"reduction" poems
Life and non-Life are part of a system-- a "system-like" system, but one nonetheless.
Where Entropy's that which is hidden from us--
and Information without meaning is total chaos.
But hold.
Poets, Bards & Thieves.
Of shame, of game, of blame, they speak
of secrets on the leaves.
In more or less a drunken mess, their simmered shimmered consciousness
could barely rarely quite express what causes them to grieve.
After some hesitation and liquid persuasion, the only collusion this final conclusion:
*Pain is entropic; Extra-sensory stimulation
received as distortion via sensory limitations--
Confusing the mind refusing the signs, forcing us to shutter the blinds.
But what is behind? Unveil pain's curtain and what do we find?
Contextualisation, possible causation-- Mind-Body integration without hesitation--
palpable, abstract Information dissemination!*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
They had the plastic coffins ready
Before the panic hit, Ebola was a planned
Population reduction project
A good distraction from Economic collapse
Governments always divert your attention
At critical moments in history
The elite wish to keep their control
Ebola had no trouble infecting
Medical professionals, but they assured us
It’s not airborne, it’s only an exchange
Of fluids, so cover up your eyes
Ebola carries with it the heat of Africa
Able to make your blood boil form the inside
A post-colonial bioweapon specifically designed
To make you fear, to make you a follower
I think my stomach can feel it spreading
Around the world, in months, years
You cannot contain something like this
By simple quarantine? Even the medical staff
Don’t want any part in it, so cover your eyes
The black plague drips sinister News
In our times, the mainstream media plans
Consumes with its grip, like Ebola
It has the power to consume, a portable
Killing-machine, enough to linger about doom?
Ebola is an outbreak, taken more seriously
The closer it hits to home, what is home
On a planet of billions of travelling people?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
She also underwent breast reduction surgery in 1992, and has said on the subject:
"I really love my body and the way it is right now. There's something very awkward about women and their ******* because men look at them so much. When they're huge, you become very self-conscious. Your back hurts. You find that whatever you wear, you look heavy in. It's uncomfortable. I've learned something, though, about ******* through my years of pondering and pontificating, and that is:
Men love them, and I love that."
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
My Prize for Waiting
~
*tucked in all by myself,
resting dark and quiet
in the thin place^
where the distance between
this world and the next,
is no distance at all,
but a few inches separating,
easily fordable, back and forth-able
my palms, hands down,
come to rest on my *******
and the two thumbs in unison,
begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between,
conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point
passageway to poetic mystical places,
hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping
no hurry to either arrive or depart,
in patient attendance for
rhythms of woven word arrivistes,
coming in no particular order,
asking to be seized, greedy to be
nominated and recognized, immortalized,
as great poetry, prize worthy,
kept for all time inside others poetry chests
but in the thin place,
dream records are not kept,
hazy scraps at best retained,
a recipe for a witnessed totality,
is only a soupy reduction of a
few seconds of hazed video,
that can neither give nor get
no satisfaction
the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct
the body of the meal, the real deal,
alas, there are no prizes either
for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless
poetry scraps
the only evidence of my travels,
a flushing, blushing residual flow,
slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark
of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying,
my blush, a prize for waiting but failing,
“the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^
woe to me when returned in ignominy,
medaled in only base irony,
me and philosopher Pliny,^^^
both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius,
our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash,
but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry
so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged
burnt photographs epistles,
that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle,
insufficient to weave a flax complete
and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now,
to snag another prized piece of meaningless,
my prize for waiting
in the solitude of the thin place*
3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019
~
last nights scrap
***cease your whining,
seize your waiting,
therein is your own paid price
for the prize of inspiration***
inspired by Jean Fisher,
a real prize winning poet
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever.
White heron patiently wait, wait and wait,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
****** its bullet head it's time to deliver.
Beaks sharp as spears strikes accurate,
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever.
None disturbed nature stays as it were,
No news of any fish that the heron ate,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
They flock in by the thousands I wonder,
No reduction in fish they don't annihilate.
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever;
It takes what flowing water has to offer.
Teeming with migrants to each their fate,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
To its chicks it'll provide it'll ensure,
By the banks spear fishing till it's late.
It wades, it stands still, it's very clever,
Till a fish darted by, reflection on the river.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard Afterlife Airlines.
I’m your pilot, Captain Meta Physics.
Please fasten your sleep belts
as we are about to leave the body.
Please direct your attention to your stewardess
while she demonstrates safety procedures.
In the event of a drastic reduction in karma,
a mask will fall down from above you.
Place it on and breathe deeply of pure love.
Should those passengers who are clinically dead
find themselves returned by a surgeon’s skill,
the life raft under your seat will inflate
with a new sense of purpose.
After take off the stewardesses will serve milk and honey.
For your entertainment, the movie is
anything with Shirley Maclaine in it
or there are seven channels of chi
on the chakra-phones being dispensed soon.
For those contemplating joining the Tantric Mile High club,
please be considerate of your fellow passengers.
We’re making good time because
the breath of God is always behind us.
Below us to the right is the Ocean of Ego
and to our left some passengers may glimpse
the chain of islands: Faith, Hope and Charity.
We’ve been advised that it’s a little busy on The Other Side
so we’ve been placed in a holding pattern
on the astral plane.
Passengers are reminded to retrieve all emotional baggage
for security reasons
and please help Customs
by declaring all religious preferences.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re cleared for landing now.
On behalf of the crew, I hope you enjoyed
your transdimensional flight with Afterlife Airlines
and we hope to see you aboard again soon.
Please fasten your sleep belts,
we’re coming in for reincarnation.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Chicken and beef
More beef
More Chicken
Potatoes fried in vats of fat, A cow's
heart in a wine reduction;
Bacon strips,
bacon strips,
bacon strips,
bacon strips.
"Ulcer in the pit...
...never neglect to salt"
It hurts again.
—Doesn't it always?
Jack and Advil,
A half-hearted suggestion.
"You don't really know unless you try?":
Burn a hole, Bleed it out
Pain is water-soluble, right?
I tried it once. I've told that story
Brought down in one day by two pots of chili
9.26.11
D.B. Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.
Well. Lots of fantasy worlds.
My clothes were cooler
Voice smoother
Choices simpler.
You finish quests, unlock gods, Slay dragons
.
When my DnD group broke up I thought:
If I'm not the gnome bard or the elven ranger or the dwarven barbarian
Who am I?
The answer:
I'm the kid,
Who was doodling demons in the corners of classrooms.
Who didn't quite make it through the pacer test in one peice.
Who spoke up a little too loud about religion and not loud enough about being bullied.
Who didn't have party's to go to because he was to busy with his party of heroes.
Who will I be now?
I can write my charecter sheet however I want too.
Natural Twenty on my charisma
Critical hit my failures
Damage reduction on Haters.
In real life, I paint my face on blank canvas
I have one simple goal.
I want to levitate slightly off of the ground
While summoning an undead army and shooting fireballs from the sky.
I might not get there.
I'll be ****** though, if I don't roll for it.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 9:59 PM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
Chaos, demolition, destruction
controlled through supervised instruction
no end to slaughter, no reduction
have their own ways of seduction
On that throne, they sit and stare
The one which is called the 'chair'
Nation's green honour gone abrupt
you say, you're still not corrupt?
no one points at you, while you deduct
waiting for the world to erupt
Just about everything, you'll see here
Roots all clung to the evil chair
In which those so called governors sit
organisers, runners of this lovely bit
performing tricks for the show to lit
prepared for them is a special pit
Looters and criminals, all have a pair
Of gloves to keep stain off their chair
Don't believe their words, bark whatever
bamboozle us, truth from our eyes they sever
residing in those large structures like hever
could write three books upon their clever
Dreadful reality transferred heir upon heir
Criminals need not legitimate relations, just their ****** chair!
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
I miss the Norwesters
I miss the heavy rains
I miss hurrying to catch a bus
Completely drenched
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Like a fish out of water
I miss the olden buildings
I miss the bustling streets
I miss riding the tramway
With a song playing on repeat
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
But a fish out of water
I miss the winter sunsets
I miss evenings by the lake
I miss Maharaja's kachoris
And jalebis on a steel plate
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Just a fish out of water
I miss the yellow taxis
I miss the hawkers' stalls
I miss the political graffiti
Adorning the walls
Oh Kolkata!
Without you I am
Still a fish out of water
Now I'm so far
But yet so near
My heart can't shelter
These hopes and fears
Rejection, reduction
I feel choked once again
Within your walls of nostalgia
Maybe I'll be safe
Oh Kolkata!
Show me a way
To return to the water
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
The moral decline of society seem to be rapidly changing society.
Drive by shooting by boys that never learned to fight.
Not that fighting solved anything.
Youth quick to call anyone a name.
Many males in present time with a prison story to tell.
Many still living off of bragging about their crime.
Politicians , are no better when you notice their crime.
Preaching morals beliefs , except robbing citizens blind.
Many will offer their assessment to when they think it started.
When in truth, we just can't say.
We have lived behind blinders for decades.
Putting up images before others that didn't mean a thing.
We all are not perfect in any type of way.
But pretend to be to get our way.
Then exposed before others, as a living fraud.
That's when we seek sympathy to come our way.,
The imperfect people accept their faults.
Which is evident in us all.
Especially those within church.
Pretending to be the perfect saint.
When in truth they ain't.
The moral decline of society hurts us all.
And until , we seek to be better.
We will continue to fall.
Rules and protocol with have their places.
If they are followed and abide by.
Then just nmaybe we will see a reduction of crime.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
He couldn't stay for tea
He was afraid he might feel something
Upstairs instead of in his
*****
If he had been thirsty
I would have shown him a metaphor
For dehydrated relationships
Gallium spoons dissolving in any hot liquid
Solubility tends to complicate things
We lose pieces of ourselves
At body temperature
Boil down impurities
A reduction of our leftover parts
Our leftover lust
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
Love is a Waldorf.
A Graham or an Ackermann? Nope,
won’t suffice.
Fortuitous interactions led me here.
The crest of Eebs, the sphere.
A polynomial function is infinitely
differentiable.
It carries many names, and many tools.
analyze it and again and again
Each derivative kills information.
Eventually we all go to zero.
Enjoy it while you can,
speaks the radio man man man STOP RHYMING
The rhyme scheme will further
our demise
destruction
is
imminent
at least I had waldorf
reduction
to
nothing.
at least I got chicken.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
I always find myself running back to this,
desperately holding onto the little piece of me
that can survive alone
that can create.
I wonder if you ever mean this torture.
As if seeing me fret is fine-
put me on silent and out of sight.
For me, every time my screen lights up
my sheets buzz,
I frantically look for you.
but it's just a message from someone else,
a 7 AM alarm that wasn't necessary,
a low battery alert.
I know you are busy, and that I'm being annoying
like you say I am. (It hurts me a lot when you say that.)
But last night we didn't lay together-
and last night I didn't sleep.
You told me you couldn't either-
but for me it was really true.
You can see the timestamps.
And I just want an answer.
I hate feeling so needy.
I hate this reduction.
I've grown so obsessive.
I know I can't force love-
but I've been trying from the start.
Last night I wanted to save us
from any more damage.
So my legs started out the door.
I couldn't stop messaging you-
you told me not to forget you
but how can I forget the voices in my head?
I keep hearing you everywhere
but reality.
And I keep staring at my phone-
it just lit up with your name.
And so did my brain.
Yet now that I finally got an answer-
it really wasn't what I wanted.
A calculated mine field of two short sentences.
So I put you away-
but never silent and never out of sight
and I'm sure you never fret
or frantically look for me
but that's okay-
because I can still create something
a text
that will always respond
and never let me feel ignored
and always be mine.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
They bribed me with promises of Audis and poverty reduction.
A six-figure salary, insurance, and free weekends.
They lured me with Prada bags, Chanel Shades and scarves by Hermes.
Vacations in Nice, transits in Paris, and business trips to Beijing.
They said I could meet the Dalai Lama, Bill Gates and the Queen of England,
have wine with Sarkozy, break bread with Al Gore, and kiss Prince William.
They dangled real men, real love and post-marital affairs in front of me
and gave me dreams of seven husbands and no divorces.
They convinced me to grow up and walk across the stage,
and their promises made me smile as I crossed over to the other side.
Today, I lay in my hammock wishing they’d promised me a job as well.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:22 AM 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
*sudden-bouquet
delight finds
reduction in
citric-colour*
goal-post abrupt
a million birds in a jaundiced-sky
trees bold-growing up to the edge of the cliff
a flattened mosquito on a screen
folder atop the lemon-ladder
wings all neatly spread and legs flayed
*yellow roses.. in the abbey
given away to orphans
with full-hearts*
forever-journey in honeyed-posey
S T – 01 Oct 2013
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
Succulent, meaty, ribs falling off the bone and drenched in a velvety, thick, sauce.
“Check please.”
Tender chunks of lobster tail bathed in sweet, drawn, butter.
“Thank you. That will be all.
Heavy, cream-coated, strands of fettuccine accompanied by fresh peas, Speck, and shaved Parmesan.
“I wish I could stay but I can’t.”
Filet. Rare. A veil of Roquefort and sautéed wild mushrooms in a Sauternes reduction.
“It's just not the right time.”
Perfectly seasoned carne asada with a creamy roasted poblano sauce, queso fresco and the cool, half-mooned, sultry innards of a Hass avocado.
“I'll call you tomorrow”
A decadent Kobe burger blanketed in cheeses, caramelized onions, crisp bacon, and a cap of unctuous foie grois.
“But thank you for everything.”
Peanut butter and jelly on white bread.
And you would have me forever.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
She ***** on a milkshake through a metal straw. Strawberry.
The place, Tom's on Western, is bare. Ash falls outside. It's
sticking to the glass windows. Glass and steel frames
and white paint and white chairs and ash outside.
A taxi cab goes up over the curb. A black woman in a headdress
gets out and tosses money, red money, blood money.
I'm here too sitting by the bathroom, noting the length
of Strawberry Milkshake's boy shorts. Is this objectification
or object reduction or reverse personification?
The siren in the distance winds down, sounds like it's melting.
Do sounds melt? She, Strawberry Milkshake, doesn't
seem bothered by what's going on outside. I want to sink
my teeth into her shoulder. Ash sticks to the glass, and a
kid, eight or nine, runs by, newspaper up over his head.
He's crying. I can see this, but I don't hear this. Water
starts leaking then pouring then falling in sheets. Ceiling
tile and insulation float at my feet. Strawberry Milkshake
pulls her wet hair back into a ponytail. I clear my throat.
She raises her middle finger. I walk over and tell her
there's this song she reminds me of. And a bomb hits just
down the street. There goes the glass, crashing all around
us, slicing past forearms and skipping through empty space.
The steel frames bend. She puts her hand to my face. My
face becomes her face, her hand my hand. She and I half-hum, half-sing
"Oh Destructo, you're so destructive. You're so destructive to me."
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
Navel gazing poetry reduction
Set schemes and syllables, are all defined
Words within these set guidelines are confined
automatic, a five point deduction
odd
nothing really rhymes with
poetry
poultry?
I
am
sure
the
chickens
like
a
certain
rhythm
to
the
piece
(kind of looks like one)
But in Days of yore, but so goes the tale
Poets would lyric, prose, perhaps, with a lute
But poorly formed rhyme meant pay not in loot
A Homophone, gets you payment, in ale
Momentarily,
The flow is interrupted
By a small Haiku
The point of the piece would be
As anyone could plainly see
without breaking some joints
to win back the points
And not be among the debris
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
This circle must complete
With each of Earth's orbit
It's a cycle that will repeat
But when global warming
Triggers mass glacial melting
From ozone layer's depleting
Where oil spills can ruin an ocean
Being used as garbage collection
Causing every ecosystem's suffocation
More landfills from over-consumption
Still, we opt for deforestation
Resulting in fresh water reduction
In disrupting her delicate cycle,
Can we understand that excess is not natural?
Wounded, it takes her longer to heal!
Like our mother, she has borne us all
Give her love! Must we watch her fall?
Open your eyes! Let's heed her call!
© 2004 - Pres Hello-Poetry.com - All Rights Reserved
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
Ancient Athens
demonstrated a demise of democracy into despair and squalor
at the hands of the voters.
Ancient Rome
recounts a reduction of a Republic into nationalist rancor
at the hands of the state.
The United States of America
is a sort-of culmination of both;
of how a Democratic Republic may fail,
impoverishing and subjugating it's own
as well as it's proximity,
reducing itself and any it can drag with it
from a respectful idealization of Human Experience
to a bloodthirsty, greedy, vapid shell
of Fascisms past.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 1:27 PM UTC
Shall I open volley,
spike with clenched hand?
Acquiesce to athleticism,
or drop return?
Is there a score?
numbers imply a plan,
encumbered; ******** clad...
jockstraps and leather,
tube socks and man.
****** courts,
exotic terminology,
words of reduction,
redacted, redacted, redacted!
under spells of seduction...
What more?
Who the **** cares.
Piles can be chucked,
and strip smiles, 1 grain at a time,
throw a bone, throw another,
you'll build your own monster.
What more?
redacted, redacted, redacted!
join me down below...
I'll give you history,
it will set everything aglow.
What more?
**** more.
Questions?
redacted; for your own security.
Not Goliath,
not even Iago... wait, that may be whom you cast!
Laughter man, so much laughter,
I grow darker;
a product of your mind; that's just a reminder.
Had I plotted, had I connived,
had I been...
trolling gutters,
sexing the populace,
setting parties to war?
You gave me the part,
and the act was in pantomime...
improbable for paralysis
severed spine,
redacted, redacted, redacted.
You set loose scenarios,
and now I willingly oblige...
I'll take my bow,
and cunning smile.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC