"pyramidal" poems
They're huddled 'round their periodic lunch tables,
square and socially pyramidal,
and I'm at the bottom.
But they're just fluorine factions,
bullies at heart trying to steal my e-lectricity
with their negativity.
Because I'm light,
Ultra-violet violence to the eyes,
Magnesium burning.
Anti-matter meets matter.
And that catalytic, cataclysmic energy is attractive.
And they see me. They see, see, see,
But I've got too many Cs on this side of my false, metallic personality.
I'd better balance myself
Or I'm not getting a good reaction.
Classic ionic, ironic idiocy.
I've bonded with you,
just compounding the issues.
'Cause you're a complete acetate without a solution:
now all I've got are problems.
Dot Diagrams are dotted lines separating you from me,
because over the years what was a bond
became a partially negative charge
against me.
I was your oxygen, and you were carbon
-ated, bubbly and explosive.
We would Combust.
But now all's left but to see, oh, two
of your new girlfriends flanking your sides,
'cause we've decomposed, split, gone off to better things.
Monatomic monotones lace my speech,
and I'm pining for something to complete this emp-d shell
that is myself.
'Cause I miss what we had.
We had chemistry.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and wear it as a hat on a first date. Tinder is not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the frozenness; into my mouth the air comes around my teeth, behind my uvula until winter freezes my voice and I am breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby pond,
he authors the face of Anthony Hopkins, thrown about, another casualty of fervid and blurry dreaming.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
1054
Not to discover weakness is
The Artifice of strength—
Impregnability inheres
As much through Consciousness
Of faith of others in itself
As Pyramidal Nerve
Behind the most unconscious clock
What skilful Pointers move—
2.6k
I closed my eyelids.
a unique space-time I've
created. A new world with I
and you,
and in it we're us;
pseudo pagans
adjust
in my multiverse of could-have-been's
wannabe's and forget-me-not's,
there's a million wormholes back thru
it's a glittering new world
where we're happy forever
(embalmed)
present-perfect continuity
we'll never need to question or worry
of it
because it'll be ours to [edit]
a spiritual instagram. sorry for the link.
I'm a believer.
our story is brick-bound & pyramidal
it's worthy of true realness
I'll never let that faith fade.
and all I have to do is stay asleep
seal myself, artery by nerve, in this bed.
eyes closed but moving underneath
(forever)
and here I'll lay; 1,000 years on
entirely petrified. a fossil of trust.
everything/everyone I had known - gone
forever.
fleshy eyes, solid as stone now. Blissfully
(always) unaware of their end. No matter the time,
my ( ) still eternally & happily
in dream.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Eskimos have a Gazillion
words for snow. We have
teraflop words for coffee.
Wikipedia it!
But don't get distracted
by the Tales.
Recounted stories of empires
held together by zeitgeist brand,
a belief, a set of ritual,
buying in bulk, a role of thumb,
opposable heuristics.
They've clustered history
in bunches like expanding
matter, as if it matters
who was king or Augustus.
Empires & civilization
held colloidal by the quirks
of geology and brand
feeding food-forward
with ritualistic sacrifice
in Megazillion iterations.
From Fertile crescent to Nile
Valley silicon, when we bind
ourselves to brand,
and move in belief,
secure in synchronized stability,
then comes the rubric cubes
miraculously built high
upon slave backs, holding
pyramidal server tombs.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
caste to caste,
we are on a pyramidal paste.
less to none, the options to outclass
this is the cry of an outcast.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 2:11 AM UTC
every breath tastes
rancid on my tongue;
fun fact, if all you eat is
raspberry yogurt and
hypersaturated strawberries,
your ***** looks like
Jackson ******* plus
Picasso's Rose Period.
has anyone ever told you
that drunk texting you is like
standing in front of a Caravaggio;
it's dusky and dark and sensuous and I
******* adore getting lost in
translation. Cezanne draws solely in
molecular geometry, tetrahedral,
trigonal pyramidal, octahedrons
scrawled across the canvas and doused
in living color. Thursday night already
seems so intangible,
a bad dream that didn't dice up my liver
like a ******* sous chef. Thursdays
have come and gone, the weekends
ever-beckoning, and the scent of Smirnoff
stays in my sinuses.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
As the wet wind hums its way through our two tower six-cylinder apartment complex. Birds fall from their naked winter wept branches, braced by stiff bones, mapped out in Alexandria, carrying notes from El Salvador. The corner market is closed, never opened. A hair salon stands in its place, it wrings out the "R's" from a Philadelphia warshing.
And like every night, hot air cakes on an extra layer of indecipherable red dots up the arms and around the neck, minute pustules of hypochondria that steal my finger tips from the keyboard. I scratch and tip them, looking under their fiery scarlet caps for, I-don't-know-what disease. Paul says It's that magic school bus melanoma, typhoid drip, it comes at you from a computer screen and eats at your nervous system until you've got the wambles.
Tuesday's used to be the worst, until I OWNED THAT **** I make a pronoun out of aluminum foil and where it as a hat on a first date. OKCupid's not bad for conceptual art projects. I carry it within me like an anodyne complex, out into the guzzling wind, the air that comes into my mouth and looks for any breath within me that it can go out of me with, and I'm breathless.
I abandon my miniature house to enter the pyramidal pinetum to the North. Wild paradise shrubs gather with songless animal noises watching as I take naked photographs of my father to preserve his body from anything less than his great immortal end. He lives on black moss and water from a nearby bourn,
he's the mien of an Anthony Hopkins, living in a hologram I saw in my dream last night.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
history repeats itself -
you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a cunt-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
it's free; a guess is free,
your little birdcage houses no sing-along.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
when women speak of eternity, my masculine immortality says: do i have to?! why? because my masculine mortality didn’t.
that a prophet’s nation is not without honour, but among the nation’s
ownership of itself in what’s being compared as nation-defining,
and thus dishonour with a nation’s history claiming more than
the nation’s honour in terms of taught examples lost
in emotion guaranteed by pride and jealousy,
so telling the history of poland
via the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
as defining poles...
nest well in a foreign tongue in order to keep your mother’s,
should your father’s execution of foreign tounging disgrace your mother...
but no talk of honour... should a nation’s honour be
defaced to localise individualism...
thus localise individualism and deface to entrust such a nation
with the concept of globalisation that f. d. r. could have oppossed
in the riddle of isolationalism that ended the great depression
and the phobia of the last years of misguided capitalism
carving the futurism of domestication of anything but the sexually adequate:
consciously-careful animalism of grunt and snorkle and bitten snouts
of the animalism correcting the 90 angle into 3.2 children multiplier
as perfected village people: 4kg of potato, 3 children, 2 pints of milk...
34 sundays kneeling in a church in aid of worship to dogmatise the pyramidal prism
as an aversion to staircases nonetheless climbed
to echo arthritis oiled for the perfected propaganda caste.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
Ongoing studies of Egyptian history
demonstrate lessons can still be learned.
Their oversized achievements were possible,
by having its peoples’ hearts turned…
to the idea of a national identity.
Around the Nile’s life giving source,
the commonality of personal survival
eventually produced an effective workforce.
Since times of Middle Eastern antiquity,
the annual flooding of the coastal plains
created the opportunities to trade away
the abundance of flourishing grain.
From enjoying unexpected prosperity,
the human lust for gold, wealth and power
was lavishly made clear by the Pharaohs -
as evidenced on their monuments and towers.
Under the pretense of religiosity,
Pharaoh was supposedly “heaven sent”;
for blinded people without vision
will always find having their will bent…
and on their knees, before earthly authority.
With governmental dictates on its population,
the heaping of rock into pyramidal shapes
has resulted in lasting, tourist attractions.
And what else, might one see?
From ancient propaganda on temple walls,
the timeless message of glory and conquest
still beckons everyone to its empire’s call.
Is it really true? What else can it be?
What about these ruins are still unknown?
What primeval truths are being promoted?
Seeing they’ve been… etched in stone.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Gen 47:13-26
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
him, a tiny
catastrophe,
speeding into the void coy.
easily disposable. the paper
head can only fold
so many times.
yet mind
the liminal and
you too
can heal.
— yes,
even you.
this
thought
came
with a routine flat gaze
through smudge on the window
on a train. it arose
crouching
orthogonal, from
one space where
felt helicals hold
the pause of holy.
he knows
this place
not well.
he feels
inadequate
to the task.
like it’s too late.
like he is an idiot.
like his time is up.
each of
his small rooms
that make him
him is
coated with a
light film of whetted necrosis,
the sharp dust, to come.
but at the epicenter
of each sits
an old woman with
braided hair blacksilverwhite down
to her knees, speaking
looping words which, upon
hitting stolid air of
pyramidal hymn, manifest
sound images in three directions:
of those horrors to come
that, if not
taken at a glance,
annihilate;
of wobbly peace
and tranquil eddy
‘round-the-rock
that heal, all in all;
of fretted final causes
where arrow of our earth-shot
finally ends up. and
upon her forhead
writ in the ledger
of four parallel
wrinkles were:
tremulous
is the inside,
keep a rattle
close by, seeker
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
We return
a cabal of Suns
an outer layer
standing
pyramidal over
angled mica panels
We guide sacrificial
light to a deep
mercurial crucible
within the Capital
of creationism
We twin feathers
from a same
sugared Phoenix
of socialism
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
march your piggy that was once a lamb,
into the land for the 30 breadcrumbs of judas,
march him in, and america and israel too,
march him in, the banker's gold gilded flint,
march him in, and exile him from
europe that i might reclaim it!
march him in! march him shoulder
to shoulder left right left right!
i'll take pity over him like
pilate washing his hands: freed.
but i'm sure you'll make a crucible of
silver with his name, which i wouldn't,
i'm sure your child would reap
positive economic consequence
from his death, which i wouldn't,
and i would have my offspring slaughtered
in kinship to his death on the crucifix resembled,
as a quest for that thoughtless thing, the heart,
seeking honour.
i'll have you walk the pig snorkel of the flattened snout
till the lamb emerges... should circle encircle circle,
i'll watch you guide the last evolved jew
into the depths of the first devolved egyptian
readied to accept the pyramidal necrotemplum:
so you can tell me the football pitch wasn't the modern
coliseum with missed decapitated limbs but for worth
of ordeal kept sword axe and bow in a leathered sphere
kicked and headed in a stadium...
here, 2000 years or olive skin rule over the ivory skinned
ones of the north, take your crucifix worship
and i reveal the blood eagle as the ultimate suffering...
take your olive skin god, export him to the cinnamon skinned
indians... sell him there... i say this to you
may the northern wind warmed erase you into the depths
of your oared gold blackened with greed's revenue of
invoked reverse goad, as ***** lipped sons
as ******* daughters that were stances of forbidding
surahs of the prophet dead.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
i wait for death as i might, with the same sordid
apathetic splendour: waiting for a bus:
to commute me a mile closer to the designated
spot of the favour scattered,
with the travel lessened minding effort utilised,
and travel spoken of, no more, i too wait for death
like a laziness of fathomed living, re- (i.e. repeat,
sundial eclipse mormon nuns gorgon fleece):
on the hearth pride of my dead body rests,
on the hearth honour of my dead body rests,
on the haystack, my life, a needle,
and here comes the camel, the fourth magi,
of the three designated, given pyramidal superiority,
given relevance to mistake the gifts as gilded
artefacts of a bow-tie, where once a treasure lay
for magic to be readied on public eye entertained.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
as land left
off its wilt, growth
in tidal surges.
forming pyramidal heads
of mountains.
any vista is a clarity...
too suitable for a discerning
mind.
She's one hell of a dancer...
strong enough to remain on
the ground with no one around.
till lifted way up.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 1:20 AM UTC
The presence of the Evergreen
how boldly she stands
commanding only
that we are grateful
for her beauty
how effortlessly she sways
in whispers
making pure
the air we breathe
how tenderly her pyramidal silhouette
fills the surrounding domain
with protection and hope
how humbly she invites
the glow of
sunset's golden embers
to ignite her pine candles
accenting her adorned humility
Ever reminding us
the nature of peace
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 3:28 PM UTC
& I'm tripping ****
The most woke up in this *****
Entranced in my pants
So I press my luck
Awh shucks
Wish Uncle Boomer was in town
Get my noggin struck
Then my jimmy bust
And I’m covered in the utmost love
There's a fissure within my mind
So I enter the Divide,
To awaken the divine
Through a wormhole,
I burrow deeper
Into the steepest chasms
With my magic wand
Manifest the godhead sublime phantasmic
Make myself known to the
Cosmic collective consciousness
Like an oracle I peer
through the eye of a reptilian
While Sub-atomic particles
zoom past by the millionths
In slow-motion a pyramidal image surfaces
And i can see between
the vibrations that resonate
A glimpse through the window
Of a discordant future permeates
Putrid in a wasted stupor
Chasing that hit of enlightenment
To illuminate my brain
The lightbulb is lit
Suh dude
As a shape shifting parasite
enters through the brain stem
And takes all my faculties hostage
I’m slaving away
Been here all day
Quit your *******
I'm in the kitchen
With repetition
Whippin it ~
chu see the flick of the wrist?
May 8, 2021
May 8, 2021 at 12:42 AM UTC
At first glance, the stone seemed an ordinary thing.
Its surface smoothed with age, the edges and geometric shape seemingly unerring.
It was neither square nor round nor pyramidal, but more closely resembling a trapezoidal figure.
It had lips and valleys, edges and crevices. It was, without further inspection, a simple dark rock.
But, this was no ordinary stone.
If scrutinized, it could be seen...
Millions of shining fragments just beneath the surface, disappearing and appearing, flickering in and out of sight when tilted different ways.
This too could be explained away.
It was only an unrefined piece of blue goldstone, right?
Not so, for it was only upon the closest investigation that its true nature could be seen: when intently inspected, when held in just the right light, it seemed to fill the entire room with stars.
In this light, you held an entire universe in the palm of your hand.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 11:15 PM UTC