"remixed" poems
30 DPC #21
Rebirth and Overdose
I drink too many toxins,
I can't sleep.
I'm feeling way too boxed in,
Sides too steep.
Don't give me the rope just yet,
I might do something I regret,
And use the rope to run away
and just forget.
Remixed from the work of Aliza Eliora, and her poem, Overdose.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
That tapestry,
Red, Black, Gold
A Celtic Circle--
silently bearing witness
to the proceedings
of that smoky room:
The aquariums--one with
the large eel who seemed
to barely fit the tank
that took up half the wall;
and the smaller, vibrantly
colored fish in the
aquarium with the eggshell
colored coral.
The remixed music played
at a comfortable volume,
by the DJ we knew
so well, together;
as many times
it hardly seemed like
he was working at all,
as he just sat down and
talked to us, for hours.
Looking through
those over-sized books of
old advertisements,
and explanations of
historical artwork;
discussing the contents
with strangers,
who became friends
in the process.
Smoke billowed, enveloping
the atmosphere and filling it
with the smell of many spice
racks, pleasantly rolled in a
shell of a soft breeze
flowing from the oscillating fan.
The smell of joy,
of a relaxed sense of mutual
understanding; that it was okay
not to say a word, because the
atmosphere did the talking
for us.
We just enjoyed sitting
on those red pleather couches
that your **** sank back into,
not allowing my feet to touch
the floor; so they often just
dangled, legs swinging
to the tempo of the music.
As I took a hit
of the hookah,
I manipulated the smoke
into O's, puckering
my lips, trying not
to laugh as you
gazed at me in a
shy sense of wonder.
That face always made you
want to kiss me.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
_________________________________________________________________________
*
While the dawn storm blows,
Baghdad is calling
Soldiers stationed at the boundaries
The houses are on blaze!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the white ghost’s laughs,
Baghdad is crying
Bombs and shells blustered in the cities
The huts are in flames!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dusk light fades,
Baghdad is burning
Sounds of boots repeat at the villages
The Mosque is crowded!
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dark night falls.
The debris of war is floating
Date palms line alone the shore in grief
The women are being *****
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind!
While the dawn wind blows,
Mother’s breast bleeds
Troupes watch in silence from top
Blood is remixed with soil !
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind !
While the dusk light fades.
Pregnant Mother’s are lamenting,
Armored men near the entry ports.
Father lost, Mother ***** !
Still,
Desert wind is blowing so unkind !
*
__________________________________________________________________________
By
Williamsji Maveli
email
[email protected]
www.williamsgeorge.com
www.moonmakers.com
__________________________________________________________________________
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think
Wait for me
And save me a glass
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 11:05 PM UTC
If I took the lyrics of 'I can't make you love me' and 'See beneath your beautiful',
remixed them into a rap tainted with Eminem's vengeance and Ed Sheeran's soul,
and plagiarized Beethoven's most romantic composition to bring it to life,
maybe I would come a little closer to expressing my true feelings, if at all.
To tell you, though you already know, that I am in desperate need of saving.
I'm showing all the symptoms such as losing control, sense, rationality, sight,
and only you can cure me, not because of the doctor you're studying to be,
but because you are both my Superman and kryptonite.
I spend my days searching for a replacement, an alternative, a pastime,
but of course it's impossible as nothing can substitute perfection.
So I wrestle insomnia to dream of you, but I don't, I'm wide awake,
it's a nightmare. Then I pray only to behold that I'm denied salvation.
However as an intelligent, smart, independent young woman,
with my hair down, head held high and hips swinging to the beat,
I try to channel my energy elsewhere. Amidst all the positive thinking
tequila takes over and I return to my cold bed, with aching feet.
Ideally I want to be the woman you love, or realistically your ****
on the contrary I'm Neo from Matrix who took both pills.
Bewitched by your once in a blue moon texts, ignoring the red siren
in my head blaring, "nothing makes you stronger, it only kills!"
I have nothing exceptional to offer, so I do not know how to pitch
my average intelligence, talent, wit, personality and body.
Unless God, who you have no faith in, by some miracle
leads you to this, yet another one of my mediocre poetry.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
If you ask me if I am fluent in Spanish
I will tell you my Spanish is a mix of english
and spanish rubbing against each other
in my mouth like spitting fire
My spanish is my whole life from my youth
to my death
My Spanish is on my resume as a skill
And not something that can sit still
You see There is no telling my spanish
to be quiet
My spanish don’t know “quiet”
My spanish is spicy sounds that some people
Have a hard time to understand
My spanish sits in the corner of a classroom
Chews on a pencils, does not raise its hand
My spanish is chaotic, broken, and slightly misspoken
something that I have to choose
to remember correctly
My spanish is true story
My spanish is my grandparents
Giving me presents
that they brought back from Mexico
At least I hope they would have
My spanish is a broken clock radio that never
gets fixed but still works
And yes there are perks
My spanish is people asking me if my parents
are american if I am white
My spanish is having to prove that
I am mexican, because saying it was never enough
My spanish is my abuelita leaving a country
that she loves to give her family an entry to opportunities
And english sat in her mouth
remixed so strawberry became “ e streberry ”
And Kitchen, keychain and chicken all sound the same.
My spanish is my accent that
reminds me where i come from
And That we are still
bomba, plena, salsa, and guepa
Something that is too
stubborn for your whitewash
Not something that you can erase
Rather something that I embrace
My spanish is my dad working his whole life
so i can live in security
And not have to worry about disparity
My spanish is the first question that my
grandmother asked about me
“what color is she”
My spanish is my sister,
A blond blue eyed beauty
That always took priority
My spanish is people thinking that
My dad was my gardener
My spanish is people being petrified
when I spoke to my father
My spanish knowns that there are letters
that will always be silent
There are words that will always escape me
My spanish is my whole body
A sound that rumbles in my
chest and rolls off my tongue
My spanish is something that is shut off
when I am surrounded by white walls
But my spanish does not believe in
boundaries or borders
My spanish believes in building bridges
and not taking orders
From an orange man with tiny hands
that is an assaulter
My spanish, my spanish is a sword
that allows my words
To fly like the birds and be freed
My Spanish is my drive to succeed
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
Discombobulated...
"Bob! You late Again!?"
Its not
A statement
You can make
To make her change
The date again
Happy Belated
Birthday celebrations
Embracing
Her forgiveness
As the cure
For your forgets
Forged
Your signature style
Across the lines
Of her smile
As you kiss
With the intent
To signal her bliss
And ignorance
What's in store
For her
Is distortion
This portion of life
Fused with confusion
Contortionist
Twisting
The body
Of lies
With the a prose
That matches
Her pose
Unjustified margins
Never
Crossing the red line
But riding it
Writing with a wit
That could
Split her brain
In half
You call it
The gift a gab
Emotions versus Logic
The verse is
Littered with poetry
Personified
As a woman
Mixed feelings
Remixed
And mastered
To produce
A new product
For you to accept
Instead
You neglect
Her
Collected thoughts
!Implode!
She gathers
The pieces
To gain recollection
Of what happened
To her
To you
To love
She battles
Herself
To win the war
With you
Tie the knot
For christ sake!
Or undue
"To hell
With you!"
She yells
Her voice fails
To really reach you
It takes
Two
To tangle
Not to tango
To tango
Is to dance
And you'd
Miss your step
Every chance
You get
She feels
Obligated
To feel
For her first love
Inoculated
By the drug
That leaves her
Discombobulated...
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
there's a story on the wind
can you hear it?
an ode to a classic hero
facing enemies at every turn
a ballad from a love struck sailor
to his land locked dame
the lamentation of a tired soul
ready to exit stage left
epics bound in flesh
breathing the same air
walking the same earth
yet completely unaware
of when plot lines intersect
one persons sunrise
is another sunset
riding off to where the sidewalk ends
a stunning view of Mars in all his glory
from another window
an example of an empty vessel
hungry for content
with each step we act our the script
the world's a stage
the plays the thing
let's pan out and take into view
the aspect ratio in conjunction
with our soundtrack
monologues
dialogues
analog has less room for falsehood
than these digital lives
digital lies we lead
rewriting the scope and depth
of the narrative
without changing pace
or thinking to replace
certain key elements
like setting and grace
peace comes when the curtain closes
don't fret
encores are in order
but on the b-side of the single
we must note
with remixed emotion
that the stories we live have no sequel
so we must trust and ******
ourselves into every opportunity
paving the way to success
not just for us
but for those that read the synopsis
and hit rewind
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:51 AM UTC
Air fresheners killin' me softly about
judgment moments--days bruised hearts sing about
within the reach of hell--and she told me about her allergies
Of course Polaroids stalk what we don't see--those kisses
and the homeless starving, and flowers, and **** and books, those tears,
and when she broke the fever from food poisoning. I bet we'll remember that
--And the exposed arms around your waist,
lips on midday, heart up early, breakfast for two underneath
the only red umbrella
left after Gabriel's tune
we remixed
the night before.
Standing on the brink of the Lazarus water-mark
--And the man behind you, and the lack of others behind us.
Gehenna before us
wiping away the unforgivable.
--And they make us forget you were allergic
to the pollen of spring--the death-throes of day flies.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
stern with his words
to discern his concerns to stranger's for their hearts. infallible to present emotion
through echoing laughers; a healing tone around the restless worries of his kin.
abound him is the aura of forgotten soul,
a classic remixed romantic
comparable to the chivalry lost to the courts of modern life.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
Cry me a river
of joy,
she said
I knew she meant it,
by the silence
by the memory of her laughter,
how she poked fun
how she rubbed me down with giggles of mirth,
bellies gyrating with angst
and rambunctious
passion
I knew it
It was not the idea
of her
that scared me,
not anymore
would I think of women
that way
What
it was
that scared me
was how I knew we'd say goodbye
and I'd be okay
for once
okay
and happy she said goodbye...
Happy we didn't shovel moats & forge keeps,
establish plans of attack & surrender
belabor, humming & hawing, over broken treaties,
over civilian casualties
the banishment of civil liberties
and the proverbial
dictatorships of,
"I'm not the problem, so, it MUST be you."
Reply with,
"Yes, it is me."
I knew it,
"I'm sorry!"
Jinx!
Not this time.
This time,
she said goodbye.
And so did I. At least, inside.
And she meant it,
and it was honest.
And so was I. A small comfort.
First of many...
Her goodbye was a kiss that could rival
daydreams
of memories that are
more remixed than the splotches of oil
on a painter's palette,
and,
more dibbled and dabbled, than ten playlists of slow jams,
in my arsenal of hopeless stratagems,
bearing the desperate subtext of,
'park your rear end
where I can't begin to ask honestly.'
Because,
honestly,
if this weren't goodbye,
I could only trade this goodbye,
for ten thousand "Hello's"
whose end and beginning are lost to the tides of status quo,
of forget me nots
and anniversaries,
and picture frames
of days where we forgot what 'goodbye' meant,
because we learned to speak the truth...
And isn't it the truth,
that goodbye,
was so much sweeter than,
I can't stand,
how much we fought for a t-shirt
that eponymously said,
"I cried over spilt milk, and all I got was this t-shirt."
because none of us know
the name of the game,
but we know we hate playing it
Mar 22, 2024
Mar 22, 2024 at 6:49 PM UTC
There's something knocking at the back of my mind
and it sounds like pebbles hitting the nerves if my temporal lobe.
It's tapping in morse code and I can almost hear it
singing all those songs I was meant to forget.
They're slower though—acoustic and remixed
to the dying beat of all our memories.
If I focus on it long enough
I could probably pinpoint where it's coming from,
but I know I'm just choosing not to.
If I focus on it hard enough,
I could probably repaint its rainbow splatters on a canvas,
but I'm just choosing not to.
If I focus on it long enough,
I might just hear your voice again—
coated sweet nothings in nothing but syrup,
but I'm just choosing not to because
you never chose me, darling.
Even until now, we flinch at the sight of each other
rather than letting the light consume us like all the times before.
And maybe I'm just mad at the stars for not giving me some sort of sign
or godforsaken comet to warn me from falling for you the first time,
or the second,
or over and over again
Because it's not fair that you've still got my head spinning
when I cut every single piece of red thread that tied us together.
It's not fair that you've got me second guessing my present
because of the ashes and rotting debris of the past.
There's something knocking at the back of my mind.
It's tapping in morse code
about all the questions you left hanging in mid-air.
The thumping is getting louder and I can't—
I can't make it stop.
gd
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
For big sky
what can you
donate.
Why a beautiful partner
of forgiveness.
For a big bamboo tree
what can you can spread out
the message.
An Asian VILLAGE
SONG'S REMIXED
DJ sounds or
An artist's imaginal wave
creating a palace
with bamboo art.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:29 AM UTC
Rather than count, I stare at the hands of time,
And I watched the courageous day die before the hideous night;
Which I saw one hold his lady like a violet past its prime,
And play with her black hair along with the grey and white;
He watched the lofty trees and how they swayed in the breeze,
Staring as if they were gods with their heads stuck in the sky,
His lips pressed softly on her skin to put her at ease,
the violet turns weary and tears fall from her eyes,
Then of her beauty did she discover in itself,
She must watch it fly among the waste of time, slowly it goes,
Since lovelies and beauties abandon themselves
And die as fast as they see other's grow;
Know there is no such thing against time called defense
So save his love, for he is a brave man to enjoy the consequence.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
At first they were dreams.
Dragons in the night.
Dreams of who I could be.
Slayers in the night.
Dreams of where I could be.
Battles in the night.
Dreams with whom I could be.
The American Dream.
At the wake I saw the way.
Struggles in the light.
The man I need to be.
A fighter for what is right.
The roads I need to see.
A pass, rough in the light.
With whom I need to be.
My American Dream.
The pass lay steep. In wait.
But I flipped the switch and
Stared to screen. Screens of
Dreams. Screens of screams.
Screens for the Hollow Men.
Yup, Mistah Kurtz he dead.
But sure I saved before?
Where was I before?
Opinion of my own?
Oh no.
Goals of my own?
So so..
Achievements of my own?
Oh dear god, no!
But I had a dream of my own.
And then I let it go.
Between the conception
And the creation,
Between the emotion
And the response,
Falls the Shadow.
This is the way my dreams end.
This is the way my dreams end.
This is the way my dreams end.
Between my dreams
And no creation,
Between my jealousy
And the flat screen,
Falls the Shadow.
This is the way my dreams end.
This is the way my dreams end.
Not with a bang but a whimper.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
I lay there dying
With my mind wrapped in agonizing knots
Endeavouring to unravel the ardous mysteries of life
Resounding bangs wrecked my temple
With soul confined in fabric mesh of guilt wallowing in a limbo painted with slimes of failures
my third eye could glimpse spewed papers spilled ink and broken pens all baying for a piece of my inner being
The mission i had forsaken was baring it fangs ready to devour me
As i lay there dying it dawned to me the the race was over i was hanging in a ravine with judgement at the finish line awaiting my selfish soul
rivulet of ink soaked my **** skin sizzling and corroding my flesh the pain was unwritable misty wraith shrouded my eyes snatching away my last moment sight of the beautiful sun
I lay there with no sense of time laboured breath managed to escape my nasal cavity heartbeat drummed skimply giving me a last chance to make peace with my fate
Inside my restless heart my soul was dying
A cold heat was drying my old *****
My final dying wish tried to escape through my clenched
Teeth
I lay there trying to push the smell of death through my cracked throat
As i chocked with foul air of all the wrongs i had commited
My mask and guise that had obscured my face peeled away seething away my melalin baring my true identity to world masses
Numbed thoughts clogged my mind soaking the reality and waterlogging my six sense
I lay there with needles of truth jabbing every inch of my flesh
In hell demons remixed a dirge with my name reminding me i belonged in abyss
As i lay there dying a wraith of mist shrouded my whole being reminding me of all the darkness inside me weighing me down remindind me i had to die n e ever rise again
I lay there dying
Wondering how many will be left crying
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
It's 1:21am.
And I would've still been on the phone with you, had it not gone all wrong.
Now I just lie in a mattress of emptiness & an ambiance of lightlessness.
Listening to lyric-less piano chords remixed with the memories of you and me.
And how we used to be.
I hope that someday,
Just as every overplayed song on the radio,
This melody will fade out.
Never to be heard again.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
Azrael Azrael sweet angel death, send your body unto me, let me partake of ritual and rise, flawless and enraptured, into burning sky and hysteria
Pink haired staccato speech acid tripped tongues and twisted mouths you were conflicted, you were conflicted you were and then you weren't
Fallout of frat house suicide party remixed to ****** birth, holy degradation raise your weak and trembling wrists and want for more
Opiod mass epidemic and rising real estate costs, everybody wants a ride on the wheel until it drops off and takes everything in the periphery with it
I'm singing, I'm singing Mary mother dear Mary, will you come to reclaim me, I have waited here forever for a sign
Can you feel this, lover?
I am your death mask
I am your ghost and I speak through you
Kiss me hard with your open Judas mouth
Pray forgiveness into me
Cauterize me
**** me like an open wound
*** into oblivion and never wash your hands again
I am vessel
Open mouth begging hands
Drain into me so I may exist
Empty spaces in childhood bedrooms,
Abscess of feeling **** of spirit
Pure ******* energy
Siren call of the solipsists and the narcissists and the junkies at the church and the poets at the bar and the once sacred twice ****** ego
Nihilist **** and surrealist *****
Somebody has to clean up all this mess
Hit a last high and coast down, come together, shatter
Natural symmetry of becoming and unbecoming
We are working towards an end we will never see
But I can almost feel it coming, yes
I can feel it rise
Christlike and bleeding from the tomb of want,
Raise me, raise me,
Sanctify and cure
Strip me to naked soul ****** light
Light, heat, beginning, beginning,
Send me higher
Send me infinite and screaming into a moment, world historic and vicious, let me emerge ****** but alive, steel and gunpowder
Take me in all my pieces,
Ash tongue to golden hair,
Magician to magic,
Life to death to back again,
Take me by my cinder burning hands,
and teach them how to explode
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 2:11 AM UTC
My chest is tight
restriction from an untouchable force
anger
I want to hurt and destroy
bring justice
for every time I’ve been wronged
but this anger is misplaced
towards the innocent
who don’t know any better
so I tuck it away
and it turns inwards
causing so much pain
Eventually
after I’ve tried other things
I have to use physical pain
to make the tension
the frustration
the anger
go away
my anxiety came back
but remixed
with my fear
manifesting as anger
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC