"redistributed" poems
A blue sun beats down from
An electrically charged sky
I step into chaos an exodus
Towards the wastelands of
Fragmentation and depletion where
Fictions are invented daily and all
Images change where the shadows
Of life disappear in desperation
Where blood drips from eyes
Into a cataclysm that waits
Strung out in the black void
Clock hands attach themselves
To my mind piercing sentiments
Of shame
They elucidate the journey from
The external world seeking sanctuary
For visions that have been thrown
Dashed against bare brick walls
The ultimate realisation of imaginative
Truth shatters in torment falling sprinkling
To a festering ground proclaiming the
Dominance of emptiness
The conscious ambiguity of betrayal
That deforms corroboration creating
Untruth/ the derangement of qualification
A dialogue with the unknown gives
Birth to fictional facts of unsuitable
Confrontations of displacement
Back to imaginative reality that
Feasts on the trivial the banal
The ordinary and the mundane normal
I take steps into the space others
Fear to occupy become inside
The incantation of a new dimension
An actuality they brand as madness
Yet I am ecstatic in its awareness
This shall be my retribution
For who shall be judged
Ha, illumination is timeless
Has no master they can only
Speculate about the unknown
Its infinity
It is all the imaginations I possess
That shaky bridge between worlds
Where I take my heels my mind
Cannot be redistributed
I have lived through a disturbing night
Now move into an equally disturbing day
It is here I know I will die
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Future fed,
I am past tense,
With pretense of post textual subtext.
But I'm in love with mental reflex,
That rebound and curve in action,
Reaction replicated and reduced,
Redistributed and digested through the nose,
Said then to then be brought down to a new low.
But it's hypocrisy,
And inert,
Like morality in children,
Who celebrate their own centennial,
While 10 children to each their year,
Are snuffed from this earth,
In quite the same fashion as the candles
On Mr.Centennial's cake,
And it's fake,
For he's a diabetic and suffers,
Having already forgot half the people he raised,
Sentimentality wasted on a senior,
Who shook hands with the devil,
And then smacked an angel off its cloud.
It makes me sick,
Such sin began,
Stopped to begin,
Walked thin and ran thick,
Over budget and understocked,
Cut backs on morality,
Cut backs on humanity,
They call this art,
The only proof of evolution,
Is how we slide down the chart.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 2:33 AM UTC
"Neither him nor I could decide for ourselves if we wanted to outlive the night.”
- Tomas Kalnoky of Streetlight Manifesto, The Big Sleep
It wasn't necessarily bad,
It was just different.
It was slower,
It was bend, bend, tremolo,
It was high, low, high, low, high
It was nowhere and
It was everywhere.
It was soft, but
It was growing harder.
It was but
It wasn't.
It was never a dull moment.
It wasn't up nor was it down
It was hidden
It was you, you, you, you, you
It was nigh and
It was sudden but
It was bound for the floor.
It was 80 proof
It was strong enough to knock out a lightweight, but
It was medicine to the depressed
It was a drug you **** for hours and
It was a fake ****** Above all
It was a blue eye,
It was a stapler
I was in your head and
It was in my hand.
It was straight and narrow
It was at least 50 miles per hour against traffic.
It was a grape
It was peeled and
It was a strange set of values.
It was live in 1970, but
It was rerecorded
It was redistributed to the public in 1991.
It was 1992,
It was cloudy and
It was red.
It was an open sore
It was lingering for sun.
It wasn't like this hadn't happened before.
It was run of the mill
It was a pop fly, 80 ft high.
It was a million other people
It was true but
It was true to a fault.
It was one lie after another after another.
It was a chance for redemption but
It was a Christmas on Easter.
It was thick and
It was slushy and
It was nothing out of the ordinary.
It was a mistaken interest
It was a mistaken identity... above all
It was a mistake.
It was the best mistake, but
It was a mistake.
It was dry then
It was wet then
It was yellow then
It was wet.
It was rise, fall, lift, rise, fall, fall
It was a bag full of nothing.
It was a wall of notes
It was a wall of sound
It was low-end techno mixed with high quality
FLACK.
It was it was it was it
It was, was it?
It was it.
It was braille.
It was written and
It was the start of the end.
It was just junk, and
It was a shame.
It was potential, sheer potential.
Now,
It is just ***** in a sink.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
When we die
We sink back
Into that from which
We came
We reconnoiter
Our stuff
With that from which
We were delivered
And it takes
A bit of time
No one
Can be sure
How long
Because
Well
The process
Of reconnoitering
Starts with our rotting away from what we are now
Involves some process
Or another
Of our being reabsorbed into the Earth and her elements
Being redistributed
Here and there
And everywhere
Over that period of time
I am fairly certain
We cannot know
Ourselves as we are now
That is to say
There will certainly
Shortly after we die
Be an ending of neural pathways firing
And a stillness of thoughts
Even those that let us therefore be
And given enough time
Some of those elements
That were
Within us
Will certainly
Be without
What we now
Call us
And all of the elements
That we now
Call
us
Will
have
to
deal
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W
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And given
Even more
Time
As much as
random
Dissociated time
Needs
Elements
Of what we now
Call Us
Will be within
What we would now
Call other
Living things
Or, one living thing, viewed not through the lens of time.
As a poem
On an
Infinitely long
And strange
page
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
Along the city’s second longest street
At the end of its second longest month
Walked a woman, in plaid,
Lugging an incongruous antique lamp
Toward the sun.
In the desert, the dunes,
The piles of grains of sand,
Are constantly rearranged,
Redistributed, reconciled by the winds--
Are, in short, in flux--
Are never what they once were,
And never will be again.
When the wind’s favor, for a while,
Aggrandizes a particular pile,
Does it look down upon its fellows?
Does it call itself a king, and proclaim,
“Bow before me, for I am the mightiest,
The grainiest, the sandiest
Of all possible piles of grains of sand;
For I have, I am more of nothing
Than you will ever understand”?
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
spring In Derbyshire
two hearts,
one person,
her lovelies,
ankles,
skipping on the streets,
carrying a woman's body,
healing winter-slow,
six pence better,
since December,
yet, still unmended
spring brings warmth and sun...
the farming of the
high gritstone moorlands,
so needy for these
things that are
the all~important.
Energy blessed to her,
selfless redistributed,
being used on the little ones...
Chasing rainbows and planting veg -
sweet peas, sunflowers, raspberries -
harvest the pumpkins,
some to take to the market,
a marker of her hopes
harvest her words,
a marker~market~maker,
anonymous woman~mother-poet
from the Derbyshire
of our hopes
March 24, 2014
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
The perfect year,
two equal halves.
One with leaves
one without.
Forest thinning out.
Bring indoors
swing sets, pools, smiles, thoughts.
Having enough and not much else is a lot.
The transfer of funds is a loving gratitude for work well done.
Not self-sufficient unless self
is defined as family, community and nation.
The world.
Universe.
Thus,
I settle my haunches like a bear content, snug into coming
winter.
House will be warm notwithstanding the Muslim-Judeo-
Christian condition
not to mention the Hindu-Buddhist vortex.
Searching space
for an entity
to unite us as humanity.
Carbon-based, earthbound
meeting, understanding and absorbing
the clicking, algorithmic logic
of passionately computing species, insects, machines, bacteria.
A world moves only as fast as you think.
If it moves faster you're not thinking, you're it, dead, chemicals
redistributed
in an ever more painless process.
What are my feelings exactly?
Systemic joy.
Lovely the logic
we have invented and applied
identifying, specifying, classifying.
It can keep you busy
counting, praying
while all the leaves are falling.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
beginning like any other day I took my two feet and placed them on the cold floor
tongue and grove faux oak laid north to south in a diagonal house, pre-dawn quiet
flittering dust bunnies darted in every direction seeking the perfect hiding spot
a place with the ability to avoid the wild, free-range vacuum known for destroying whole families
toes stretched reaching for the opposite walls as if I might grow eight extra legs
and then I would really never know where I am going
the Pisces in me I suppose….
she slightly shifted her breathing patterns as my weight redistributed the mattress foam
inaudible mumbles and a soft sigh passed lips on the very edge of slumber’s embrace
the corners of my own turned up as hers is the voice my ears were destined to hear
straightening the comforter so as to snuggle her in tight until the snooze button
the blood within my veins seemed to speed up and flush my cheeks with rose
overcome with gratefulness and peace I cast watery eyes to the window
just in time to see a large red-headed woodpecker eyeballing our scene
hopping from post to post to seemingly get a better view, he cocked his head slightly
giving me a nod of approval….
at least that was my interpretation –
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
i have a friend
he sits by the shoreline uneasy
shells borderline her feet
too afraid to get his feet wet
but she dives in merely after one breath
they walk among the skyline into a brighter hue
but hue heffner is sitting eating sphagetti
and there isn't any time to play
that's because your watch is broken...
so they wander aimlessly into the unknown
just to make it theirs so others
can't dive in
but instead cannonball
and i never knew it would be so hard to not feel alone
but with me you don't have to
hide because there will always be sounds in the airwaves
like my wind through your sound tunnel
and then i knew that i had a real friend
goldfish
go fish
first hit
makes me sick
why does life turn out like this
hopefully nothing stays in remiss
except that hopeful wrist
tat i saw you turn
did you always learn
how to be so gorgeous
shiver me timbers my room is a freezer
someone pass me the sushi
redistributed inside my liver
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC