"proto" poems
How do I hate thee? I cannot count the ways.
That you are a clueless, narcissistic proto-fascist
Are words so true
They make me rue
That I’d not the durst
To use them first.
But here are a few
That well may be new
To vilipend you.
You move limacine-like
Into the nasty netherworld
Of our national nuttiness
Spinning whigmaleeries
That you prompt gailliardese
Among those not yet dead of brain.
You are a ********* a blatherskite,
And a fanforan.
So How do I hate thee?
With the breath,
Smiles, tears,
Of all my life,
And if Fate choose,
I shall but hate thee greater
After death.
- Dan Wick
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
…*in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes,
than these do from the lower members of the same order of Primates*.
Charles Darwin, 1871
The Other claims descent from apes
then acts like a violent monkey.
It pillages, it loots and rapes
performing as Satan’s flunkey.
Its actions bear the mark of Cain;
brandishing cameras, smashing things.
We feel its proto-human pain
yet dread the urban woe it brings.
It tries to justify, with words
its primal carnage, childish rage.
With anthropoid designs deferred
it struts the Darwinian stage.
The higher primate government
rewards them well in ripe bananas
for wrecking their environment
(jungle as well as savannas).
Their mate selection (naturally):
a semi-simian solution:
intercoursing sexually,
to hasten their evolution.
The wombs enlarge—they drop their young
then text their friends while getting high.
They swing from tree-tops, fling their dung,
while down below the humans sigh.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
I, ConnectHook
DEMAND recognition as The Most Boring Poet of all.
You’ll never touch me so don’t even TRY.
Don’t even bother dipping your quill again,
you mere drip on the mildewed scroll of antediluvian parchment,
you cuneiform Cunégonde, you proto-Canaanite pottery fragment,
you keyboarding failed clown
and archeological relic unworthy of preservation
in a third-rate underfunded Albanian museum…
I, and I alone, dragged myself up from the protoplasmic slime
to BORE you.
I transitioned from amphibian to anthropoid
before your mama even MET the postman.
I stood upright upon the ****** battleground of evolutionary struggle
and SELECTED MYSELF (naturally).
Now pass that banana right over here.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
Tree of proto-monkeys,
brand and banded under Monkey King,
so clever, so adaptive
in substance and doing -
mushrooming in variants:
lemurs, monkeys old and new,
orangutans, gorillas, chimps,
and one big bushy brood
of extincted ***** brothers and you.
Trekking upright into dale,
valleys and over hills too
sore in feet to image
dragging a knuckle or two.
Scavengers making way,
scanning for patterns in
food moving or not,
adaptive doing from fin
to opposable rock.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
Matrilineality is the tracing of descent
through the female line corresponding
to a societal system in which each person
is identified with their matriline;
– their _mother's_ image –
and which can involve the inheritance
of property and/or titles. A matriline is
a line of descent from
a common female ancestor
to a descendant of either ***
in which the individuals in all intervening
generations are mothers –
in other words, a "mother line".
In matrilineal descent,
individuals belong to the same
group as their mother.
The matriline of historical nobility
was also called the _enatic_ or _Uterine_ ancestry;
From Middle English wombe, wambe,
from Old English womb, wamb
(“belly, stomach; bowels; heart; womb; hollow”),
from Proto-Germanic *wambō
(“belly, stomach, abdomen”),
from Proto-Indo-European *wamp- (“membrane (of bowels),
intestines, womb”). Cognate with Scots wam, wame (“womb”),
Dutch wam (“dewlap of beef; belly of a fish”),
German Wamme, Wampe (“paunch, belly”),
Danish vom (“belly, paunch, rumen”),
Swedish våmb (“belly, stomach, rumen”),
Norwegian vomb (“belly”), Icelandic vömb
(“belly, abdomen, stomach”), Old Welsh gumbelauc (“womb”),
Breton gwamm (“woman, wife”),
Sanskrit वपा (vapā́, “the skin or membrane
lining the intestines or parts of the viscera,
the caul or omentum”).
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
"Sit down boy, you're tired and you must sleep"
The voice said to me as I walked the city street
Fuzzy steps taken to a bench I saw over yonder
Sleepily wandering, the streetlights I ponder
Passive disorientation, I'm lost it would seem
Consciousness becomes a trickle, as opposed to a stream
Dragging myself over shards of glass, paralysed and sleeping
A shadow 'neath the moonlight seems to be steadily creeping
Isolated in this park in the darkness on a sigma plateau
Dextromethorphan hallucinations are a spectacular show
I'm indifferent to the stranger, drowsy as he appears
Isolated in the nighttime winds, apathetic to his tears
Uncoordinated my head falling he takes a seat softly
Dissociative disorder makes me seem awfully frosty
Speaking of lands where the populace truly is free
Speaking unintelligible words, indirectly to me
The intrinsic disconnect of this generation scorned
As the sun rises in the sky, glittered clouds adorned
My head lulls lackadaisically, I'm feeling unwell
But my stomach is eased when I think of sweet Maybelle
[Hers is a Nabokovian tale of passion in proto-dystopian wastelands
The first time we kissed, I held her soft head tenderly in my hands
The serenade of rain pitter-patter on the ground, like her feet when she's near
and hearing her name is as cathartic as those old jazz records I hold so dear
But, oh my pretty Belle, your age is a concern to me (and the eyes of the law)
So to forget your sweet face, I pop pills neglectfully, passing out on the floor]
Lifting head slowly from the rough ground dampened
Four years passed and I'm wondering what happened
Fuzzy headed blues, clear my mind with OJ and ******
Walking fast to her house, cannot wait to see her
A rap-tap on the door with thoughts of romantic enumerations
What she said and what I saw defied every one of my expectations
My innocent Belle, with her cheeks rosy red,
looks me in the eyes, and wishes I was dead
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
This brown buff speckled throstle of a bird sits in the higher most branches of a yet to be leafed poplar tree . . . and sings. Such a song in the April morning air it greets the day, celebrates the rising sun. Above a suburban street the bird’s song catches the reverberation of a double row of houses, their windows bouncing sonic reflections of unaccompanied melismata.
Olivier Messiaen loved this bird for its répétition égale. Walking the mountain woods around his summer home he would wonder that the grive musicienne could make so exactly repetition after repetition of a complex phrase. A proto-minimalist perhaps? The male mistle thrush appears in several ***** works but most prominently in Saint Francois d'Assis singing luminously on the clarinet.
Although this is the ungregarious male singing away on this spring morning his name carries a female designation Turdus Philomelos. Poor Philomel, whose name means one who loved song, she was a princess of Athens lusted after by King Tereus who took her to a cottage in distant woods and ***** her. Then, he cut out her tongue.
Vengeful Philomel alone in the woods, but a most resourceful and artistic young woman, she set about weaving a tapestry that told all.
*‘She set up a Tracian loom
And wove on a white fabric scarlet symbols
That told in detail what had happened to her*.’
She sent the finished piece to Tereus who promptly ordered Philomel's death and that of her sisters (one of whom he was married to). As the girls were about to be slain they were changed magically into three birds . .
Joanna Laurens play The Three Birds takes the only fragment we have of Sophocles telling of this strange tale. Laurens is both musician and linguist and the text is a marvel of strange sounds and rhythms as the sisters communicate with each other in their personal private language akin, it is said, to Jersiese, an ancient Breton dialect.
So thank you dear song thrush for this morning's wonder: a song sans pariel.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
..
….
…...
….....
…...........
…..................
…............
….....................
…............
….........................
….................
….....
barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
….....
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…...........
….....
…...
….
..
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Cloaked eyes of white
Open throat cries dry
Echoed padding cadence
Panting tremours
Unable to get away
The streets are unsafely empty
Equality to walk
No illiberal clocking in
I have a cogent life
Will not cede segregation
The struggle, snapped the stem
Stole the stamen from my flower
Shook my pollenous verve
Scattered my soulful scent
Destroyed my confidence to regrow
Sneering the lonesome wolf
Crushes the very flowers that will save it
Without heart of virtue
Praying on those they cannot have
Betrays their own soul without anguish
Proto-stalkers seek help
Decant your desires
Throw off your fur coat
Open up and do not venture into a nightmare
Your Samaritan will always befriend and guide
Lay down your sword
Change the parochial pathway
Magnanimous now live
Fields of flowers beckon
Don't be a brick in the wall
Embrace the feminine essence
Yield flowers their blossom
Steer the legislation to counter the wolven spread
More tulips amongst thorny parliamentarians
Educate the children and those in power
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 7:39 PM UTC
create poetic Kosmos
there, red sun --
mereologize a green sun too
(you speak clear paradox to me)
for where identity's own space expands
time allows all forms
a selfhood c^2
color blind i blink at flashes of the light-tips' turning-spins,
which speak pre-lingually from you,
red-green sun, one you
--in your veins, explosive
substance-meanings weaved in nescience,
all-that-is-else that is guidance of the is,
searching, guiding
origins originating proto-wise
a brain of star-potential...
in trustful shine of seeing mind..
your changing knowledge
permanently scriptureless
and scripture-birthing
--honest propheteer from out of time,
claiming rightful throne-identity
with star-stuff sovereignty of all...
a sun from here will crown you just the same
again galactic numbers over,
yet also slave to speaking kingship all alone
.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
A Dancing fever
spreads across
Deutschland from
ancient Roman City
Aachen
to far away
Madagascar where
proto-people
live, waking to morning
whooping calls
and fading habitat.
We can still find
preserved Lemurs
in Duke hospitals
and open zoo
for robust ring-tailed,
or dark cells
for the nocturnals.
Would they dance
too with us, in mass
hysteria,
irrational exuberance,
and ergot
poisoning if
only later converting
to a Science
belief-system new?
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
Šest tisíc mil asfaltu a prachu.
Kolik tisíc chlapů vydalo se na tu cestu?
Už dobře poznáš tu hranici strachu,
když blížíš se k proklatýmu městu.
Tam lidi neznaj slitování
a ženský neznaj lásku,
a ty proto nad svítáním
nosíš ocel na opasku.
A tak jedeš dál,
možná najdeš svoje sny.
Seš silnice král,
ale štvou tě pouštní psi.
Snad až si jednou spočineš
na lůžku z kapradin a mechů,
doufám, že pak nalezneš
klid hvězd, co ti poskytujou střechu.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
Today’s lesson on the pad
Showing a new guy how to stake grades
So we paced out a grid and pounded in stakes at semi-even intervals
Always picking up where someone else left off
Using their existing grid, we paced ~16 m in Northing (a metre is approximately equal to a yard)
Again, using the existing grid, we paced ~13 m in Easting
Then I asked him to pace out the hypotenuse, it was ~21 m
The grid was for the most part at right angles to each other
To show the new guy how Pythagoras came to his theorem
I scratched a triangle in the crushed aggregate
On the side of the x-plane I scratched 16 m and on the side of the y-plane I scratched 13 m
The diagonal received a 21 m
Out came the notebook
16 squared plus 13 squared = ~21 squared
Using my iPhone calculator
256 plus 169 = ~21 squared
425 = ~21 squared
square root of 425 = ~20.6155281280883 or ~21
Then I grabbed my stick to scratch out a head, body, appendages, and finally a circle encompassing my proto-Vitruvian dude
Never thought work could be this fun!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:16 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
Listening to “The Chieftains” again,
Their Long Black Veil CD: a gift to
Marijuana smokers. N'est-ce pas?
**** Jagger singing the title track,
A sweet, lugubrious ode to black widows.
Could there be such creatures?
Women you would **** for,
Offing your best friend for?
She had better be as good as it gets.
Could such women exist?
Beautiful & toxic;
Duplicitous, cunning,
Cunnilingus-worthy.
*********** | *** Risk and Prevention | HIV/AIDS | CDC
https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/risk/oralsex.html has a low *** risk, but it is not zero. Learn ... Involves using the mouth to stimulate the ****** *********** (www.ads/right/in/the/middle/of/fucking/poem.com) $$Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching$$
**** would have licked her **** as
They led him up the scaffold steps,
She was a woman worth dying for, to be sure.
And Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor?
Isn’t it time we forgave her?
So she shaved her head.
So she shredded the Pope’s photo on SNL.
He was, after all, the Polish Pope,
The one that kissed the ground
Whenever he got off an airplane.
How could you not love the guy?
Shot while riding in his Pope Mobile,
He later visited Mehmet Ali Ağca in prison,
Forgiving his would-be assassin face-to-face,
Exonerating the Bulgarian kreplach, for all
Special Victims Unit “especially heinous offenses” &
Proto-Islamic terror.
Surely, he could forgive the little Irish ****
Can’t we? Leading by example?
I don’t know what you’d call it.
In any language: powerful.
Oh, Sinead, my sweet Sinead,
We miss your sweet sad dulcet tones.
Consider yourself exonerated.
Consider yourself free to be loved again.
And let’s not forget Tom Jones,
Come on ladies: you threw your sopping
Wet ******* to the stage for him.
His “Tennessee Waltz” breaking my heart,
Losing my wife to my best friend.
No wonder I shot the Sheriff.
Surprised I did not also shoot the Deputy.
And “The Chieftains” themselves,
Transporting us to the Coast of Malabar.
We are all Irish sailors
Infatuated, hopelessly enchanted by a
Swarthy Dravidian shiksa.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
They cry about heaven
Even as they transform skin
Into sin, punishable by death
Or **** or disfigurement
Sent by the devil for sure
Wearing tonsures and cassocks
Causing their own brand of havoc
Ruled by insensitivity
Because we are the enemy
No longer human, doomed
To suffer the ravages
Of their bad ***** training
And lack of discipline
Over and over again
On playgrounds as kids.
They did it all over again
When in uniform, warmed
By the glow of popular bigotry
Idiocy blessed by some dope,
Some Protestant proto-pope
Who thinks God has time
To engage in crime in his name
So they can blame him instead.
Little else in their head
They steal land, and brand people
Burn people, assault people
And do their best to make them feel
Their god, their way is not real
And is not worth keeping.
Sleeping at night, nobody knows how
Now that they have shown their colors
To their brothers and sisters;
That they will **** mothers and fathers
And babies and the land
And think it just grand
Because they got paid
As they laid waste,
Turned the gardens to paste
Between the toes of evil.
We the boll, they the weevil;
They mashed us under their feet
No thought of being discreet,
We were fodder for their hatriotism.
Not patriotism.
That is impossible
And totally improbable
Once you’ve sold your soul
To Old Nick and his minions,
Hell’s hand-picked denizens
Who look just like your neighbor;
They labor at jobs, like you do
And look a lot like you, too,
Especially if you make excuses
To commit abuses
And blame it on god.
Savor the rod
And abuse the child.
Isn’t hatred wild?
Always on hand.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Yasna 28, Verse 6
by Zarathustra/Zoroaster
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lead us to pure thought and truth
by your sacred word and long-enduring assistance,
O, eternal Giver of the gifts of righteousness.
O, wise Lord, grant us spiritual strength and joy;
help us overcome our enemies’ enmity!
Translator’s Note: The Gathas consist of 17 hymns believed to have been composed by Zarathustra (Zoroaster), whose compositions may date as far back as 1700 BC, although there is no scholarly consensus as to when he lived. These hymns form the core of the Zoroastrian liturgy called the Yasna. The language employed, Gathic or Old Avestan, is related to the proto-Indo-Iranian and proto-Iranian languages and to Vedic Sanskrit. The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy deems Zoroaster to have been the first philosopher. Zoroaster has also been called the father of ethics, the first rationalist and the first monotheist. In the original texts, Ahura Mazda means “wise Lord” or “Lord of Wisdom” while Vohuman/Vohu Manah represents pure thought and righteousness and Asha represents truth. Angra Mainyu was the chief evil entity, a precursor of Satan. Keywords/Tags: Zarathustra, Zoroaster, Yasna, Gathas, Avestan, mrbtr, Spiritual, Prayer, God, Righteousness, Holiness, Purity, Grace, Protection
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 12:45 AM UTC
Aniu,
dostałem słuchy na temat grafiki - nie jestem Surrealist'ą z poprzedniego wieku (tzn. dwudziestego), to już mineło... może i też miałbym pozory sfobody by skrytką zza popularną sztuką miałbym brać jakiegoś malarza na front jak by to było wydanie Ortodoksji zwane Penguin Publishing House, ale wolałbym mieć pod uwage geneze, tzn. kompromis braku koloru i tą nadrentą komplikacje modernizacji na tle "programming" szyfrem komputera - a ten kompromis? szyfr chemika... wiem że to może brzmić zbyt contra idei ładnego obrazka czy tez ikonoklazm'u wedle sukcesu sprzedarzy książki - ale jak orginał to orginał, bez kiszeczki, bo kto tak naprawde chce pokazać tważ niechaj pokarze ją niż maske pierw - wiec myśle o notatkach z sfer chemii w goły-trakt poezji. przesyłam jeden przykład, trzymam notatki inne takrze gotowe, ale to jeden przykład; nie chce sie chować pod skórą innych artystycznych wybryków - szczegółowo poza gruntem orginału pisma jako malunek pierw, a pismo po (ksiązka to nie Boeing 747: obraz pierw a dzwięk po - tzn. dzwięk pierw, a obraz po) - a więc i też skreślam zaufanie co do piękna malowidła jako przeciw tego samego niby ambasador'a dającego ochrone pod tytułem: brzydastwo wiersza konieczne; wole by jedno z drugim miało zaufanie, czy też wpomnienie obojga na począt i na koniec: na trasie wątpień i zarysów warte twarzy w publicznym miejscu poza oh ah ah oh galerii. a więc zakończe - inne e.g. prześle jutro - ten jako prolog w temacie: o co mi chodzi.
Mateusz.
p.s. oczywiście ominołem ę czasem, lecz jest zachowane w przykładach głębin - ale to nazwe proto-ortografia Polaka poza Polską, takie potrzebne lustro w Angielskim 's - czyli liczby mnogej co nawet tłumacz by powiedział: sprechen Deutsche?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
When I first began culturing my memes,
I found the soil was rocky, had poor drainage, and little organic material
But life is relentless and these first thought experiments rooted.
They weren't much to look at from above ground,
But those roots were doing important work
Every weak point in the bedrock of my mind was found and exaggerated.
This action created micro fissures
And as the seasons turned and those early plantings faded into oblivion,
Erosion took over the heavy lifting.
With the bedrock now permeable, and the rainy season upon us,
Those cracks filled with water which then turned to ice and,
As autumn turned to winter, the mechanical action of freezing and thawing,
Was responsible for metamorphosing those fissures into actual cracks.
And with spring came more rain,
Washing organic elements into the cracks,
Now my mind had a proto-soil and was much more robust.
However, my garden was always ready, I just didn't realize it.
Life always exists,
When we use the cyclic reminder of the seasons as analogue:
It's much easier to see.
I find it much easier to see when I close my eyes.
Bring those spring rains, bring the pollen, more seeds, spores.
The pollinators are waiting
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
entertain the knowing of a term
amid how many names to paint that known
--depends on
termless origins
rising co-become
conditional a part for one unknown
~ wholly always ever-new produced in co-consuming-birthing all
~ intertracing weaves of what was thought was thought
connective tissue waves to render
individual arrays of signing signlessness,
precise obliques, pretend unends
all captured all undone and finally
defined
in seamless positings of word
yet freely boundless
always having ever been alive in proto-symbols
wet then dry of life
beyond the ken of humankindly limits
seen at brinks of sight
.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
the love and romance.
the years lit by artillery.
the wars.
the men did these wild things. these great grand expressions of love and survival.
they’d damage themselves, bleed while moving furniture.
wood splinters better painted red wet warmth.
they’d notch together plum-cut bricks into
crenulations or walls or cathedrals.
home built.
the women: of an ancient woven fiber
and/or old energy, they’d battle serpents into dark and drunk loneliness.
she conspired for a happy life.
death by the meadow.
old woman remembering young woman and
young man,
now old man approaching.
the world forgets, but we will always have eachother.
remember us youths in proto-revolution.
we didn’t believe in what we did.
we lived a lie.
all america.
dreaming and soap opera.
daytime television blastulas.
the wars are fought early, and fierce.
the wars are won and lost on highschool dancefloors.
highschool blacktops. blackboards. breathy
kissing.
spectral codes of light.
and we bloom outward into livelihoods and
incomes.
timelines.
trenches to crawl from shell-shocked and screaming ****** ******
or not.
but yes -
the world is built on blisters and scar tissue.
nothing is untouched.
nothing is unwounded.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
Sometimes evenings are like ice,
a slow rage borders before making supper
and the washing machine
like a photo call
will project tomorrows whiteness,
all in cycles
abiding with the times.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫
I: Lyric Line of Flight
Cavern Club / black leather / German rockers / proto-youth culture groped its way from Liverpool / TV slowly sped up / modernity invented / flown in planes / swallowed in pills / I watch the second Kennedy funeral on the screen in shades of gray rain / warming to mid-60’s hues / into the stratosphere / a lysergic surge / retinal after-images / intensities of nostalgic color / that British courtesy in understatement / Paul’s voice a bassline / George a guru of six-armed confusion / tasteful: now a meaningless word / it was Apollonian-Dionysiac / my childhood’s soundtrack
II: Poem
They grooved—as our world became another
up from caverns to psychedelic flight.
They look so young in melancholic light
harmonizing black and white to color.
So distant—yet within our life’s short span
they grow apart as the hair grows longer
(The West’s resolve to expire grew stronger.)
Quadruplex visage: young god sold to man.
I crack up beholding the mid-Sixties
lost in late-night YouTubes, I start to break.
time past: removed from the complexities
Recalling every song, the beat, the shake…
They sang the primrose path to confusion
nostalgia replacing resolution.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC