"rationalise" poems
I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist
But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed
I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
Erection?
You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service
Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
The desperate scramble to
rationalise; the burning need
to make sense of the
nonsensical, this
all-too-earnest search for
answers, for some guidestone
that will help us decipher
the craziness scrawled on the walls,
a key that might unlock that door
which currently bars the path to
sanity and reason.
We put polls in the field,
conduct surveys, devise
better, more probing questionnaires,
consult eminent
psychologists, sociologists, economists,
go blind on data
tabulated into every conceivable form,
cite studies, historical precedent,
strive for any, any answers
that will explain to us
how we came to
this.
And maybe the reason is
less complex.
Maybe
we got what we
deserved.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Somewhere beneath the broad darkness
and the landslide, there’s a pocket
of nothingness, like the air bubbles
that oxygenate red wine. And somewhere
inside that, there I am,
mime-hands loving Stevie Smith
and all she stood for. A void
is just a void, and a poem
is just a poem, no matter how
you read it. You can bring this
into the church and line it up with the stained glass,
looking for a hidden meaning,
but I know this nothingness intimately,
like I know soft skin and the taste of *****
and there is nothing to be found in there
that isn’t already inside you, except
maybe warmth and candlelight
and the idea that nothing is too far gone
to not be saved anymore. Sometimes,
I think people intentionally obscure what they mean,
like they’re not good enough for a line break,
and like it’ll be easier to rationalise being left behind
if they were limping from the start of the race
anyway. Anyway. Sorry about this;
sorry about all of this, I just really like how it looks
when you try to work any of this out.
Because it looks dismal. It looks like a pregnant
sundial churning out another day,
another day that might be Sunday,
but it also might not. It’s not like I know.
I think this stopped being a poem a few lines ago
and started being something to burn, instead,
but you can take the smallest of lighters
to the mightiest of Goliaths and they’ll scream
all the same. I heard that lobsters scream
if you put them in boiling water whilst they’re still alive.
I feel like that sometimes.
I don’t know if I’m the lobster or the water,
most days. I think I know now.
I think I know something, now,
at least.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 7:10 PM UTC
Again
Such a vivid yet abstract motivation, a warm sense of meaning in my gut concocted from some poignant expression
And again I'm at it
Clattering into a comfort, a comfort absent of the cellular and substantial, yet so personal and surreal
Without a definite direction, do these words have meaning?
Well... what means a lot to me right now? What clenches against my skin, burning it red with tension in pure uncomfortable distraction? What insecurities make me feel as though my bones and bits could brittle to the point of sand?
Well.. the usual. Clarity, validation, ****** release, a definitive admirable prowd sense of self, a bunch of ethereal concepts that haven't had the decency to manifest themselves and be nice enough to kick me in the face, shocking my nerves into a smile of reality. And the usual reflection on these worries reminds me of the usual image glimmering back, a response of criticism. For fuck's sake.
And it is then I say **** you to the irrational and rational growths of pressure, and try to discern, rationalise, make distinct what matters. Or I let it all go, but remind myself soon enough that the world is waiting. The usual.
I wonder if that job, career, book, **** even if that house would center the scales, but I doubt it. I wonder if the girl would massage my mind into tranquility, or if that girl will even be close enough to not notice me there. Or if a new someone will wander in, force me into a unavoidable eye contact.
Either way..
The rooms are less foggy, the words are more clear. The mirror man does look sexier. The critiques will keep coming, the work will cycle and the validation won't be felt for a while, and may not be felt at all from the sources associated. But my tongue has more words and my throat has more volume. The stigma of the eyes from a thousand people morphs from suspicion to callousness to clarity.
So yeah. The meaning here... well...
I'm fine thanks.
How are you?
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
Decisions are made the moment pen touches paper
Going miles deep to caverns away from the light
Your will can move mountains and sky scrapers
Dare to jump off one, you might just achieve flight
"Come yonder", said the voice from within the mist
Trees were felled, mountains levelled by man's might
"Secrets are now revealed..", is what it said in a gist
The light from within, now shines bright
Letter on letter, word on word
Fails to describe a wandering mind's plight
The light from within glistens on a sword
One that's been bloodied in a gruesome fight
Rationalise life to end misery's onslaught
From the high horse, it's time to alight
Nature can be conquered, so can famine and draught
There will be time for action, but for now let us be quiet
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
I was always attempting to fade into the crowd. Picking sides or choosing ideologies. Deciding on favorite movies, and songs, to define who i was as an individual.
I always tried to rationalise my bad decisions using logic, and situational miracles as examples that very rarely came to be.
I was living a lottery, in solitary confinement.
I drew doors on walls, in which everyone knocked, and thought, that no one answered.
Now i am the last one left, and refusing to answer the door, unless you call first.
I needed the wanderers, the observers of the world. The passionate surfers of the blur... writers of life, who ****** in the flames, rubbed scars together, and faded into the mange ...of sleepless nights, in which i fade no more, as i open the door, to myself.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Dark outside, dark inside
Got to wonder "have I died?"
Can't sleep, can't think
Can't rationalise a thing
Remember a time when peace was King
Creativity ****** away
Replaced by emptiness, well hey
You know I've seen this time before
And I can just keep off the floor
Of Life's reject -
That too direct
For you? Don't care,
When exactly were you there
For me? Can I be seen to disagree
With this world's self-satisfied profanity
Called "Normal"? - No
Just let go
Slip away
C'est le passé
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 6:03 AM UTC
I'm writing narrative poetry
To please the masses with verse
Un-versed because nobody knows
How to do it anymore.
(insert metaphor for the heart)
Heart's are just organs teaspoons are the real deal
Here is happiness,tempest on a teaspoon
Getting quicker with the drips don't call them tears
Where's the originality?
(cackle at alteration and appreciate the notion
of a bracket and enjambement)
If emotion rests in the balance of milliliters
I'm calling it real because hearts beat
And that's it; don't romanticise, rationalise.
Your brain is intelligence doesn't mean it's apathy.
(end it here before people know you're being insulting
and **** ink tears into little noteboks)
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
The ancient one thrusts down his staff
Determining the claim
That most good men throughout their time
Will not achieve their aim.
One in ten shall hit the mark
Just one in ten will score,
The rest, shall by the wayside fall,
To some degree or more.
One in ten shall realise
The prize their heart’s desire
To have the wherewithal to that,
to which they all aspire.
One in ten shall strive to make
That peak to which they climb
But most will reach a compromise
And rationalise their time.
The way to reach your aim in life
The ancients do agree
Is to practice all the things you preach
And be what, you want to be.
Carve deflections from your day,
Achieve the plans you set
And greet success with brother love
... Hail fellow man well met!
Wear promise as humility
Be humble in your praise,
Give credit to the lesser man
Who strives to meet his days
And when the crown of certainty
Ascends upon your head,
Smile the smile of modesty
To shade your gold crown red.
Marshalg
@ the coalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
14 December 2010
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 5:15 PM UTC
And I realised all this time I had been listening to your pathetic excuses and I bought them because I couldn't bear to take on board the implication.
Sometimes ignorance is bliss, but it's this same ignorance that's the death of me and I can't rationalise it.
Clinging onto a word that rhymed because I thought it better to believe the majority were simply polite and not the ghastly cruel beasts I felt them to be.
You saying your mother had a speech impediment in the form of a lisp was what really broke my heart, and I could have hurled the whole set of dinner plates across the room and it would have seemingly been a gross over-exaggeration -but my heart doesn't measure pain in levels like that.
I know the police would have been called and I'd collapse in a heap on the ground and they'd demand to know what happened?! and they'd all disclose they'd never seen anger like that.
That time you invited me to dinner I wore my best shirt and sat opposite them.
I tore down our conjoining road, feeling the thud in my heart, the lump form in my throat.
Because I knew this was only the start.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:54 PM UTC
its been almost five years and i can still tell you every word those kids spat on me with
i can recite every method of victimisation they deployed and i can name each one off by heart
its been almost five years and i still get nightmares, five years and i still can’t rationalise what i did to deserve that besides being myself, five years and i still blame myself for being a target even though i know better
its been almost five years and i still can’t see past those flaws that they made me so aware of at such a young age
its been almost five years and i still can’t stand up proud and look at myself and tell you I’ve embraced those qualities that i was down trodden on because of
its been almost five years and i still can’t see past them
five years
1 825 days
43 800 hours (approximately)
and i still see that girl
not that girl, that man, the she woman with no ***** and wide shoulders and ugly man arms that was too stupid to realise they were teasing her when they called her names by code so they launched a full throttle attack every break
i still see her, smiling and laughing with them while they mocked her shrinking smaller and smaller at every word (only metaphorically of course) because all she felt were the ever-spreading canyons of her body with her flaws that dipped and rose and spread across a landscape that would never be good enough
its been almost five years and i don’t hold them accountable for any of it
they didn’t build or live in that body (it was only i)
they didn’t chose to let it get to me (it was only i)
they didn’t decide to not tell anyone and let it fester so deep until the smell of ***** was the only thing that could mask the wreak of the insecurities left behind
i don’t know if i’d be different if none of that had occurred because who can blame events that happened five years ago for who i am today
all i know is i still wait, i still stay up long after everything is dark and still and quiet and the events still replay the words still hang over
amplified (by only i)
its been almost five years and all i can say is i hope those wretched people are better off now
(i hate that im so weak)
//ale a
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
The streets will belong to the beggars and buskers
who'll paint the ivory towers red and
take out the old tuskers who sit and scribe laws in
dusty old books..
..here I shall pause,because I'm not sure of what laws.
But these fossils who will us away,
the same who turn night into a much longer day
and don't pay us no wage
are quite sage about this,
they knew that the 'kiss off' would kiss them away and
have made laws to outlaw the coming of that day.
The buskers and beggars can sit playing chequers and
make Kings on the boards
and on the boards of multinationals where they can
rationalise it all,
they'll make more ivory towers to refill more empty spaces
and more laws to put beggars and buskers
in their places.
But we are used to this krap and so
we sing or we busk for a penny
in our flat cap
and the streets remain the same,
it's just the name that
changes.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 5:12 AM UTC
Before Morning Breaks
Theres a time before the dawn,before the first spark of the sun weakly glows
Its the time your not sure if your awake or still in sleeps dreamy flows
You open your eyes and a merger of thoughts, fears, and hopes rush in
Ideas, memories , regrets,people, loves.Theres some you lose theres some you win
As another spark of light , maybe two, emerges, begining to speed making its mark
The suns rays still have not won the everlasting daily battle of brightness and dark
Your head begins to settle down it begins to rationalise the truths and the fakes
But still the dark is in it's zenith, in control. its still the time before morning breaks
Now the Sun begins to fill the dark hidden corners of your mind and room.
You move your ladened head and begin see the glowing rays of early morning loom
The thoughts that were running through your mind seem to scatter from the light
As if afraid that it may revel the secrets that are best pondered in the dark of night
Pat Rooney 2013..
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
You've held the trophy for so long,
Now is time to let it go.
Time stands still, no need to run.
You may walk, enjoy the sun.
Allow the rhythm to persuade you,
Allow the air to inhale you,
Let nature have her way with you.
The breeze of the trees beckons the bearer,
May he also bear these organic buildings?
He cannot without sacrifice, without compromise,
He has forgotten his torch was from the tree of life.
Life is as eternal as death,
Romanticising one to diminish the other,
Through a silly parade, a wondrous charade,
He remembers he is alive, mortality is a beautiful thing,
Mortality,
Also a word.
One cannot run,
Nor rationalise.
Words: ailments;
Hindrances to the body.
Words are fuel,
Food for minds.
Craniums Process,
Converting Signals.
He gives silence to respect himself,
He gives his heart to the woods,
For his physique will reside here,
Once borrowed time is complete.
Silence in respect.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
You know, friend,
the strangest occurrence came before me,
as I was walking under these auburn branches of birch just the other day.
I came across an old man
playing with marbles on a grassy verge, among the tumbling leaves.
So I asked of him,
'Surely there is a better terrain for such a game?'
to which he responded,
'The pleasure of completing the sensible endeavour,
was lost long ago.'
and so I but had to ask,
'Surely then pick a hobby that bears easier fruit?'
To which he said
'If a hobby lies on the praxis of habit, then any newfangled venture is necessarily improper.'
Quite perturbed, I could but reply;
'Is not the wholesale rejection of the erudition of change blinding?'
To which he smiled, and held up a marble
he'd found lost under a strewed leaf, to the light
it's smooth opal contours glistening in form,
and said,
'Babel, too, was built on a sphere.'
And so that was that.
But the days are getting shorter, aren't they?
Or rather, they're the same length, but the colours have faded round the edges
frayed dead leather
binding empty rusted old bones.
Isn't it funny? How something hollow and brittle is thought to be fragile,
while it's only after becoming hollow oneself
that one can drink from the cusp of influence and power.
Age is a wonderful thing; it lets one rationalise and contextualise all ones excesses,
that one felt so uncomfortable about
back when they were actually enjoyable.
But I am so tired of all the moralists;
where we thought we thought on what we ought to have fought,
instead we fought on what we ought to have thought.
Thats the thing about the absolutes,
be they Hegelian or Platonic,
is, if they're true to their namesake,
are scarcely a thing that needs defending.
Not that the opposite is any better;
To both the aged romantic
who sings praises to his mortality,
And the jejune one
the teenager drowning in lust and love,
I can but simply say;
'He who worships living flesh
has a fool for a god.'
for the illusion of form
has a conclusion forlorn.
But, ah no, don't go that way,
the traffic's terrible there..
Though, what way was it to where we live again?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
*well, death isn't going anywhere, it's there, if you think talking about it is taboo, censoring it is normal, trying to rationalise death with thoughts of suicide is morbid, you're really on your way to a neo-stalin system of censorship... what if thinking about suicide is a coping mechanism of having to rationalise death per se, to rationalise mortality... who are these secular gods hiding behind curtains of theory?! who are they? what if thinking about suicide is thinking about death itself? where is this Stalin of capitalism?! where is he?! i need a word with him - because if i can't have the freedom of thought i have no extending freedoms to participate in life - a cog in a clogged up mechanism... but let's not get all hot and bothered and frantic... no, seriously, where's this shady Stalin who doesn't have a podium but a puppet theatre? i know, words like capitalism are grandiose, almost cryptically absurd, as is the word bureaucracy... too many people depend on it... but the french absurd philosophers were given the freedom to wonder about suicide as a way of consolidating mortality... we're not immortals... why aren't the english children given that freedom of such bewilderment, instead reduced to self-harm as a way to paradoxically alleviate the contemplation of mortality, with the thought of suicide as a coping mechanism of the ****** inescapable fact?! hide the cemeteries and i'll agree.*
a funny article in all honesty,
entitled: stressed, depressed,
lonely and anxious. is your teenager ok?
i remember when i was one,
yeah, i have a life,
a bottle of whiskey to finish,
see you 70cl under the sea
of what used to be the shoreline
or a table - you can never take a medium
too seriously, i mean, what painter
would take a blank white canvas seriously?
if he did, he wouldn't have painted on it,
but writing to get +1 thousand
hits of readership? what a weird mathematical
need of voyeurism, you see no **** no ***
no shower scene... you're just addicted to
numbers, and they're not even your savings
increasing for a place in a care home...
oh pooh pooh a tear... fragile souls of
passing on resentment... hey! i'm in the queue
why you barging in? i only have
a can of sardines and a bun to buy...
you have a full trolley of goods for
a family the size of Lichtenstein!
but i get it... europe's disneyland is switzerland,
all the death rides you can imagine,
esp. with an imperial russia banknote with
tsar nicholas ii on it, i'd get a pass on every ride!
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:18 PM UTC
You've held the trophy for so long,
Now is time to let it go.
Time stands still, no need to run.
You may walk, enjoy the sun.
Allow the rhythm to persuade you,
Allow the air to inhale you,
Let nature have her way with you.
The breeze of the trees beckons the bearer,
May he also bear these organic buildings?
He cannot without sacrifice, without compromise,
He has forgotten his torch was from the tree of life.
Life is as eternal as death,
Romanticising one to diminish the other,
Through a silly parade, a wondrous charade,
He remembers he is alive, mortality is beautiful thing,
Mortality,
Also a word.
One cannot run,
Nor rationalise.
Words: ailments;
Hindrances to the body.
Words are fuel,
Food for minds.
Craniums Process,
Converting Signals.
He gives silence to respect himself,
He gives his heart to the woods,
For his physique will reside here,
Once borrowed time is complete.
Silence in respect.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
Mustn't meddle in the business of fate
and frayed ideals
Otherwise mine may get tainted
Investigate what evidence lays on the bed:
A tearstained journal, a key, a pearl necklace with a broken clasp
It's quite the scene, vast and antiquated,
but very real
Rationalise the lies, verify the vendetta
against all great art and lovers' palms
-cj
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Be true to your heart,
Let your head rationalise,
And your intellect theorise,
But you knew right from the start.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
#*You came,
After all those awful years,
Sat beside my grave -nothing's the same
You never apologised,
Broke my heart,
Didn't even call to rationalise,
Today, I don't have a voice to speak,
I am gone in the dark,
While your affair with her is on fleek,
You're here and I wonder,
How you abandoned my love,
Threw me out and I surrendered,
I don't want to change your mind,
Leave while you can,
It's time to put the past behind,
They say, "You can't bring back the dead."
So forget about me as you shall,
Toss my memory out of your head*#
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 9:18 AM UTC
ooh, but when you mention cultural violence,
go right at the core with schismatic Islam
of Iran, you suddenly encounter a ******* turtle-shell
in the west, the west just says:
we can sacrifice a few slugs rampant in their
drunken wisdom - we can have a bomb in
Paris... a London pompom craze for
Venetian voodoo opening and closing the gateway
to hell immediate... we just can't have
a freedom of language! we can't have freedom
of language! we can master freedom of speech,
**** yeah! we can master that for sure...
but we're sorta boggled up when we see writing
and can't differentiate freedom of language
from freedom of speech... esp. given the internet,
it's mind-boggling, we're talking the theory
of relativity here? i'm with the schismatics of Iran
on this one... i'm no Homer... but i can sniff
a dog's ******** of appreciation for licking
them / saying them that is in full: concerto,
rather than some: mm, i'm loving it
child molestation:
i swear! is swear! Cabaret Voltaire made me do it!
they told me to rationalise them into eloquent speech...
**** knows who the clown is... you bring him along?
so, what, the, **** is, he, doing, in, our audience?!
might as well asked the whole of Kremlin to
bring their ****** shooting croons to intercept a
bogus Basildon sex-text to smoke out the paedophiles
of Westminster doing a river dance...
but you know... you know... i've seen only three
ballets... but you know what i'd really love to see?
(pork snout humph snigger)... ballerinas doing the
**** goose march... HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
i swear you could just tickle those feet up in the
air fluttering like butterflies to do, just that.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Details shape perspectives killing time
classifying experiences drawing lessons
from the past to live a fleeting
present wrapped up in comfort offered
by the most illusive conviction we are
ensuring a mistakeless future laying
the grounds to understanding.
People hurt others and themselves, a fact,
have and will do so again, might as well
rationalise and take notes, categorise offenses
under text book notions of human psyche.
To pseudo comprehend, believe they surely did
it out jealousy or envy, inferiority complex, greed,
fear of rejection, of commitment, fear
tout court, latent ancient traumas, alcoholism,
loneliness, inadequacy, stress, lack of fantasy,
defence mechanisms, revenge and rage,
frustration, Freudian mums and dads to blame,
poverty, miseducation or in vogue bipolar
mental disorders.
Newly labelled manic depression justifying
the indefensible, falling under the taxonomy
of psychological disease. Victim of one’s mind
or coward in disguise? And if evil be an illness
would it follow that, with no fault comes no crime?
The catalogue complete, what is left a bunch of notes
recorded in the abyssal perplexity of tired
brains, aged bones. A life spent studying flaws
instead of standing in awe in front of All.
While if, zooming out from details to focus
on bigger pictures, homes become nations,
neighbourhoods Earth, individuals Humanity,
the Universe,
partial essence of which we are, traveling
without moving through mysterious space
under mystic laws we call, Natural.
Do they determine who we are? And if,
ridding of the catalogue I am reborn,
a newfound meaning looking far beyond,
to see amazing little creatures stubbornly survive,
to live and endure, prove we are
much more than complexes and fears,
ambitions and diseases, corrupted thoughts,
but a miracle of feelings, eager to learn,
only beginning to become,
aware of itself.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 8:12 AM UTC
Out across the high terrain through avenues of sky
Flashing by clear rivers swum perhaps, by you and I.
Crossing cloistered cities clogged by tepid rotten air
Whilst crucified by temperamental knotting of the hair.
Howling at disparity in scowling at the way
We all reacted differently to what they had to say.
Globalising gigabytes of hurt and hate and spite
Despite diverse distention when day obscured to night,
Black and white and brindle mixing hot beneath a moon
Confusing you who rationalise disharmony’s cold tune….
Pause to catch the nuance lost twixt shades of grey and green
Then riot for the kewpie doll to wear the crass obscene.
Raging fields of fire in a world of spleen awash
Antagonised at variance in chosing knife or cosh,
Antagonised disastrously across this sphere of man
Leaving sad distraught, discerning weeping blood into the sand.
M.
16 August 2017
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC