks that man has yet to climb
Effortless we cruise through a world of space and time
The trolley dolly does her rounds with over priced plastic wrapped food
Later she'll be back again with over priced duty free goods
I study my fellow passenger, coming from every walk of life
Some are single, some are married, SOME with another mans wife
Crammed in shoulder to shoulder, strangers on every side
A typical budget airline holiday and a budget airline ride
Soon once more we'll touch the ground, with a hidden sigh of relief
But we all will do it yet again, in a year, a month, or maybe in a week
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
Farmer Jones set out to build a barn
A shelter for his bovine
When the wood started disappearing
A little at a time
The cows were taking it to pasture
On the other side of the dell
Little by little in the middle of night
Hoping Jones wouldn't be able to tell
This plans been festering for ages
At least since some of them were veal
But cows aren't very good at telling time
So how long is really hard to tell
Anyways they know they have a plan
That's what matters when it comes down to it
And what it is they've been planing
Is "Bovine One" The Rocket Ship
This time they're going to the moon
They had a cousin who jumped over it once
But that was so many years ago
And cousin Eddie has long been somebody's lunch
They got the plans out of Science Illustrated
When Carl went in to use the can
The day Farmer Jones stepped out of the house
A little secret the cows are keeping from "The Man"
They know nothing about jet propulsion
So the cows broke down and asked the goat
The smartest of all the farm animals
Another little secret nobody knows
In the process of building they used galvanized nails
The goat said in space regular nails would rust
I never would have thought of that
I guess goats are even smarter than us
When "Bovine One" The Rocket Ship was completed
It was on a Wednesday the count down did fall
The day Farmer Jones noticed his wood was missing
And the authorities were called
As they began to investigate
A bright glow came from over the hill
Still to this day no matter what people say
They don't know what the object was nor ever will
The Rocket Ship is still up there in orbit
With umpteen cows inside
Next time you hear a cow moo, look up cause you too
Could see "Bovine One" as it passes by
Did they ever make it to the moon?
No one around really seems to know
I bet you could get the answer though
If you were to go and ask the goat
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
if i have to explain it to you
then it probably never existed
in a well-represent'd enough form
to deserve acknowledgement of
the highly embellish'd state
of your own mind and actions
that brought the mingling of
souls once cherish'd abroad
sunken to fetters of not chains
but words with meaning as
the force propelling them
paradoxical in that
propulsion is antithetical
in terms of the definition 'fetter'.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
I am back yet again
in Tripoli, reading
Arabic street signs and
on an evening look
to find that special fish
restaurant of old.
Al-Jameheriyyah
al-Arabeiyyah is and
has always been for me
the land of surprises in
this storied life.
Already, I have been
kidnapped into a long
adventure, taking me across
the Sahara into the rarest
of lands, filled with ponds
and fertile green beauty!
Today, I accompany
contacts from the fishing
fleet into the port.
On the far side of which,
below the British Embassy
is an old black submarine!?
My main contact is
handing me on board a
vessel, when he ages
slack and shakes.
Then, I am pulled back
to be led away.
Hot and held firmly,
we don't waste words.
My jacketed guards walk me
briskly into the harbour,
towards a squat building.
Each alert and thinking - I,
that I'm in the arms of the
Libyan Secret Police,
as each jacket conceals
my confirmation!
On entering their blockhouse,
I am led and followed up the
stairs to confront a facing cell,
wallpapered entirely in
the heavy folding scissor-ed
steel closure of the Souq,
jewelled in locks!
The first jacket stoops to unlock
my cage. Likely, sharing my confidence
that once in, I'm here to stay - I
drift slightly left. Thence, to roll
left, behind and around a second jacket,
to swiftly enter the office to my
rear. A man stands, surprised!
Shaking hands, I greet him warmly.
I am asked to take a seat and
the audience at the door
to give explanation!
I am now the honoured guest
and have no intention of
leaving my seat! Afraid,
the chairman and his shocked
staff are invited also. Four
hours later my past involvement
in supplying the Libyan Tunisian
Fishing Cooperative with eighty
eight marine propulsion engines
is confirmed.
I leave them last, as
one might part from friends.
.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Anti-gravity, rivers, streams
flowin high above the grounds.
Powered by giant speakers that
pulse propulsion sounds.
Information waves in stealth
conveying, like particles: cars,
from their backyard "bye bye" gates
to the store, the moon, venus, the stars.
So small they nest on cell towers
tweet, tweeting their "special effects"
and form a web, grid, around the whole thing
a mulit-port, self guiding, blue cloud matrix.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Mirror, Mirror on the wall
Show me purest of them all…
-A pause to process this big mistake-
Clearly, you’ve mistaken what I said
A woman is staring back at me
Whose face I cannot recognize
Her lips drip venom falsities
And spite sparks fire in her eyes
In her hands lay a golden cup
With an inscription branded on the side
She waits for someone to fill it up
Saying, “The Mirror never lies.”
A thousand ships sail across her neck
In circles, round and round
She throws her head back and starts to laugh
I shiver at the sound
“You look so confused, my love.
“Your eyes are open wide!
“Don’t you recognize me, dearest girl?
“I’ve always been on your left side.”
With that she flipped her shining hair
And narrowed those flashing, feline eyes
Then stepped aside to let me see
The principality and its demise
The world cracked just a little then…
It stopped spinning certainly
But the propulsion sent me forward
Spiraling for what seemed like an eternity
I landed on my hands and knees
Tears like rain falling to the floor
Mourning the death of my dear friend
Whose company I’d lost for evermore
Mirror, Mirror on the wall
Who has fallen farther than them all?
I see my reflection from the ground
Staring blankly into nothingness…
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 8:07 PM UTC
My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the
tête-à-tête
of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain.
The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare.
And then: Revelation.
The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility;
Only
Silence
Impotence
A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
cloud mountains
rise above the plains
a veil of gray
sweeps the horizon
wind brings
the scent of rain
cars rush past
heading for the city
breathe in deeply
just plowed soil
just mowed field
listen
distant thunder
insect rattle
grass rustling
cars roaring
we live in troubled times
blind unbound
deaf to calm
solicitation
time's relentless
propulsion and hissing
churning pressing
my family is waiting
I turn back to my car
both sated and shaken
reminded to breathe
to see to be filled
even for a moment
to be grateful
that grass and field
soil and wind
and gauzy far-off rain
will defy our clamor
and complaint
and will remain
Tom Spencer © 2018
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 1:52 PM UTC
*Jonquil rain bar approach , delta method
time beau stargazer in earnest
Fine line arcadian pest derecho , pinpoint
waiver unit substitution Jericho
Albamarle sinister unit torrid recuser perpetuity
cisco propulsion Easter wig nam propulsion
Archangel rock deliver jetsam
Harold ****** sonic shift mercury wind bag space
candidate turquoise nine beam analyzer Sinbad nine
Winder ground archer nine sound pet neighbor tyrant
dime loser terrier loose figment stroller ten nimbus*
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
been awhile
just wanted to let somebody know
that being is doing fine
being has never felt more complete
but yet it is still incomplete
out on these tiles
finding remnants of the true nature within
where are all of the friends
so we can commence the feast
it isn't proper until everyone has arrived
and nothing will settle for less
No need to digress.
Where was the train of thought last?
Funny.
The reflection of past is foggy from the steam
jet propulsion-
scorching-
water evaporation-
writing words in the mirror to pass time
even though all the time that was had
has been burned
when will being learn?
...i tsum og ffo.. ot eht wotrednu fo eht evaw.. sgniht lliw eb rethgirb.. taht i wonk os ll'i evom no...
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
Get on with your lifelong crisis
But know the difference between response and reaction
It's all too familiar
Paper covers rock
Rock smashes scissors
Scissors cuts paper
Mask your bad breath
And get rid of that embarrassing screen name
You've served your time to society
Now go search for that cat with the vast collection of tongues
Reanimate the dead and beaten horse
But don't let yourself get bullied or get thrown under the bus
Stand up and use your great stoicism
Use that pulley powered propulsion system you call a mind
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Haven't freestyled in a while
since my name was Kyle
1 out of 10 in the room I'd revile
but I got the world swoon over this goon style
9 out of 10 be jealous of the attention
I be getting how fast these legs run a mile
**** it give me 500 miles
and I would rush 500 more
just to kick in the door
Of whack rappers, hit the floor
That's the D-E-C-K I pray to start my day
not doing this for pay just to play and say
what I need to say the state of the States
Got me in dismay as they pave way
For old goose stepping ways
Like **** learn history
About ****** and his story
Of the rise to glory of the Fascist party
and the deaths of Jewish minorities
That they had as priority
Along with any other minority
that wasn't white skinned with ***** grin
or Aryan origin on that topic it's La Fin
because South Park had them Laughing
and sanding me in wood shop
So going to that school had to stop
so I dropped out by expulsion
which fueled the propulsion
Out of my mom's place
At sixteen I started to chase
independence
'Cause that's all that made sense
I couldn't live on cents had to make dollars
Dreamed of being a baller shot caller
Show poster on the wall sir
But my crafts had to be refined before
I could start my spiritual war
Let my mind soar like a kite
In the white clouds past nine
Turned the phaser to eleven
As shrooms shot me a glimpse of heaven started making bread sans leaven
sick of toaster leave-ins knead the flour
need the flower extra sour
though diesel to ease all the pain
And refrain my brain
From seizing and freezing
The mainframe of my nervous membrane
I swear I'm not insane
but it would take me days to explain
The pain that had me nearly slain
so ride my thought train
'Cause I hate planes & listen to the refrain
you feel this profane pyre burn hotter than
blue flames from the butane or propane
Not real champagne lest it be made in France mane
where they sniff the Caine more than oxygen
I am the Champion.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
Fall, 2012, the end of the world as we know it… Funny how it seems that the most profound beginnings are almost always born in the wake of some monumental ending. This is my thought as I give definition to the date of my era. So, what is this that I am getting at? What proof am I introducing, if it can be called one at all? This is the function of record, to unravel some truth, is it not? Well, perhaps only if the accuracy of a history is either of little importance or something that its author is ever in ignorance to. The truth; is among my possessions, its conveyance is not. Honestly--
While leveling, admittance, and guilt are still in my human sack of possession, I wish to divulge an unsightly insight. I am no writer by profession, nor by education, simply I am one in spite of those whom have the audacity to take inventory of what their fellow man may or may not possess. This is the entirety of the agent of that gives my waking life propulsion. The everlasting perpetuation of what capability continues to be: that which we have done.
The fall of 2012; delivered to man upon the shoulders of summer, of spring, of winter, of year prior, of years prior, of seasons past, of men past, of love whence, of suffering before, of continence evermore. Save the tongue from words predicting repetition and favor those ephemeral, like each of us. So very similar, begging in tugs for the familiar and never once the identical…
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
*"Want to wear words,
like clothing, a tailor and an editor,
am I not stitching,
threads into a finest tapestry,
then the very thought to blog,
bogs and constipates desire,
leaving me to log the frustration
on paper pages to cook up ideas of which
the Best of Which,
have simmered away...
but I taste the air above this write of yours;
it restores the delight,
to write for others,
briefly log my take and give on life,
thanks for the encouragement,
ha ha, more, more"*...
Ottar
why write praise of others,
when their own words
do all the work
bring your pen and quill,
he says,
and the hands
by them employed,
perform on the Pantages Theater
in Tacoma
put your toys aboard a
kayak
peddle paddle the Columbia,
blade one in Washington,
the other, propulsion oriented to the Oregon side,
he in the cockpit,
wonder wandering reflecting
what is the life story of a
beggar man
with so many, already,
steve-adore friends
in ore-gun,
who all can carry words
from their ships into shared knapsacks,
all for breaking
the fast
that men's soul
sometime suffer
words given each of us,
free and given freely
better have the wisdom to hear the best,
finery
in them
and this man's soul work, simple,
record, record...record
and share
***the finer, better,
finery of yours***
free
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 8:13 AM UTC
Swimming with only the eyes showing
Like a predatory crocodile
Stealthily circling the pool
With the sound track from'Jaws' gathering pace in my mind.
Moving in for the ****
In charge, in control, peeping out just above the surface,
Ready to strike at will.
And then a glorious stillness envelops me
No gaudy happiness
But a silver - blue peace;
An outcrop of sorrow.
The buoyancy holds me benignly
Expecting nothing.
The water covering my face cools the heat in my eyes.
With force I push my arms down towards my hips
And feel the corresponding ****** forward.
All my doing - my propulsion.
Down, down into the depths
With my eyes wide open now
Knowing that I will re- emerge,
That I can swim above and below
And that I need not fear the depths as
The deeper I go
The stronger I become.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
First contact made under the watchful eye of night
propulsion acquired into endless black sky
astronomical equations and distant discovery
all come together at the end of this journey
Space and direction become void, meaningless
time, an illusion, fading quietly into bliss
Sailing through vapors and silence eternal
drifting past clouds of gasses infernal
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC