"proscribed" poems
~for the one who will know it was written for her~
muddy verb and adjective,
muddling and muddled
have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe,
one dancer, proscriptive,
and her partner, prescriptive?
the stage, of course,
exactly the width of your head,
from ear to shining ear
this couple o’muses dance en concert,
though their very natures are anti-logarithmic,
the value of their exponential activity is a
descriptive nomenclature
I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn,
mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games
as is my wont wanted,
everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am,
doing ablutions, seeking absolution,
pulling weeds from our respective gardens,
answering old friends I have yet to meet,
to whom I answer,
“still here, though long time no see,”
which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory,
as the brain grasps well my
Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif
muddling and muddled,
proscribed from getting on transport,
to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive,
as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess
even though one of my many passport names,
a requirement, to visit,
this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates,
permits me safe passage,
over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea,
to deliver this message,
to you
woman
*I am here, waiting patiently, though long time
no see
like ever,
absentia, dementia,
both self-censure:
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you,
as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, laughing unto me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot look upon her,
my sun, my sun, my son,
yet she, as well,
is everywhere-inside of me,
warmly illuminating
my muddled mind*
Mar 23, 2019
Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC
We,
the uninsured
being inured to this,
the will of gods.
Our lives doled out in tablet form
from birth to breath by those pharmacists
with death proscribed,
prescription wise.
My eyes have seen the crookedness that shake
foundations,
three times a day we pray again to all the gods
to open up and swallow pills and god just nods
his head,agrees that we need medications.
The ***** top bottle throttles me
but I am strangled happily by those 'dolls'
the greens and reds of fol de rols
a plague on gaudiness unless instructions say,
take the pills three times a day.
These games we play, I'll say,
are just a side event,a small diversion to prevent us
from ever having to face the facts,
but we're inured to that and so,
on and on and on we go until the end is reached.
I plead,
just one more pill,
it appears that this is not the will of god or any pharmacist,
I missed the last bus home,but home is hell and
so that's just as well.
I wait in the wings to see
what tomorrow brings.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
I don't need drugs. My brain is drugs.
Maybe it's a side effect of a mother that dropped acid for the first trimester of pregnancy and then some.
Maybe it's a side effect of the abusive step father that told me I would never amount to anything and that I am ********
My brain processes things at about a hundred miles per hour. In conversations I am always three steps ahead of what ever was said last. I make connections in things that are unconnected.
They tell me this is adult ADHD. They tell me I should be proscribed a pill to help my brain focus.
But focus isn't what I want. Nor is the drowsiness that comes with Lorazepam, the fog that goes with Prozac. I have been separately proscribed these things without ever filling the bottles.
But I fear that if I fix all my chemical imbalances, my medical maladies, that I will disappear into a fog.
Who am I without my OCD, without my brain over processing, over loving, over caring. Without the pain in my chest from another panic, my bouncing off the walls and singing to myself.
Maybe I am unwell.
But who am I without my unwellness?
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
.
A bloodthirsty old woman you see,
a cockroach from Satan’s
“Crisis Committee”,
For long she pillaged,
children she snatched and slayed
their blood she drank and ate,
to rejuvenate.
She flayed their skin,
affixed in place on her own face,
Corona was her name,
The old hag was insane.
When her evil deeds were told,
the airplanes soared,
in aim to **** us all.
On Earth they made the poisons fall.
They had us all locked down,
with muzzles restrained,
padlocks and chains,
ankle bracelets for home detention,
false tests on prescription,
deceived and plundered,
blamed for infection,
medications proscribed,
fresh air they denied,
On our freedom they put boundaries,
halfwits, scoundrels.
And when they “eased up” on their “measures”,
the camps were full over the rim,
large - scale butchering,
looted livers and kidneys,
burning the living victims,
“to prevent the spread of infection”
evidence concealed for our own protection.
She had working hours,
sleeping before noon,
was contagious only in the afternoon.
Half the world she vaccinated,
with poisons injected,
what is going on,
you are going to see,
billions of dead bodies are yet to be!
Forget we must not,
Lest not forgive,
Let’s arrest and sentence them to death,
they should not be left to live!
.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Copyright © by Saša Milivojev, 2020 - 2022 - All Rights Reserved
Jun 14, 2022
Jun 14, 2022 at 6:40 PM UTC
He held up his umbrella 'gainst the hurricane
...
Trapped in proscribed solutions
Unable to react intelligently
---
Revolution?
(Shall we?)
---
No no !
Walk on
---
Stand naked on the rain?
-
Well yes
That's a start
----
All the umbrellas be blown away!
...
No protection!
.
Now
--
What possibilities are here?
..
Isn't there one thing left to do?
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
proscribed extra-curious carnality be gone, begin, become the
exigent immersion of a prescribed insertion, deep genetics
within this drowning pool, drooled and tooled. now cruel
jewel, for this dowsing fool, offer up a different inheritance,
draw wider tracks of innate capture, let mortal culpability
sail white whaled, high tailed, to a communal land of
neutral precept not constrained by dictate neuter. one click,
**** temptation, flavoured Russian, *** Asian. first though
herbal, fruitful, extension. such friendship investment, one
clit-k sensation, new phone, who phone, ***** moan,
iFone©, fear & gear. solutions are here, hear? with 1 or
more I full, sim-pull, sinful maybe? snout deep, cracked
badger’s honey kink, snake in ‘n’ baking ‘n’ shaken sac,
quick, whip crack a flay, today? the way you wear those
ankles so well that far back, a la mode, cherry high pie
and cream, no sweet reluctance of bristling itch, searching
eye ******* incontinent twitch from mondo trespassed
hush-pushed niche.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Yes.
And we all know how to
Make poetry pay.
We all know what it is
That makes Sammy run,
Run Sammy Run.
But I take it to its
Absurd conclusion:
Ads right in the middle of
The ******* poem!
“That was,”
If I do say so myself,
“A stroke of pecuniary brilliance."
Pecuniary adjective pe·cu·ni·ary \pi-ˈkyü-nē-ˌer-ē\
: Relating to or in the form of money
Full Definition of PECUNIARY
1: consisting of or measured in money 2: of or relating to money
— pe·cu·ni·ar·i·ly \-ˌkyü-nē-ˈer-ə-lē\ adverb http://www.thesaurus.com
Would not this be an excellent conceit?
Villainy of a close & potent kind?
Put the cart before the horse
(So to speak):
POETS AS SWEAT EQUITY.
That’s right!
Make us pay for our sins,
Financing our sins.
(So to speak).
What a concept!
Why not run the Merriam-Webster logo here . . .
Would this not be the appropriate time?
(logo)
Advertising right smack
Dab in the middle of
The ******* poem!
My third world soul
Having a difficult time
Navigating this Toddlin' Town
Allow me to show you around, town.
And lest we forget:
Our first poets were religious crazies,
With diction gilding Version, King James.
"My Schtick,"
As Mel Brooks might say.
Mel's History of the World
(Part 2, i.e.),
Retells the Essence of Story Telling,
The Misnah Pentateuch,
Told again with the usual **** genius.
Scene: Moses stumbles on Sinai,
One of three burdensome
Stone tablets is dropped,
Shatters on a rock.
What could possibly have been proscribed
In those 5 lost commandments?
What freaky human pleasure,
Could possibly have been lost to humanity?
It is pointless to speculate.
'Tis better to think about this,
Dear Poetry Publisher Query *****
Ads right in the middle of the ******* poem.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Her eyes, Belie,
The darkness deep inside.
Her smile, Defiles,
Laws of nature running wild.
Her hair, It don't care,
If it's right or fair.
She'll take you by your soul,
Eat your heart in just one go.
Her tongue, it runs,
This city of the sun.
In her mind, you'll find,
A piece of the divine
Lost within her thighs.
Don't fight the coming tide,
Embrace the genocide.
Sand proscribed, a bandaid tried
And weary from repeat.
Lost to the waves, sweat and sleet.
Ocean licks brine from
Timeless, restless feet.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
Benign baleful dreams
pervading sense awaken arousal,
destructive in fruitful essence
of times eternal ocean of silence;
a majestic magnitude of heavens legions
felled as stars blossom like roses
in the night sky.
Amorous passion playing
with shadows; climbing
the stairs of heavens turmoil
like a ladder descending upon
a vast forest of emotions,
the angelic spirit of deception;
swarming like maggots untoward
the sulpherous adamantine
gates of a new order,
dropping like flies unto
the volcanic ash of chaos.
Efficacious mezmerisation
comprising invunerable exaltation,
numinous effacement
corrupting the truth of
unimaginable fear,
torterous pity bore by
innocense; lost denouncing
their creator.
Succumbing, a subdued debauch
ambassador of hope;
proscribed as the moon replaces the sun,
defiant; belief vanquished-
desire unrequited.
ELEETE J MUIR
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
Custom cannot wither, nor age enslave
My infinite array of memories.
I came of age upon a wave
Of ideals that anchored
Changes and elders outraged,
Appalling them into rage.
They often responded
With violence, yet we endured.
Even when comrades were shot down,
And protesters run to ground,
The promise of a new world grew in secret,
In the impromptu families in hill towns,
Or the remnants of Haight-Ashbury
And the minds of Lost Boys and Girls unbound,
In the survivors of Kent and Jackson State;
Our dream died not but elected to wait,
And In the choices of all
Not to succumb to servility
Nor women to proscribed maternity.
Equality stayed the rule instead of resignation.
Now, age has slowed but not stopped us
And we reach out across the air,
Teaching young ones, as passionate as we,
To distrust despots, ever serve the cause of liberty.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 9:56 AM UTC
We’re busy all day long with studying and chapter summaries,
we’re stuck in quarantine. Luckily, I like my roommate's company.
We know that we have work to do as prep for upcoming classes,
but we know that it takes more than work to make young lasses happy.
So I talked my roomies into getting, a steak-n-cheese delivery,
instead of working fact-sheets, for our next term chemistry.
Dueling playlists cave-rave from the echos in our suites,
we’re having all the fun we can on opening quarantine week.
Some guys try for invites, like we’re throwing a private wingding,
but those texts go unanswered ‘cause we’re genuinely quarantining.
With the COVID blues proscribed - get that frown right off your face miss,
our studies are on schedule - and it’s time for some serious play *****
Jan 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022 at 6:48 AM UTC
“Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
<?>
***how we age is both simultaneously
conscious and unconscious,
uncontrolled and uncomfortable***
***we never fail to recognize the mirror image, yet,
always thinking out loud in our brain that’s not me!***
***some remember their successes; others, do not,
perhaps they cannot recall the few, or more likely
acknowledge them as triumphs, as the scale is a
canon always in flux by time grinding us fine***
***we readily admit, or do not deny, the lines upon our bodies
are highway markers of journeys, yet we know not
who built these signposts, how they came to be here,
but that they ours, unique and accumulated, undeniable***
Longfellow’s observation above hits me
with the fullness of a wet washcloth;
intemperate and stinging,
but not unpleasantly so.
each of our beginnings are artful;
full of promise and worthy tales;
we think this. is normative,
the way a young life is proscribed,
meant to be enjoyed.
***of course, this is not necessarily so;
indeed, the exiting is a violent decay,
unrelenting and foisted upon us and
we try, to amend it, our transient departure,
so that we remove the artifice, keep only the art,
the skilled communication of what we valued,
the things that are progeny, living or material,
those clues to whom we are, to whom it may concern,
we were***…
Dec. 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 7:03 PM UTC
Our eyes are different
our minds so similar
Hearts struck from cliffs
of porous stone
how can you change
what you are after?
At breakneck speed
it is roll or run
My guise is significant
Adaptations adequate
In founding, proscribed
By a burrowing throne
Allocated empathy
Out of arbitrary agony
The suns of our comforts
Can boil your bones
Remember the wild call.
The earth between your toes
How nature allows us
There's no wrong way without a road
Internalize those symmetries
That form a greater whole
We are each what God sought
When he swore and broke the mould
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I remember the way you laughed while you played the piano. Your dark brown eyes followed your hands, gliding across the keys. They were just broken chords, but you made it sound like a cadenced sonata. I look at old pictures and fall in love with the people my parents used to be: free-willed, adventurous, happy. I wonder who convinced them they'd fall miserable if they didn't change. I burn these musty incense in an effort to get a smell different than that of sadness. But all they do is turn it to smoke and send it drifting through my head. You don't get high because you get scared; I get scared either way. Everyone is enchanted by the sunset; but once it's gone, they leave the moon to be alone. I want to feel what I felt when I laughed and you stared and mustered a "wow' in awe. You've become everything I've wanted, and further proscribed.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
windmills turn
as designed
in ways proscribed
moving water
as they do
here or there
can't complain
there is no point
cycles set in place
but why do we act
like we're
so trapped
live pointless lives
condemn ourselves
as if it's fate
when choice invites
with every step
though blind we be
at end of day
when all is said
and done
we had more we
could influence
if thinking was employed
instead of fears
and pointless strife
and blaming everything
let's harness capability
remove the screen
and truly see
we take a path
we choose to walk
to find ourselves
right here
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
Like Soldiers
Fighting a battle
They sit in rows
On the kitchen
Counter.
Teen.
Bi Polar.
Glorified ******
Call me what you will
But do not take away
These bottles
Proscribed
To take away
My pain.
Dad says there's
Nothing wrong-
That my soldiers
Fight against me,
What does he know
Of the suffering
In my head
On my heart
In me?
Let me sit
And die
In the shade of
My soldiers
Let them fight off the pain
One last time
And let them shoot me,
Gently,
In the head.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
Ireland is beginning to
look like India, we are
just as ***** filthier in
fact, when one considers
the population ratio, not
to mention our so called
affluence and no military
navy or airforce to ****
from the nations coffers.
The Irish Republican Army
funded themselves, yet the
government proscribed them.
The only efficient organisation
in the country, our Hezbollah.
Now they are anti democracy,
trying to do to The Brexiters
what they complained of here
for centuries, not recognised.
Ireland is beginning to look
like India, our flags are similar,
so is our Prime Minister, perhaps
he doesn't notice the litter, that's
it, Plastic Popadoms, recyclable.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 2:47 PM UTC
A life together so short lived
Yet many things to experience
Of our tree of ****** wisdom
You are my forbidden fruit
Delicious proscribed delicacy
Leading to my ****** satiety
Accessible yet untouchable
For fear of the consequences
I'm abusing diverse outlets
To let go of the frustration
Hoping daily for a derogation
As I crave for a juicy bite
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 2:30 AM UTC
Art may be proscribed,
Yet, humans must create art,
From geometry.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 5:19 AM UTC
I don’t have an actual **** of a clue who I am anymore, I’m in a constant bizarre. Thought expo-rational, friend reducing path to anything but me. All too confusing. Especially bruising, that self proscribed *** kicking I’m inflicting. I’m illicit for a hand to befriend in the upmost fuckedest place a guy can. It’s like I’m running outta sand. Trying to catch the last grain. In the jar that’s encapsulated my life from birth-till now
But I’m present for lack of luck and the clock ticks on in gravity’s kingdom of ****
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
It all kicks in,
the love I just lost,
so now love to me is a sin,
like people say,
its a drug people take every day,
the pain,
the loss,
all the tears,
all from non- proscribed peers.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 3:52 AM UTC
“It’s almost time,”
the Angel said
Last image dancing,
in my head
“The gate unlocked,
the pearls alive”
Both wings she opened,
time proscribed
“Just one look back,”
I asked in vain
“All past is gone,”
her voice proclaimed
“Your place awaits,
all time rescinds
My wings your gift,
—now fly within”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
My mom's passionate about Newton's second law of thermodynamics.
She uses a "mom" version which can be stated as:
"Daughters tend toward disorder if not managed."
If I'm nothing else, I'm vigorously, meticulously managed like a tiger that must be turned judiciously from one situation to another lest a foot be forfeit.
"You're too young for"... is more than a formulate, it's a knife-like rule-tool, to dampen upheaval, banish trespassers, and put the "new" under glass" just out of reach. It's forever primed, there in the parenting tool-belt and can be thrown with the gunfighter's liquid, skillful ease.
So when I say I'm into something "new," I mean I've tiptoed into that Tartarus where you find the scandalous, like short skirts and Internet ***********
The "new" is prima-facie proscribed until it's proven cold, safe and harmless then blessed like an old Disney movie.
Our impromptu confinement in suspending the world has allowed me unaccounted moments to sample and measure how this "new" might fit into my life.
So it is now that I wake up every morning ready for crime and I live but a hairsbreadth from punishment yes, I've discovered one of God's greatest gifts and seductions - coffee.
After about a week, my brother, while I'm reading the news, transparently focuses my mom's attention on the cup by my iPad, by glancing, slowly with his eyes. My mom is fleetingly lost, then she alights:
"You're too young for coffee," she says.
I look up and groan.
Then, as she moves to collect the now-banned item, I send a sisterly glower to my brother who stands blithely and innocently sipping from his cup.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 3:25 PM UTC