"pulverising" poems
*It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.
Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.
A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.
It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.*
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 5:52 AM UTC
as the underwear clearly proved,
i was not the expert of ******** while
crouching on the cricket field using
grass as toilet paper
i thought i was;
but i did reclaim the forest i so much adored
those previous years staring
into the pulverising hallucinogens of
the excess of night.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
as was assured, leave our medium of
communication to images, for images
are more provocative and easily translated,
well sure... given that phonetics
has become so ugly you are reduced to
:) (smiley) and ;) (smiling with a wink of
assurance), and the acronyms by
the number: CUL8R (see you later)...
no wonder then... defiling a mode
of communication so dear makes me wonder...
when will the era of abstraction
end, to end the splashes of colour
without definite contorts of
a visage cease to be?
take a dollop of **** and smear
it on canvas ought to be revolutionary,
by now, i'm sure... because it's just that;
it's like we're illiterate again,
first the clergy governed the literacy rates
and made people idiotic, maximising
on the electorate with Pope Erasmus,
now they're pulverising us with images
to sit, calm and comfortable with a pair of
underwear filled with ants...
pulverised by images we reduced phonetic
representation of writing letters to
no avail, instead shortening our acumen
to representation of being pulverised by images:
like c and see... sea... set sail...but there's no land ahoy!
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
the seagull white against the english
earl grey skies (the white set against
the grey almost makes the grey blue),
scavenger congregation in a neighbour's
garden by the number
providing a calm call of comparison
with hyenas,
contrasted against the messerschmitt black
of crows in the waiting line
deliberating a smart move for the piercing
needle dive for queen and crown;
solemnly perched on roofs and television
aerials, devolving man to ant-like accord
with antennas pulverising upwards
in the style of modern-gothic, doubly blind
and doubly a worsened comparison
to the hiking buckle of sheep needing tender
herding.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
These fingers retract and a fist is born
where moments or ages ago
they wrote a poem on a cave wall
knuckles protruding out the skin
bone to club prey to death, death
the beating, pulverising, Ape of Man.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
the european concern, these days, is to utilise words: without an allahu akbar conviction... how certain is this: hollowing-out of language... before a meaning of life is attested, it's the truancy of meaning in language that's worth being investigated... how pulverising is this: hollowing out of words... and whichever word might denote ethnic antagonism: i utilise as shallow ventures, drowning face-down in a puddle... that's not me: about to start a ku klux manifesto... these days it's really about excuses... how best to excuse oneself from the fact that: we think we're living in a village (given the internet), but in fact: this metropolis, gargantuan, is choking us... on the daily basis of being congested, constipated: in a commute. me? sometimes itchy for a verbal-diarrhoea.
it was an experimental procedure....
in south wales, Glasbury,
i was the sole white boy
sitting with the Cadbury crew...
subsequent reasoning follows:
what are the boundaries of language,
and what's the standard etiquette?
a reaction, i guess:
people at s.o.a.s. saying you shouldn't
read Kant.
**and if language can't cushion
violence...
if language can't cushion violence...**
and if language is subjected to the many
internet little hitlers and snowflakes...
i might just be sued for
copyright infringements when i use any
word of my liking...
sooner or later it'll all look a bit like:
the A to Z... with © before every word.
language is supposed to cushion violence...
if this motto is disavowed...
alt-right neo-con
and when my ethnicity was
compared to rats...
i'd like to hear jazz from
auschwitz... or the blues...
or rap, for that matter...
are cruel as it sounds, there was no extermination
procedure with the blacks in america...
someone evidently spoke of basketball
breakdance and all that african cool...
now we can say: african-american,
shame we can't say mohawk the same way...
culinary problems...
the reds didn't use enough spices
and craft the taj mahal broth...
and if my ancestors were a bunch of
*************
no wonder news outlets speak of
premature depression among the post-colonial
children of this hue.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
i'm standing, semi-drunk before the mirror
washing my teeth with
a pea-sized dollop of toothpaste -
and i'm meßmerißed...
it's hard to tell when blonde hair
ends, and when the grey hair begins...
but i'm standing there, and it's just
poking me in the eye with a wet thumb...
i can't dismiss it...
it's glaring right back at me...
my first grey hair...
and it's not in my hair,
but in my beard...
finally!
i've wizened!
the one grey hair and
it's not on my head, but on my cheek...
well: if you're semi-drunk it really does
become spectacular...
grey hair...
is that like
trying to remember the first time you had an ********
or something?
in all honesty i don't know what
to make of being a mortal creature...
everything these days is to turtle-paced
that i'm wondering: will 90 even matter?
i can give up aged 35...
it won't matter... so many more years
having no point in prescribing a point via
watching television...
can i go back to the era of prometheus?
no? ********
when thomas jefferson stole zeus'
lightning rod and made the lightbulb it was certain:
insomnia would turn out in a rampant horde
of people: once the fire warmed, now
the lightning is pulverising our eyes into being
constant awake... michael faraday though...
the godfather...
today was just that:
peter pan woke up and noticed a grey hair in
his beard and thought: finally!
the never land! i'm being saved from
the concept of forever land!
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
Cutting Your Head Off It's Not On Your Shoulders,
Stamping & Kicking & Pulverising Your Boulders.
Sick & So Twisted Pure Evil Inside,
Demons Take Form In The Flesh You Reside,
You Could Take The Reins But You'd Never Decide,
Lacking Control So There's No Need To Revive.
Let His Soul Sink As His Frame Rots Away,
Malleable In Death As Energies Like Clay,
Reformed & Reworked & Reinvoked When We're Made,
Spirits Impression From The Past Will Fade,
Resurrections Reincarnation Like The Phoenix's Way,
We Can All Leave Buy It Takes Steel To Stay
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
/*shovels' worth of sparrow songs, hid before me, the praise of morn, I took to ***** and to cushion, that I might sneeze back, with a cajun sentiment of a, "misjudged" joke... mind you... who might care what you don't mind what others feel, when... no one, really cares, what you think? am I wrong to suggest that feeling and thinking are synonymous? both happen almost instantaneously, given a stimulant... is this some sort of pathogen of "wrong-think" sifting process? feelings are delayed patterns of the expression of intellect... thoughts are shallow counterfeits of emotions.... I too wished I was the blabber-mouth of highschool... when thinking cannot become rhetorical, it incubates itself in emotions... but when thinking incubates rhetoric... the emotions attempting to be staged, become, equivalent to, passing a stranger on a street, never giving a two second's worth of mind, worth of notice.*
the pulverising presence
of the elemental man,
lodged within,
the seemingly, unmoveable
tiers of "object";
foolish, seeking fame,
as to quench a familiarity,
in:
overcoming the torrent,
of man "evaluating" water...
riddling his equal...
perpetually undermining
metaphysical novels,
with metaphors-,
and never...
the unsatiable thirst...
*** post annus.
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC