"replicable" poems - Hello Poetry

It is a replicable dialectic that swirls in my mind like a spiral of cigarette smoke covering fluctuations of diffused expanses of transferable hallucinated images relying on an artificial artificiality to generate a reality one that amplifies a calisthenics of maximized reduction in the blank vacuum of space allows those sophistication’s where there is a scrutiny of exclusions that may perhaps betray the concepts of others those correlatives of our own creative interirority where a mind may repeal a transgression for it is breakfast in the time of the Wizard Pig

0

Apr 21, 2013

Apr 21, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

Breakfast in the time of the Wizard Pig

It is a replicable dialectic that swirls in my mind like a spiral of cigarette smoke covering fluctuations of diffused expanses of transferable hallucinated images relying on an artificial artificiality to generate a reality one that amplifies a calisthenics of maximized reduction in the blank vacuum of space allows those sophistication’s where there is a scrutiny of exclusions that may perhaps betray the concepts of others those correlatives of our own creative interirority where a mind may repeal a transgression for it is breakfast in the time of the Wizard Pig

21

As long as the sun rises time will continue to pass by Greeting those who just arrived Kissing good by those headed for a better life You go to bed crawling and wake up as wrinkly as a raisin A blink of an eye and ten years have gone by Every year, month, day, minute, second its non replicable Non existing twice There will never be a yesterday like today Nor a today like yesterday Rocking back and forth in front of a warm fire place Looking at the non-stopping clock A lifetime printed in 90 karat golden sheets Capturing every stage of life Preserving memories until the end of time A person to be known thousands of years after their death Time machine Allowing people to re-live their greatest experiences All earth's gold brought together Transformed into a thin glossy sheet of paper An image, a picture A treasure...

0

Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC

janette-bustos-barocio

Time Machine

As long as the sun rises time will continue to pass by Greeting those who just arrived Kissing good by those headed for a better life You go to bed crawling and wake up as wrinkly as a raisin A blink of an eye and ten years have gone by Every year, month, day, minute, second its non replicable Non existing twice There will never be a yesterday like today Nor a today like yesterday Rocking back and forth in front of a warm fire place Looking at the non-stopping clock A lifetime printed in 90 karat golden sheets Capturing every stage of life Preserving memories until the end of time A person to be known thousands of years after their death Time machine Allowing people to re-live their greatest experiences All earth's gold brought together Transformed into a thin glossy sheet of paper An image, a picture A treasure...

24

I have nothing to say because you've made me realise how stupid I've been and nothing can make it better now. It can't be fixed. It's broken. Shattered. How stupid I was to believe what we had was ever strong enough to withhold everything you made me feel, the weight of the pain, the duality of our emotions how naïve I was to believe in the unachievable, that I could reach the unreachable I've realised how much I have been used, just something on the side that's always there for convenience, for the experience, but never for the love that I deserved And how stupidly naïve I've been to keep playing your twisted game, to keep convincing myself that your lies were the truth - even through doubt and accusations I believed in you, to keep allowing myself to fall deeper and deeper into the quicksand that was consuming me, the water that was drowning me, the light that was blinding me that was stupid, stupid, stupid I've realised how much one tiny thing can affect you and make you feel so much that you don't know what to feel, so you just feel nothing, empty, worthless I've realised how quickly you can go from being everything to someone, their whole world, then the next moment you're everything you never thought you'd be - a broken music string, a shard of broken glass, something that was once part of something beautiful, but that they no longer need, easily replaceable yet imperfectly replicable How someone transforms from a caring companion to a silent stranger without you noticing or believing, and you waste your days and nights stupidly, relentlessly torturing yourself with thoughts about the exact moment that this transformation may have occurred, torturing yourself about all the things you should have done, should have said, but you didn't, suddenly carry the weight of all the sadness and heartache in your life But of course this weight is still yours. And the carrier is still you. Or rather the shadow of what you should have been. I still have nothing to say. A million thoughts but no words. I will not let words betray me - my thoughts keep me safe. I will not let emotions consume me - small hope keeps me sane. it is stupid, stupid, stupid to believe that I don't deserve to carry this weight all the way out of the broken path of pain and regret, to release it in the light of new possibilities and new ideas and new behaviour because I am now free - I can be who I want to be and think what I want to think and say what I want to say - I will no longer be broken glass but a mosaic, no longer a broken string but an instrument, because no one is obstructing the construction of my goals and no one is disrupting the formation of my dreams and no one is making me believe I don't deserve what I want, that I don't deserve more than what you gave me. I've realised how stupid I was to believe in you.

0

Jun 8, 2013

Jun 8, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC

daisy-may

Stupid

I have nothing to say because you've made me realise how stupid I've been and nothing can make it better now. It can't be fixed. It's broken. Shattered. How stupid I was to believe what we had was ever strong enough to withhold everything you made me feel, the weight of the pain, the duality of our emotions how naïve I was to believe in the unachievable, that I could reach the unreachable I've realised how much I have been used, just something on the side that's always there for convenience, for the experience, but never for the love that I deserved And how stupidly naïve I've been to keep playing your twisted game, to keep convincing myself that your lies were the truth - even through doubt and accusations I believed in you, to keep allowing myself to fall deeper and deeper into the quicksand that was consuming me, the water that was drowning me, the light that was blinding me that was stupid, stupid, stupid I've realised how much one tiny thing can affect you and make you feel so much that you don't know what to feel, so you just feel nothing, empty, worthless I've realised how quickly you can go from being everything to someone, their whole world, then the next moment you're everything you never thought you'd be - a broken music string, a shard of broken glass, something that was once part of something beautiful, but that they no longer need, easily replaceable yet imperfectly replicable How someone transforms from a caring companion to a silent stranger without you noticing or believing, and you waste your days and nights stupidly, relentlessly torturing yourself with thoughts about the exact moment that this transformation may have occurred, torturing yourself about all the things you should have done, should have said, but you didn't, suddenly carry the weight of all the sadness and heartache in your life But of course this weight is still yours. And the carrier is still you. Or rather the shadow of what you should have been. I still have nothing to say. A million thoughts but no words. I will not let words betray me - my thoughts keep me safe. I will not let emotions consume me - small hope keeps me sane. it is stupid, stupid, stupid to believe that I don't deserve to carry this weight all the way out of the broken path of pain and regret, to release it in the light of new possibilities and new ideas and new behaviour because I am now free - I can be who I want to be and think what I want to think and say what I want to say - I will no longer be broken glass but a mosaic, no longer a broken string but an instrument, because no one is obstructing the construction of my goals and no one is disrupting the formation of my dreams and no one is making me believe I don't deserve what I want, that I don't deserve more than what you gave me. I've realised how stupid I was to believe in you.

18

*the aerodynamics on that **** past the **** **** me... miles davis on the trumpet! followed up by john coltrane on the sax.* sure... it's like egg-friend rice, of any kind replicable... but this is hoisin sauce, and soya sauce... jumping at each other in the mix... or that's: half an hour, sitting on the window-sill, sitting on my foot folded, massaging my **** thinking: there's bound to be a few more inches' worth of **** stuck up there.... c'mon heel! massage that **** a bit more, if we get a few more farts out... we're bound to get the **** out too! that's the funny thing... you can have a lodged **** but then you can also **** and the **** doesn't come out... how do farts byspass the **** that really is, a weird question... it's a bit like comparing it so psychiatry... all these thoughts (farts) keep coming out... past this thick fudge-berg lodged in my head (the ego)... how did they ever bypass that shit-berg's worth of contemplative and monetary's unit worth of reasoning about, in the first place? well... if you're going to circumcise people... might as well call the **** the mind... and make fun out of circumcised freud... better now? ah hmm mmm? farts the thoughts, thoughts bypassing the lodged in **** turd's worth of ego... surely if there's aerodynamics... there must be some sort of cognitive-dynamism... a bypass... people love to simply call it ignorance... but it's not... oh, lookie here... fits neatly, right into my trouser pocket; what was it? farts, thoughts, ego, **** well.. you know... some of us like the idea of shortcuts.

0

May 14, 2017

May 14, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

inventing the sweet & salty

*the aerodynamics on that **** past the **** **** me... miles davis on the trumpet! followed up by john coltrane on the sax.* sure... it's like egg-friend rice, of any kind replicable... but this is hoisin sauce, and soya sauce... jumping at each other in the mix... or that's: half an hour, sitting on the window-sill, sitting on my foot folded, massaging my **** thinking: there's bound to be a few more inches' worth of **** stuck up there.... c'mon heel! massage that **** a bit more, if we get a few more farts out... we're bound to get the **** out too! that's the funny thing... you can have a lodged **** but then you can also **** and the **** doesn't come out... how do farts byspass the **** that really is, a weird question... it's a bit like comparing it so psychiatry... all these thoughts (farts) keep coming out... past this thick fudge-berg lodged in my head (the ego)... how did they ever bypass that shit-berg's worth of contemplative and monetary's unit worth of reasoning about, in the first place? well... if you're going to circumcise people... might as well call the **** the mind... and make fun out of circumcised freud... better now? ah hmm mmm? farts the thoughts, thoughts bypassing the lodged in **** turd's worth of ego... surely if there's aerodynamics... there must be some sort of cognitive-dynamism... a bypass... people love to simply call it ignorance... but it's not... oh, lookie here... fits neatly, right into my trouser pocket; what was it? farts, thoughts, ego, **** well.. you know... some of us like the idea of shortcuts.

36

perhaps the europens conducted anthropological studies on the Amazonian tribes, niche pockets of a quirky corporation ethics - perhaps... but when one european looks at another european, and conducts his own anthropological study? who says i'm not conducting an anthropological study of the English - who are more deluded as islanders than the ******* Icelandic people, with regard to shared roots... traveled the world a bit too much... brought back the elgin marbles and several minor mummies... but then... the Pakistani **** gangs... whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming. what? reality is not some brick wall you get to impose with what 19th century romanticism movement was... a bout of nostalgia... to me? the english are... collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south, i'm sure it's different in the north... but the southern english? a strange breed of ego-bloating - megalomania, collective solipsism, a shogun complex... solipsism? just a fancy word for autism... i've seen flies congregating on a **** appearing more sociable than these people... an englishman's home is his castle... yet when i own a castle... they think i live in their castle's dungeon, rather than my own home.... weird people... truly odd... i'm pretty sure the english didn't expect a covert anthropological study to be taking place, from behind a velvety almost see-through curtain... it's not like they have much to feel proud about... perhaps the minor instances of selected sports at the olympics... and all of this based on one example, but of course, outside the proximity, there's the multiplication factor, i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere... perhaps not football... but anthropology is certainly coming home.

0

Aug 6, 2018

Aug 6, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

reverse-anthropology

perhaps the europens conducted anthropological studies on the Amazonian tribes, niche pockets of a quirky corporation ethics - perhaps... but when one european looks at another european, and conducts his own anthropological study? who says i'm not conducting an anthropological study of the English - who are more deluded as islanders than the ******* Icelandic people, with regard to shared roots... traveled the world a bit too much... brought back the elgin marbles and several minor mummies... but then... the Pakistani **** gangs... whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming. what? reality is not some brick wall you get to impose with what 19th century romanticism movement was... a bout of nostalgia... to me? the english are... collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south, i'm sure it's different in the north... but the southern english? a strange breed of ego-bloating - megalomania, collective solipsism, a shogun complex... solipsism? just a fancy word for autism... i've seen flies congregating on a **** appearing more sociable than these people... an englishman's home is his castle... yet when i own a castle... they think i live in their castle's dungeon, rather than my own home.... weird people... truly odd... i'm pretty sure the english didn't expect a covert anthropological study to be taking place, from behind a velvety almost see-through curtain... it's not like they have much to feel proud about... perhaps the minor instances of selected sports at the olympics... and all of this based on one example, but of course, outside the proximity, there's the multiplication factor, i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere... perhaps not football... but anthropology is certainly coming home.

59

I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes. Never know what the slots will bring. When I told you I liked surprises I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics all over the bedroom sheets counting how many times you could divide yourself from yourself and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians always failing to find the difference between their science and the love you needed. I was 7 digits from talking you down. You felt you were born 6 feet too high. There are 5 times I can remember you laughing the last of those was on the 4th of July. How can anyone believe they are free when we are bought at this calendar price? You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it. Silly woman, time is not made of numbers, but of songs. I replay that memory at least 3 times a night. Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number. I have spent cozy evenings cuddled up with the burden you left behind. It is colder than I remember you and always seems to squeeze my neck just a little too tight. You wanted to become 0, ignoring my side of this equation, but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole. I fell down bell curve cliffs until my words themselves became improbabilities. My love was more than average, I mean... I miss you. I mean... You're so **** stupid. I mean... I loved you. I mean... I love you. If you and I are numbers we are easily replaceable, replicable as science has always wanted us to be. I am telling you now that no one else fits. I should have told you that a few days ago when I had more of you to stand by than fragments of memories each one passing, blaspheming your sum.

0

Sep 6, 2013

Sep 6, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC

steven-hutchison

Suicidal Numbers

I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes. Never know what the slots will bring. When I told you I liked surprises I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics all over the bedroom sheets counting how many times you could divide yourself from yourself and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians always failing to find the difference between their science and the love you needed. I was 7 digits from talking you down. You felt you were born 6 feet too high. There are 5 times I can remember you laughing the last of those was on the 4th of July. How can anyone believe they are free when we are bought at this calendar price? You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it. Silly woman, time is not made of numbers, but of songs. I replay that memory at least 3 times a night. Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number. I have spent cozy evenings cuddled up with the burden you left behind. It is colder than I remember you and always seems to squeeze my neck just a little too tight. You wanted to become 0, ignoring my side of this equation, but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole. I fell down bell curve cliffs until my words themselves became improbabilities. My love was more than average, I mean... I miss you. I mean... You're so **** stupid. I mean... I loved you. I mean... I love you. If you and I are numbers we are easily replaceable, replicable as science has always wanted us to be. I am telling you now that no one else fits. I should have told you that a few days ago when I had more of you to stand by than fragments of memories each one passing, blaspheming your sum.

51

Suppose I am just blue. pale, hardly replicable. Neither black; nor white but lacking saturation nevertheless.

0

Sep 24, 2024

Sep 24, 2024 at 1:29 PM UTC

Emmamendesofficial

Benecio

Suppose I am just blue. pale, hardly replicable. Neither black; nor white but lacking saturation nevertheless.

5

Had it never occurred that I needed you. My washed up face and energies spent on the splashed and slashed price tags of our youth. The cigarette toasties and the perfumed hallways melted in the background of the wooden spoked wheel. Looking strangled from the hung & hitched ceramic body with incense laden sprawled askew I can now appreciate what that once was. Plaster always surrounded us in our uniformed uninformed day by dazed existence that went on to makeup our evolutionary now that is. I went my way and you yours and I fear forever that our paths may never cross. I recall this blue and silver pen that I received from my father years back...and like you, it is also non replicable and irreplaceable. Like Clouds for all but gone.

0

Mar 21, 2015

Mar 21, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC

CLStewart

Like Clouds for all but gone.

Had it never occurred that I needed you. My washed up face and energies spent on the splashed and slashed price tags of our youth. The cigarette toasties and the perfumed hallways melted in the background of the wooden spoked wheel. Looking strangled from the hung & hitched ceramic body with incense laden sprawled askew I can now appreciate what that once was. Plaster always surrounded us in our uniformed uninformed day by dazed existence that went on to makeup our evolutionary now that is. I went my way and you yours and I fear forever that our paths may never cross. I recall this blue and silver pen that I received from my father years back...and like you, it is also non replicable and irreplaceable. Like Clouds for all but gone.

1

oh but the thought of tears, and the brimming of a heart's discontentment; chokes; to reveal a strage form of actually being... content. what i just experienced? was nothing more than an in situ anomaly... well, just as much as a portishead song: wandering stars... because that's what i witnessed; **** me, no telescope, no microscope, no kind of comet, just the naked eye, and the noumenon; because either newton or einstein could never call it the phenomenon of a halley's comet; and by phenomenon i mean recurrent... replicable... a noumenon event though? happens at the odd occurrence of only once; death doth bid, the questions away.

0

May 25, 2017

May 25, 2017 at 6:25 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

an in situ anomaly

oh but the thought of tears, and the brimming of a heart's discontentment; chokes; to reveal a strage form of actually being... content. what i just experienced? was nothing more than an in situ anomaly... well, just as much as a portishead song: wandering stars... because that's what i witnessed; **** me, no telescope, no microscope, no kind of comet, just the naked eye, and the noumenon; because either newton or einstein could never call it the phenomenon of a halley's comet; and by phenomenon i mean recurrent... replicable... a noumenon event though? happens at the odd occurrence of only once; death doth bid, the questions away.

22