"purported" poems
Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend
*tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...*
I can do better.
Why?
not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize
"there for the grace of God
go you and I"
have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
<human>
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.
late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation
purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight
all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven
My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.
a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan
She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.
pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma
It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven
my love brought
me tranquility.
my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan**
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.
If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.
Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).
What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.
When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.
Amen!
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations,
where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms.
She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things.
They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless,
of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions.
She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased.
Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic,
watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially.
.
.
Songs for this:
Us by Regina Spektor
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Jul 30, 2024
Jul 30, 2024 at 7:44 AM UTC
damp roads at night pushing and pulsing light
whip soiled water onto pack and *** from back bicycle wheels rotating furiously out of purgatory out of bleary eyes of incandescence and towards the same eyes lit by patriotism or in another sense incarceration
wheels spinning straight and directionless
sore legs denying illusion of purpose purported by a between eyebrows headache only achieved through a blindfolded walk down memory lane keys jingling from a carabiner and a misplaced confidence self corrected before it was too late to realize that reality is difficult to handle with all 5 senses and a distinction between right and wrong and being left handed but not leftist because the only thing worse that being dumb is being spineless invertebrate vampires killing sheep in the prairie and funding proxy wars while fighting for who?
wheels spinning round and round keep insisting on idealism
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Maybe
it's just the first time doing *******
in order to expand my horizons; gain perspective
in great company and knowing full well
the moreish nature, as it has been purported,
of such a vice;
but, you know what they say:
"When in Rome..."
but lest ye forget;
"Do or do not, there is no try"
all the while
still maintaining moderation,
partially by habit and partially by force,
for there is said to be
no such thing as quality
in that regard
from whence I come.
and thus, as if by providence,
"When in Rome.."
So,
'twixt that personally groundbreaking experience
plus lots of Caffeine and Alcohol
in some haphazard alchemical combination
helped Reno to be a good-ass time
on Halloween
after playing a sweet-ass Rock Bar
with some sweet-ass bands.
And, to boot,
having not slept,
this morning was a rude non-awakening,
as well as an ominous first day of November,
what with the LAX shooting;
our roadie and I watched it as it unfolded
with repetitive loops of footage
and dodgy claims with more qualifiers
than actual substantial language;
but the Media is just doing it's job as usual;
play on sensationalism
especially for ratings;
okay if profitable.
Needless to ******* say,
it's been a crazy ******* day.
Needless to ******* say,
it may be a crazy ******* month.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…
My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.
Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!
I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 4:31 PM UTC
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers
a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received
she,
whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
and,
I shan't knowingly now reveal...
***perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
yes,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...***
21 hours ago -
"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."
~~~~~~
this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
supercharged,
be careful what you
write,
you just might save a
soul...
didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard
today
reread,
tried anyway,
two years of messages
***could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior***
all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,
daughter
but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
In nature, as in civilised homes, there is evidence of conformity
That only significant study would make apparent,
but his studies were suspicious and neighbours would talk
The nose is bleeding and his pretty song is skipping
on the jukebox by the bathroom door
Anhedonia now is constant, the pathos inherent
As their mother went missing years ago
While they read Proust by the window,
and the day was drawing closed
Their father was sick with Absinthe shakes
whilst little duck starved in the pond behind the house
On disagreeable days,
profound introspection
becomes not more than
subversive psycho-babble
and the words he speaks
are dust on the tongue
a bother and little more
Purported to be perpetually depressed, his cool demeanor left an impression
on his sister, as she would gaze upwards at his face, displaying world-weariness
So Weltschmerz they called him and his cool was palpable
but only her smile could bring colour to his fa-*
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
There's something so
delicious
about getting caught
in a summer storm,
the chilled water droplets
penetrating the outer layers
of clothing,
soaking the overheated body
with unexpected
refreshment.
I heard all the squeals
and screams,
cries toward the sky
to close its open mouth,
to stop spitting down
on them
as they ran,
ducking cars,
looking for a rooftop
makeshift
umbrella.
I chortled
not so discreetly,
extending my arms
side to side
to catch the droplets
on my bare skin.
The rain felt so ****
as it slid down
my forehead,
slipping
slowly
across my lips,
sneaking down below,
into the crew cut
of my shirt.
Two blocks away from home,
most of the runners had run by,
the rest huddling below
the entrance to various shops
and bars,
I walked by, paying the stares no mind,
sporting a purported
half-crazed look,
while I truly exuded
exuberance,
ebullience,
liveliness.
The pouring
turned to
pittering, pattering,
gentle kisses from the
beads,
letting up just as I
approached my door,
like the universe knew,
and it let me
dance home
in the rain
before the sky shut its
wide-toothed grin,
and the storm was gone.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
when i was younger
and thought myself clever
i mused that the owl,
in all her purported wisdom,
was asking the wrong question.
if one is to stay up all night ruminating,
shouldn’t her mantra be a bemused and heartfelt “why?”
now i am older.
and the questions leave me wanting.
except for maybe “who?”
(and perhaps “what?”
because there is something to be said
for caramel mochas
and shades of apple green
and endearing little love poems.)
but these days it’s mostly “who?”
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
12:39 a.m
At first I was trying
To make it rhyme
With no reason
Pushing them together
Those words
Those meanings
Drifting apart
One by one
I made everything
Sound spurious
Pretentious
Fabricated.
12:41 a.m
Two minutes later
I realized
There's no complication
It's me
Who's the stonewall
Preventing those
Words
From making sense
Creating a rumpus
An unnecessary altercation
Casting cement for my own bridges.
It was illegitimate.
2:41 a.m
Two hours later
I understood the power of words
I proposed an adamantine will
Purported to it
Maybe
But things were now clear
I wasn't lying to myself
I sounded reasonably correct
In my mind
Unconsciously pondering
Consciously oblivious.
1st January,2017
Now, it has been years
It was me who acted like a can of worms
All these years
Now it goes with the flow
It's difficult to tread the boards
Now my words
Are prepotent
Adequate
I stopped rhyming
Now the arrow hit the spot.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
When the memories of your half bloomed love
Shake me from the ribcage out,
I comfort myself with the thought
That there was never really an us at all.
(It must have just been my own narcissism-
What a greedy ***** I was, asking you to love me)
But when this conclusion is less than palatable
And fails to satisfy my heart-hungry belly –
As it always does, it always fails-
I leave the soft haven of my own bed sheets
And venture out onto cold concrete and asphalt.
….
There I become small and carnivorous
Like some half starved rodent or gorging reptile.
I salivate at the scent of even common affection.
….
My heart,
Ravenous and infinitesimal,
Will find another to take your place.
And these others- this golems of a men, these interlopers in our warped affections-
Are easily devoured through hands and mouth and ****
….
The walls of the hollow space where an ‘us’ was purported to dwell
Churn and roil uncomfortably with pangs.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
no more morning glory
the cells want to refuse,
purported pseudo-deniers
of the man's compulsion
not yet six am,
the old house,
the summering congregation of birds,
correspond with each other,
their words unintelligible to the man-ear,
no doubt talking about the interlopers,
the come-and-go humans,
or perhaps,
just the lousy weather
the sunroom's lace curtains,
a patterned flower filtering viewer,
another impediment to what is out of sight,
for the fog surrounds but can't suppress,
the exterior & interior
combo of noises,
birds uttering their morning prayers,
accompanied by the sabbath choir of chorusing
groans from the untrodden, creaky floorboards,
complaining of aged back pains
from forty years
of desert wandering
and over use
they confirm the man is not alone,
and perhaps, even,
among the living
the bay's water's color,
a small hint now comes visible,
colored from the same paint can
as the surround-sound from which the
fog's discoloration was morning-drawn,
wider brush strokes cover this,
the man's small world
the brains complains, not again!
how many times will you compose,
drawing from the molecules of
this view,
no one cares,
but composition compulsion,
****** for what makes
the man breathe,
denies the deniers,
praying in the loudest thought voices,
to the principle that best defines
the moment,
(him?)
human, give thanks,
on this, the seventh day,
for the feast of life provided,
(even the reasoning atheists go respectful, humble silent)
as the man-poet acknowledges here the
*One,
who remembers,
is faithful to,
fulfills the covenant and promise,
by making fresh daily,
the works of creation*
Silver Beach,
Shelter Island
5:30am,
June 4th, 2016
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
though strictly Fermi, and oh...(en Rico) plus sun
dre other parvenues, a rapture
surges thru me,
when audibly communicating, enunciating,
and speaking English words
as if hi ken run
a marathon, or zip to the moon,
(take as cheesy tong in cheek)
from this pun
gent, who relishes reading for my eyes and ears
asper myself, which purported nun
sense ink reese sees learn'n
den earn an award,
especially wash'n black board
den breathing intelligent dust
from eraser head could awk cord,
I utter Hieronymus Bosch, bing enamored,
and aye actually confess
tubby a model United Nations chimp
pan zee, and/or other
type of survey monkey hook can huff ford
Old Rotten Gotham horde
sliding down into the behavioral sink...
exclaiming "oh me jack lord"
and getting rescued then getting less on,
sans get'n taut how (muss elf George Eliot)
tubby comb moored
flossed, milled, and taut
tubby trained for Operation Ready Date
by a coop pull oof oot standing chap,
named Adam West, who poured
salty epithets (reminding me, as they roared
that life iz brutal, short and nasty),
part tickly ne'r the end
wharf hew scored
and majority got de toured
until emotionally, physically,
and spiritually enlightened
By Rabindranath Tagore and Burt Ward.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
Indianapolis bleats and blares and protests too much
that the Hoosier state is an idyllic business paradise
with low taxes, low costs, low unemployment, low everything.
Indiana’s the Walmart of… wait, don’t fret about those woefully low wages,
the Indiana Chamber of Commerce reassures struggling, undernourished souls.
The low cost of living means that scant pittance isn’t really as bad as it seems.
Yet, all the blather and palaver and ideological would-you-rather
somehow fails to stem the ongoing, bleeding, gushing
exodus of the college educated out of state to scattered scintillating cities.
Propaganda engines like the Indiana Economic Development Corporation
trumpet all these purported jobs at some factory or warehouse or call center,
yet years later, a TV reporter stands in an empty field that never got developed.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 4:06 AM UTC
The ineffaceable stain
Allegorical refrain
Dictates the wily antidotes for a newfound sane
They hector from a distance
Muted but militant resistance
magical hobgoblins the lifeblood of their persistence
Heterodoxy enters the stage
Cognizant of ignominy, a potent repressed rage
Succor sought, corporate media bought
A pyrrhic limelight is certainly not what was sought
I defer to dignified exemplars
I confer with callous company at vapid bars
Concluding thereby the inverse proportionality of authenticity to success
The articulations of divinity imply rigidity
sweltering soul burgeoning with light sweating an evanescent humidity
If blind before, partial and total sight reconstitute the core
omnipresent paparazzi deplores
Past pities insuperable even with pithy witty
Future pieties irrelevant to ineradicable ignominy and purported dignity
Cupid and cupidity must be related
because gold-diggers alerted to my fair share would be elated
Begrudged at every tick, tantalized by a slow torture lurid flit
I cast my ambitions into the fathomless depths
I amass provisions for a restive hibernation, enduring schlep
Redemptive powers yet articulated
Should ease the prospects of being matriculated
But is cloistered suffering an inexcusable plight
When the deep coffers derelict a modest gesture of making grievous inequities once again right?
Must I swim to distant shores
Past the barnacles beneath and the urchins on submerged sand, very sore
Landmines at the beach, pantomimes and their garbled preach
Past scattershot invective fortified by intransigent misers of conscience, the balmy resort out of reach.
Bleak bleats, meek feats, good eats
I think it is about time for a tyrannical psychology to let me off the incapacitating leash, letting me focus on actions rather than on incomprehensible speech
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
watching purported heads of state
stage their pr shows on their national television
aired internationally
for very obvious purposes
makes you wonder
whether these so-called politicians
really believe they speak to total idiots
or have just lost the ground under their feet
in the end, though,
*** do I worry
the results are the same
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
My house Wren shuddered
as the feast of St Stephen
passed by,
when I dreamt I sought Diana Rigg.
How I love Greek sounding names
But Ancient slaves
were never Di Vinci,
sometimes leaden smiles
lacks vocation
but will ring fence the loneliness.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Humanity, the island
I swum round, circles made eventual stone,
'til I'd learnt that I'd learnt nothing,
-know nothing-;
for all the purported wisdom,
accumulated with such great care,
I was none wiser than
the first breath I had taken,
adorned with the sterility of hospital pine- or lemon-scented antiseptic.
I know the world, now,
I know the hair on disappearing creature's skin,
I know the strands of broken bamboo,
I know the endless breaking, upon the shorelines,
I know the words of lovers,
dead and alive,
the words of enemies,
and of those impassive.
I've known the grand vastness of the empty above,
the crawling complexity of the unceasing below,
the burnt haze of day,
the dead silences of night,
the spaces between lips,
the lonesome tied in white sheets,
the rending denial of mind,
the sardonic acceptance of heart,
the weight of life,
the light of whatever comes after.
Yet, still,
I know nothing.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
O
/\
/\
_____
They have found what is purported to be the
first Poem
ever written
(about 5000 years old )
//
There are 2 possible translations
The first one is
I LOVE YOU !
the second one is
**** ME !
I ' M YOUR ***** !
////////
A very acrimonious Argument has ensued
amongst the linguist/archeologists around these 2 possible translations
and many say there are deep political attitudes at play
///
///
She said
I LOVED YOU AND YOU CHEATED ON ME
AND BROKE MY HEART !!
I looked at her in astonishment and finally said
BUT
I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU !!!
////
THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH !
she cried aloud
///
OH !
I said
NOW
I UNDERSTAND
ALL THEM CHEESY " LOVE POEMS "
ON HELLO POETRY !!
:/:
It's just that sometimes I get
Disrespectful of disrespectfulness
///
As far as the poem is concerned
I was fortunate enough to see the original
And can state that BOTH translations were wrong !
Because I a true expert on these things could tell right off
that it was written by
BERYL DOV
and in his own eclectic ,elliptic manner he was saying
RAY ' S PIZZA ! - THE GREATEST
•
•
Eventually
Science can explain everything
Albeit
Most times incorrectly
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Haiku ?
What you want ISN’T POETRY
Nor, is what you are making . Its a crossword puzzle!
Restricted,
confined
not necessarily useless, but unwanted by the rest of us.
What I want is
not poetry .
ITS A
SOAPBOX ,
not respected
Obeyed !
(Don’t expect us to revel in your artificial cleverness. I can’t candy coat my sledgehammer for the smug little puzzle palace where people confuse compression with clarity and restraint with relevance or innovation. )
It’s not the form that’s brilliant . Neither is a form that hinders it. It’s the purported slickness of mediocrity pretending to be insight.
Like rain-slick **** shiny on top, but still just ****** over processed garbage.
No real expression had syllable count as its impetus !
Yor lame brevity without weight is really just laziness and incompetence . What should have been a paragraph hacked to death isn’t automatically profound. It’s like handing someone a bag of bread crumbs and saying, “Enjoy your gourmet sandwich.”
Most real writers can and do enjoy words and or at least a complete thought with actual depth..
Why do you Want to mimic Basho, any way ? Are you a scared feckless samurai boy toy trapped in a ***** house that serves tea ? Are you socially stunted and rambling through a whispering ********** zen garden ?
Are you being forced to pretend enjoyment in polite torture or can you not tell poetry from sudoku?
Emasculated wannabe samurai-boy’s at tea-party about to turn ****
crybaby
daddy issues
art act,
much ?
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 12:39 PM UTC