"recurrence" poems
when swimming with dolphins
lost phase, depth of oceans
recurrence of persuasion
the cavities erosion
a pragmatic extension, the neural hyper tension
grace the evening
split precision aching
remedies for aging
repetition
of the alkaline waste
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 7:33 PM UTC
Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.
A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.
He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.
He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.
He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.
Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.
But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king
The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.
Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.
Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.
Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?
It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.
But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Love is for the poor,
and money for the rich
but wisdom is reserved
for those who caught the itch
of curiosity for the fact that they exist.
Those sparse few who dare
to put their faith into people
but expect not to see the eyes of god
inside of another man’s cathedral.
Knowing well that these lies and laws
could never guide us past the flaws
of good and evil.
Only believe in the dreamer
who refuses the role of a follower
and shuns the idea of a leader.
Be not deceived by status or acclaim
because it only makes you a disciple
of a product and a name.
Hold in high regard the tired hikers
born to the depths of the deepest valleys
and yet they rise before the light of dawn
like a striker to set ablaze the malaise
of these pedestrian days
that mock our souls
with monotonous toil.
This life is but an eternal recurrence
therefore every morn we are born anew
and that potential is a shot at transference
into something more eminent than you.
Become the bridge my friend
because there is no future
in being an end.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
For William and Meredith
For treatment of panic and anxiety disorders,
short-acting anxiolytics are generally recommended
to provide temporary bursts of clarity
but should be reassessed periodically for
usefulness and concerns regarding tolerance,
dependence,
and abuse.
Xanax releases dopamine into the brain
to function as a neurotransmitter to send signals
between nerve cells
including reward motivated behavior
and pathways known to reinforce addictive neuronal activity
Perhaps to build her,
you had to break yourself
amongst the glass of that summer day.
Leave her waiting for your hair to peek
around a weathered edge
toward a forgotten living room corner
You are still her Patron Saint.
A long shadow cast across a small ghost.
She still screams at the sky to stop raining
beats her fists down the path
to the house of death
unceasing, and changeless.
Prodding a dull,
familiar
wound.
One that leaves its mark,
with pain felt more
from memory
than from anything else.
Withdrawal and rebound symptoms commonly occur and
necessitate a gradual reduction
to minimize the effects of discontinuation.
Not all withdrawal effects are evidence
of true dependence or withdrawal.
Recurrence may suggest no more
than the drug having the expected effect
and that,
in the absence of the drug,
the symptom has returned to pretreatment levels.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.
It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.
Trace the dripping, pierced heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, Little worse.
Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.
Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.
1.9k
Even a wayside **** can ignite
greater passion in the heart
than a well potted garden plant
at the centre of a tastefully landscaped plot
Even a child’s prank can be more hilarious
than all the cranky jokes of an acclaimed comedian
Even in the warble of a lonesome bird
there can be more flooding melody
than in the well tuned violin of a music maestro
There can be greater poetry in a simple ditty
than in all the lines of verse in a great epic
A tear drop may contain greater salinity
than all the waters of a great ocean
Perhaps a simple nod of head or a wink of the eye
communicates much more than a whole bunch of words
I don’t know why I love the dainty flowers of May
than perhaps the exotic lotus of the day
Don’t we love the homemade fare served with love
more than all the delectable cuisines of a posh restaurant
The small things of life thus,
prove much bigger than big things
Just as the joy of life is not always ruined by fatal errors
but by the recurrence of injurious little things,
Greatness is achieved not through momentous actions
but by the little things done in a great way
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
It is a fallacy we all believe.
As we vehemently exclaim six words
to prove the chastity of our thoughts,
to fill our pride with self-validation,
to ratify our existence with falsehoods.
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
I bitterly laugh at your blundering gaucherie,
as you lay blame on an eons old transgression,
as you smote the sinnerman flying with flames,
as you called him out for your own actions
impassioned by heresy.
Impassioned by heresy
You sought to relieve yourself from perdition;
brought upon by perjury declared,
brought upon by authenticated truths,
brought upon by the duplicity,
of your favored reverent ideologies.
Of your favored reverent ideologies
which is to laud your skirmish against evil
in order to remove yourself from auburn eternity,
in order to induct you as a citizen of argent fields,
in order to orchestrate contempt towards another?
Is there no truth to you?
Is there no truth to you
now that perfidy imputes your entirety?
as you declaim in front of paradise lost,
as you coerce to regain what is rightfully deprived,
as you throng duress by intoning your delusion:
"The Devil made me do it!"
"The Devil made me do it!"
Its recurrence is maddening to Him
while you, in all your sentience, chose to act unbecoming,
while the celestials perched on your shoulder bawl,
while He that you blame does absolutely nothing.
It is a fallacy we all believe.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
On the box of Midwest Butter,
in the verdant dairy pastures,
sat the smiling Indian maiden,
daughter of her tribe, the maiden.
Holding forth a golden offering;
from the box her yellow treasure
for the yet unbuttered buyer.
Gently her sweet knees protruded
from her humble beaded buckskin,
from her beaded buckskin garment
each supported by a letter;
full twin globes upon an altar.
As mammalians, when they’re nursing
seek the rounded gifts of nature
while their hands, abreast and lifted
grasping, find the source of plenty,
swallow fast that milky manna
swallow down that flowing liquid
with a smile upon their features,
so my soul rejoiced to meet her
in the grasslands of a daydream
in the pastures of my daydream,
holding forth divine recurrence:
gift within a gift forever
churning, and imploding inwards
infinite, receding backwards
into endless Indian maidens
spreading myth upon my table
on my toast upon my table
till her tribe returns in glory…
(etc, etc... with apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:32 PM UTC
I have walked this earth a thousand times.
Dirt. A loose aggregate of particles, held together by gravity, and moisture.
Rain. Water suspended. Resurging. Cascading in plumes, like sheets of smoke.
Sky. Blue. Stretched like canvas. Abstract. Nowhere. Everywhere.
I exist. Here. Standing. Thinking.
I am dead. I am being born.
I am existing across all time and space, but I do not know it.
At this moment, I am trapped. I am unconscious. I am unaware.
I have walked this earth a thousand times, and cannot even remember.
Because it has not happened. Has yet to happen. May never happen.
Future. A nonexistence on the horizon.
Hope. An ache. A nothing replaced with nothing.
Misery. The wretched face in the mirror.
A child wears my eyes. She drifts through life.
Scared. Alone. Free.
She plays in the forest. Her small, sap-covered hands grasp branch after branch.
She enters intermediate school. Is called freak. Is judged by her skin, her eyes.
She realises she is different for the first time.
Alien. Deviant. Other.
Her eyes fill with self-hatred.
I have watched this moment a thousand times, yet can do nothing.
Disintegration. The act of separation.
Loneliness. A billion strangers condemned to live together.
Existence. A billion billion billion particles, shifting beneath my flesh.
There is no death that can end my being.
I have felt the atoms of my past collide, and spark into biology.
I have felt the atoms of my future shred like fractals, spiralling into a dim, dark nothingness.
I have felt all this, and none of it.
From infinity I came, to infinity I’ll go. Forever cycling in the pantomime of existence.
This pretend construct of space and time.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
For so long while the rushing rivers broke through the dams resting below the bridge where we used to share the secrets that flowed out like blood oozing from your aggressive heart
I laid myself in a grave with the dirt covering my body but leaving my mouth to gasp the air that you controlled and seemed to restrict me from living
I've beaten my angry mind, trying relentlessly to compel myself that our memories together are ephemeral
But as often as the sun rises and as accurate as the tides roll up on shore
You are the moon dragging them there, a forcible action corrupting the truth to exist in a fabricated manor, overbearing, inescapable, we shared a time lapse I can no longer deflect from my remembrances
It was you who sent the raven to my window, perched up on the ledge, opening it's beak to formulate the sound that would entail a long and arduous torture of being in love with someone who could hardly provide me with so much as a smile
Instead a laundry list of tears flowed out of the machines, overflowing the surfaces with salty indications of an unhappy relationship
But evasive behaviors were your M/O
A constant recurrence of neglect, I watch the raven fly away leaving the chill breeze to ruffle my hair and scramble my thoughts
How could I breathe with the perpetual exhalation of carbon dioxide collecting within my lungs
The very breath you sent in through your imminent kiss that tore my lips apart?
The broken dam shelters all of the lost love and all of the mutual secrets that fled your lips and right into the ears of hungry souls begging for a reason to shatter me into pieces
Sleepless nights and dreamless awakenings
I cannot house these emotions any longer, but you won't leave, you found the key and the open door never fazes you
Why do I find you resting in my bed and smoking your daily cigarette on my porch?
Your hazardous fumes are encircling my already dazed confusion, filling my lungs with your cancerous habits
My thoughts grow as stale as the ***** I douse myself in, highly flammable, as you hold the lighter
You would much rather see me suffer in the memories than burn me to the ground and relieve my inner pain
You sadist.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
questioning the soul, questioning
the mind. why did that girl have
to have so many strokes? how
skew'd is the memory? spirits,
spirits on high for nigh recurrence -
nihil remembrances. mention'd by
name once. something wrong with
the body. disconnecting from on
high, disconnecting in a somewhat
general sense. no straight lines in
nature, no chaos in nature. get away
from the species' mentality. chaos.
c-h-a-o-s. chaos. chaos. species created
word to organize the unorganized.
straight line, polygon, order, chaos. time.
species ingrain'd, call'd instinct. to file,
to follow, to seek originality through
unoriginality. thru the banal. memory
warp'd, once could live. self-destruction
and a thought of living life without
affecting the choices of others. weakness.
chaos. rambling. tryptamine influenced
creation of language. showing teeth,
trying to intimidate. trying to rise, a
Jane of the Jungle form of archetype.
the passionate, caring, forbearing,
ape hunter. and lids sinking, closing off
the soul of influence. struggling thru
connections severed. those released from
******* by soul's recollections. by
metaphysical muscle memory. weeping
chaos, wailing order. finding null purpose
in. in. of all things. all people, all purpose.
knowing the worthlessness of well-chosen
words. and gaining access, and
trying to rise, and thirteen lines to stretch.
thirteen to fill across.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
*And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide:
and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and, behold …
GENESIS 24:63*
You remember, oh Isaac, the face of the bride
From the Genesis foothills of dreaming’s beginning
Arriving with dusk as the sunset was bringing
The camel-bells music, the end of the ride?
The nomadic return of a hope that had died
Like a riverbed flooding and suddenly greening
A promise fulfilled, flowing into the evening
The song and the rhythm of life undenied…
I remember the landscapes, the names, the dark faces
A golden Havilah of biblical places
the handclapping chants overcoding a mystery.
Timeless recurrence; eternity imminent
Israelite graves I beheld on that continent;
Songs of Rebecca: the morning of history.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
#No me diga – la nena ‘ta pregnant again?
(I thought she decided no more after Tito…)
she’s almost 16 – and she dropped out of school.
(It might be the spice in abuela’s sofrito…)
There’s one in the oven and two in the stroller
Oh nubile Boricua, what gives – ¿Qué sería?
if life is the masa and birth is the bakery
yours is a virtual panadería…
Some pulse in your short-shorts, those flexible hips
under tropical rhythm of lewd reggaeton
seems to summon the ***** from your lover’s abundance
whenever you find yourselves home and alone.
Where’s your man? Who’s the daddy? Why didn’t he stay?
your gaze is unsettling, harshly pathetic.
You sad Betty-Boop: are you waiting in vain
for your man – or your period? How unpoetic…
This life lived on welfare, entitled, enslaved
with your babies at grandma’s and you with your phone
is a taxpayer’s nightmare and teenage recurrence
(but you’re busy texting some drama unknown…)
Mamita herself looks more like your hermana
She started this game even earlier, too
When you stand, side by side, in your thongs and pijama
it’s hard to be sure who is who.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission;
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
I am a ball, I am a cell,
I am the will of higher selves;
I’m a layer of the kernel,
Flying on seat "57L";
I’m a letter that was sent to mail,
Set outbound when rings the bell.
I am a curve, I am twirl,
I am sustained motion still unfurled;
I’m necessity in the system;
Of absorption I am the emblem;
I’m a branch of fractal downward;
Of struggles past I ain't no award.
I am a beast, I am a fork,
I am a breach through inert soil;
I’m a head of the hydra snake;
Consolation in all of mistakes;
I’m the blood of the wounded,
The brain of memories faded.
I am a blink, I am a cause,
I am the storm after the pause;
I’m the pity for the angered;
Whose duties have been tempered.
I'm the eye that's about to drool
And the tooth that's bound to fool.
I am silver when I am gold,
Yes I am pale when I grow bold,
Like an etching on a clean surface
I'll be sanded just to be varnished;
I'm the most certain of prediction,
Foreseeable beyond provision.
I am ludicrous, I am lukewarm,
I am commitment amidst cold wars;
I’m the frontier around the form
And the earth that drowns the worm;
Of victory I am some defeat,
Accomplishment left incomplete.
I am a meter, I am a yard,
I am pain that causes no harm;
I'm the scepter of the peasant,
The suffering in the pleasant;
I'm everything that's ever been said,
All that's forgotten once it's been read.
I am a sin, yes I am sought,
I am a child yet to be mourned;
I’m resistance to the inevitable,
Recurrence of the unstable;
I’m the distance of departures,
The first minutes of final hours.
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission,
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC
The rain beat down like a ferocious lover
On cracked windows
And creased curtains.
Barren and dry outside
This tumultuous storm
Lay inside my eyes and kept
The raging wildfire abreast
If only momentarily.
Sorrow as my only defense mechanism
Pleading innocence and defeat
I may be laying low
For a week or more
But I will not be beat.
Go ahead
And bring the heat that swells
In the late august
Of good intentions turned sour.
Age out all the promises
That have rot in the back room
Before ever reaching their destination.
We have reached the boiling point,
Now slipping into disintegration.
You were a caricature of yourself
And I, the animator.
Maybe I’ll see you later
When you’ve rearranged your display.
I think we’ve had enough
For today.
c.e.m. 2.9.14
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
I know that I'm getting sick again
Because every hour of silence makes me think that you don't love me
And it's getting harder to convince myself that you should
You don't seem to have noticed how walled up I am, but I'm sorry
And I am so glad that you didn't hear me crying while you slept
Because I am so in love with you and you shouldn't love me back
It's unhealthy for me to centre my life around you, and I know it
But I can't help that you're everything that I never thought I'd get
Where we're at now, we can only see each other on the weekends
And those few days are everything that I live for and want to maintain
But as the week goes on I lose myself to needing you and I fade so fast
I try to keep myself occupied during the day while I can
Working my skin to the bones and burning the breath from my lungs
But come night time, I sink and I sit in the dark with no sound
I just don't know how to get out of this slump yet again
I don't know how to believe that it's worth it in the end
Dragging people down is a specialty that I would like to break
As opposed to the constant chance of breaking you
Or the recurrence of the thought that a break up would be best
Jesus Christ, darling I am such an awful and worthless mess
Every day I see other men who could replace me and probably should
When it comes down to it, you deserve a world that I cannot give
And that's a horrible thought that makes me cry when the room is quiet
You are everywhere as my mind is all over the place and again I'm sorry
Every part of my very being needs you just so that I can live
But I won't guilt you to stay or create expectations that I don't have
Every part of my very being knows that you should leave and become your best
I know that I am getting sick again
And that if I listen to the virus in my head, I'll be ******
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:54 PM UTC
Time,
We view this intangible thing
As linear
But I believe
That somewhere
I'm still a child
And all that has been
Is
All that will be
Is
Eternal Recurrence
I believe
That these things
These forces,
The very forces that turn the earth,
Are the same forces
Which turn our hearts
Binding our souls
Every soul
Existing all at once
We
Live
Love
Die
We
Are
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
Igor & TT were the hit of the new wave
film circuit, reviving thoughts
of vintage Auteur cinéma vérité;
MOTHERWELL [formerly banned]
on a double-bill with _A Star Is ****
American film makers hitting a
glass wall rush to sign the least
talented; shooting on a billion-
dollar shoestring knockoff ****
films about artists & faux art films
about **** stars; Eli could never
breathe the air of LA or the USA;
wanted as he was for the ******
of an unnamed drifter; the actress
at his door, crying it was her dad;
Eli pours her a whisky & having one,
sits & watches her bawl her eyes out;
& picking her eyes from the floor,
handed them back to her, & blind
she thanks him, before putting
the red orbs back in her empty head;
rushing to his arms & missing completely, she hits the wall;
"u'd better go back to America," he said,
"Stay there & send ur mother over here."
"Are u going to **** my mother?"
the echo of the question rang out through the ages;
how many girls had asked how many men
[stepfathers & strangers] [on the way out,
the realization] under how many clouds of doubt,
suspicion & threat, 'are u going to ****
my mother?' inevitably, the answer
was yes, confirmed by Oracles of yore;
Mighty Delphi itself proclaiming
that her mother will be ****** by the man
she desires for herself; yes, always &
for all time in the eternal recurrence
of lust, love & separation; moms always give better head
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
discussing with friends they,re eclectic noggins bobble suddenly
slowly quick the wagging of tongues juxtaposed to startled teeth
in rhythmic ques they pour daft prophecies in hideous giggling
we talk and amble amiably on every topic odoring and tepid shifting
slickly
it's easy and the sun frails and we joust winking verbs and nouns and and
or we entertain electric chaos screens bulging distended growls of death
or cinema or. outside it's raining, beautificly a synonym for damp patterring
of a 1,ousand tiny feet and plopping uncertainly violent puddles staggering
and the iron weight bears heavy on the hills dimpling the hips of earth
or we are static for a few and hours we make goodbyes and promises
of recurrence we,ll never keeps the night our tired bodies as we make
to the cold metal leather bucket seats and outside it's muttering rainfully beauty...
Aug 27, 2010
Aug 27, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
You'd think Blake, Bosch
& Emanuel Swedenborg
read Pythagoras in the original
& walked with Christ & Newton;
E. A. Poe, the Horror-Poet;
influencing the Decadence of
Baudelaire, Wilde & Rimbaud;
Pinkham Ryder's influence on
Symbolism & Surrealism led,
oddly, to 20th century pop culture
depictions of Victorian monsters;
Frankenstein was the product
of the English Romantics;
German Romanticism to Sturm
& Drang led to Expressionism.
Beardsley [dead at 25], Gustave
Moreau, Van Gogh, Gauguin,
Egon Schiele [dead at 28]; ||| - -|
Klimt, Freud, Jung: Judaism;
Id, Superego, Ego, Shadow,
Anima & Animus, collective
psyche, Nietzsche's Superman,
eternal recurrence & will to
power; Wagner's Ring Cycle...
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
As the crew cheers on my death
I'm thrown out to sea
While having an achor tied to my feet
Falling into the depths
Losing each breath
As I swallow the sea
Lifelessly closing my eyes
A recurrence
Flash in front of me
Days before sailing away
Another heart beat strikes
To the lovely Paula Etta
She was married with kids
Our lusting last till dusk
Spoiled by the appearance of her husband
Words were hardly any
Violence was preventable
To plead my innocence
Judgement was merciless
Sinking underneath the ocean
As I arrange
A burial of plunder
By fools who discovered me
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 5:29 AM UTC
she looks at his eyes while he stares at her thighs
and he's wondering if she's going to sleep with him tonight
the dress that hangs by her dainty physique is meant to impress
but all he pictures is what's underneath
their hearts beat giving values to their chests
of treasured boxes kept locked away from all of the rest
she wishes for solace and an assurance to not be pressed
he wishes to gain her trust and to take over, hoping for a nightly event of passionate ***
he lures her into a loophole of false intent
she smiles at his slipping mask but continues to reciprocate
they exchange words over drunk breaths
but she is too intoxicated so she forgets
her tenuous wrists are taken into his
she tries to refuse but eventually gives in
to forceful attainment and prohibited entry
she wonders if her racing heart will be heard through her thin exterior
she wonders if there are other words for "help"
and why men always have to be the superior
her fingers are helpless along with tight shut eyes
clothing sliding from svelte body parts, past unconscious skin
she senses heavy breathing, not hers, to keep herself wondering
unaware and completely susceptible
she falls asleep, passing out with her body against his
the sun will kiss her tender cheeks
with the absence of coffee drinks
she will be awake and lying next to nothing but empty sheets
she will remember looking into his eyes
hoping that he was the one to keep her safe from reoccurring lies
but he was nothing but a crooked thief
who robbed her of her entirety
n.j.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
They say she sleeps ad infinitum
Eternal recurrence burns my furnace
Warm my bedded head
In her sleep she swoons and croons
Cockatoo flown past what I'd grasp for
Can't catch that flack slack back snapped crack
My pursed lips perched like a mourning dove
Shoos yew canoes past blue pools and coos
"No new news"
In this hallway I walk through it
Acknowledge and be with me here
Not there at the end
She begs for company
An affirmation of the sufficient subsets,
Experienced in essence through forms
She can't sleep
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;
The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.
I was yet to understand blood.
When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.
In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.
There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.
I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,
they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)
In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.
So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.
And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 7:34 PM UTC
Recurrence
And again
You say those words
Evanescent
Now but then
You’re still my world
Repetitions
Ev’rything
It’s still cliché
No permissions
We are nothing
‘Till end of days
No warnings
Heard again
It’s deafening
Stay smiling
Just stay sane
Keep listening
Now explain
What you feel
Before breaking
‘Bout your pain
How you deal
She’s ignoring
How pathetic
Ordinary
Yet it seems
We’re still static
Arbitrary
Lies and whims
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 5:06 PM UTC