"replicas" poems
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
***** nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
you sowed this **** into my brain...
why do you even "think"
that i want... you?
i, want your children...
the meme-mutation is what i'm
after...
and there are plenty of useful idiots
to allow me to process
the intermediating processes
for: the sigma, "accomplishment";
which is unlike
what infected mushroom's -
trance party track sounds like,
outside of my own head.
why do these people even
think i'm after their genes
of memes?
i want, their infantile
replicas...
i want to craft a
worthwhile curiosity,
on a canvas, that that they call
their gene replicas, children,
and... like why called me...
easy meat..
einfachfleisch...
what?
i'm not here for these news' anchors...
i'm here for their children...
nibble nibble nibble chew chow
cow tow and main...
prawn crackers...
ah... news anchors are
easy targets...
slightly pointless
20x bulls eye honing devices...
it's their children...
i want their children...
i want their cognition
to become replica of wheelchair
bound infirmaries;
why?
oh... you know...
football and wrestling,
given the Qatar investment plan...
the whole sport "thing"
became a tad bit boring...
had to resort to secondary sources
of entertainment;
children of news anchors?
the secondary, "last",
albeit, the best resort;
schindler...
required a list,
to become reincarnated...
and revive a **** a heartlessness
of an reincarnation
anomaly:
i.e.: what, a limited number
of people, to begin with?!
so the rest is primitive "a.i."?
now i'm starting to think...
thank the blue indians
for their culinary innovations...
but when it comes
to their theology?
**** 'em;
did i advocate that?
if i did... within what pronoun
guarantee of advocacy?
playing the grammar card...
which pronoun?
the plural singular,
or the singular plural,
or the gender neutral?
thank you jean-paul sartre,
for the... "i"...
i simply love, this revised concept
of a unit...
the revision clinging
to the royalist affirmation of pronouns...
i.e. 1 would say... so...
and 1... would, so, will, do so.
**** the pronoun debate
in Canadian politics...
if i have to resort to this?
then i will...
like your plain citizen...
may "i" speak within
the confines, of the royal, one,
given the example:
one might suppose...
to be the former, and the current,
highest, etiquette?
gender neutrality of pronouns...
last time i checked...
one was never allowed
pronoun stature...
why not address this
conundrum, to begin with?!
oh, right... too late...
too many loud mouths
without a guillotine...
so, basically, a cow fart's
worth of argumentation.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
for those who are concerned; I dispersed within the vastness of outer space.
My body, once caged all the stars, are finally in its resting place.
Maybe here, I am finally seen by those who romanticize the deathly night.
I am at a tranquil state, where all the planets are aligned just right.
No deaths, no violence, no wars, no fights.
No existential pain or crisis to plague a human's state of mind.
I am bound within the molecules of space and time, dancing on asteroids, I am entwined.
Finally, my body is free from the darkest of pains that had wallowed in my rib cage.
All the bottled emotions that had forever kept me enraged.
I have exploded into a beautiful mess, now the size of silica.
I am in motion, twinkling for those bellow in such a sorrowful world, as they paint me in Starry Night replicas.
They'll be envious to hear that I am conversing with Van Gogh himself.
We are in the cloudless night, a painting in a museum, and history within books on a bookshelf.
We're sprinkled in the dark like a beautiful combustion.
All the answers written in the stars for what we once questioned.
He tells me "be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high."
And that was enough for me to just get by.
I am a galaxy, freed in the vastness of the universe.
Into this new life of neighboring planets and meteors, my body will immerse.
I am the stars you see on your lonely nights.
And this time, please take your time to analyze my light.
I know I'm a mess, but I can make it beautiful.
For what it's worth, I once took the form of a dying artist, whom was so mutable.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
Art is either plagiarism or revolution,
but
we've all
heard that
before.
It feels like
originality is impossible
when only given
twenty-six
characters to work with,
and so
these are not
my thoughts,
this does not
belong to me,
I am
writing the same things
that all those before me have written.
We are either replicas or denying it.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
Long ago, on my
unpatriotic ways,
with anger patriots
turned ablaze.
They ill-treated me
with words of abuse,
even classes on patriotism
was of no use.
One day patriotic
tonic I drank.
It made all the difference,
to be frank.
Now professor of patriotism
I've become.
To hear my lectures
many patriots come.
And before my patriotism inspires
enemies of North and West
and before my nationalism
they easily bear and digest
and before Chinese
people of the North
have understood my
patriotic lecture's worth
and before their Olympians
represent Nation of mine
and before we get medals
in abundance this time
and before Pakistanis
decide to turn traitors at once,
inspired by my patriotic views
and my eloquence
and before Indians use golden
words for me to describe
and before my name
in history they inscribe
and before people start
giving me much respect
and before my big and
large statues they *****
and before my replicas
and dolls are put on sale
and before I start competing with
likes of Gandhi and Patel
and before this poetry
becomes too patriotic to comprehend
with slogan 'Jai Hind ' this patriotic
poetry must come to an end.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
At his little hippie college
he shows me a *** that looks like a wall
in a Rwandan museum, all skulls, he
learned clay in the Rift Valley
boarding school, on a kick wheel,
still his favorite
My brother is a potter
multicolor plaid shorts
little goatee
Banjo
Japan dreams
girl from Mozambique.
When we were little in Loiyangalani
we made tiny huts out of obsidian
while our Rhodesian Ridgebacks
sniffed the ground for cobras
sand vipers
scorpions
while twenty camels
walked by in a row
followed by tiny replicas
My brother is a potter, says to me
'When I am doing this I am
doing what I was created to do'
He makes a green and blue
candleholder for me which he calls
'The Islands,' light escapes through many holes
which look like sea turtles
pockets of air and
an atomic bomb just gone off
we turn off the lights
in my room in the hood,
snorkel in candlelight
My brother gives me
Rumi, incense, peace flags
We walk the silent night
smoke a clove
look at stars
like we used to do in the African riverbeds
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
From my rented attic with no earth
To call my own except the air-motes,
I malign the leaden perspective
Of identical gray brick houses,
Orange roof-tiles, orange chimney pots,
And see that first house, as if between
Mirrors, engendering a spectral
Corridor of inane replicas,
Flimsily peopled.
But landowners
Own thier cabbage roots, a space of stars,
Indigenous peace. Such substance makes
My eyeful of reflections a ghost's
Eyeful, which, envious,would define
Death as striking root on one land-tract;
Life, its own vaporous wayfarings.
2.9k
The son of man
Jesus Christ
Headed to river Jordan
True to the prophesy,
To meet John the Baptist.
Opening the sky
Father above
Jesus in
Jordan River
The Holy Sprit
Incarnated in a dove
Were revealed
The 3-in-1 mystery
To solve.
This as a backdrop,
Carrying replicas of the
Ark of the covenant
On their head,
Putting on
Gold-embroidered
Motely religious robes
Priests go to a nearby river
By the laity
Tagged, flanked
And lead.
In white costumes attired
The laity
Who have dressed to ****
Leave no space
On the road to fill.
The colorful procession
Grabs undivided attention.
Melodies hymns
Ear-and-heart-
Pleasing Music
Of harps and many a drum
An electrifying
Effect is the sum.
History has it
That
Ethiopia has been
Celebrating
Epiphany
Keeping originality
As never before
“Ethiopia raises its
Hands to God!”
Is witnessed
In Ethiopia’s Epiphany
Magnified manifold.
Reverberates the song
“Headed to River Jordan
The son of man! ”
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
We are wine with cake
without calories, not
like icing or drunkenness,
but being frosted with intoxication.
We are stain glass caked
with sunbeams, holding light
suspended in time, like if right now,
just this once, it was standing still.
We are fragile but delicious,
like little Eiffel Tower replicas
made from buttery sugar— not hardened—
but the soft store bought kind without directions.
But I’m pretty sure we aren’t
a car window's fracture pattern
caked with cracks,
or shards of a beer bottle
in splattered birthday cake,
or even a recycling plant’s office celebration with catering.
Unless it was really good catering.
So to clarify…
you glass
me cake
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 11, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
We popped ourselves up to the ideas of pop culture
and adopted the looks of orphans
spray paint and swear words
too loud overcrowded mischief
the misgivings of being too young
children throwing tantrums over ice cream
calendars fell and the montage ended
we were flung across the globe as dandelion seeds
weeds to be weeded
I was playing tight rope on the fence
and fell on the side with no safety net
skinned knees and black eyes
the stoners the dropouts the thugs and **** ups
***** and *******
******* and ********
these were just words
deactivated model replicas pointed at the head
college student with a chip on the shoulder
and the one they called the jester
and the one they called the king
with return addresses tattooed on arms
the awake became the living dream
no time for nights of nightmares
enough scare to go around
pack another GB and cry some more
my blood is ink dripping from the pen
yours drips from thighs and forearms
you want to be the new thing
you forgot what the original means
and burned all of your dictionaries a while ago
check my *** cheek
the origin is there
UK/USA
now all the lights are off
and the moon hangs fat, sacrificial in the sky
do you want the moon? That’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the moon.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
fall through the floor of the elevator,
held up by corkscrew works:
here it is quiet and
there is invisible fog and
the characters are dull replicas
save for the receptionist,
just a lonely purple and orange
painted singular eye,
and her assistant, the trace.
*when I've found someone
I feel even lonelier
to know how hollow they are,
just presets and language*
and there is
a terrible hole
in the vents,
or the attic,
where
everything leaches out
to the colourless
uncreated
nothing.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 6:23 AM UTC
The world is full of
wanna-bes and
used-to-bes and
almost-wases.
And the world is crawling with
naysayers and
false speakers and
people who never speak at all.
The world will never run out of
cookie cutters and
fakes and
exact replicas.
But every once in a while,
if you're lucky, really truly lucky
you meet a dream catcher or
a dream weaver or
a dream creator.
And every once in a blue moon,
should all the conditions be right,
you meet someone who is not afraid.
Someone who will hang their feet
over the very edge of this dismal world
look down into the dark expanse
take your hand
close their eyes
and jump.
And that person, my dear,
is you.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
Ambitious politicians
will mass reproduce themselves
to gather votes
And once in power
they will without doubt eliminate
their blood replicas
knowing full well
that they are every cell
as power-hungry
as themselves
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
Can you hear that sound
Like a tiny whining
You're a sad eyed puppy
Inside
It's a kind of yearning
When pining
away, wanting someone or something
So expensive beyond reach
The mind begins to fantasize what it's like,
Infantilize what's real life.
Enlisting unreasonable scenerios
Creative now with lies
And denials and exit strategies,
Scapegoats of close members of family, accusatory..
Blame all but yourself
Inflammatory story's demise
Because the lost moments spent
Pining away
Will die unknowing your real life self.
Inside that fog of fictitious false depictions
Who dat?
Starving yourself blind
See there on that podium
Your bad phat shines
Always in first place--gold medal favorite
Hooray it's not quite you or even true.
If pining were a sport
Having lost your minds
You'd all be winners.
Celebrity famous, go on
Crave being extra, so street savvy
"Hey Alexa, Google, Suri
Define obsession."
Pining turns dangerous
In absentia dysplased
Souls are stolen,
Human replicas.
Still carrying on pining
Away.
Killer lover blank.
Got brain? Bullets?
A shiv or Shank?
Sharp as a pine tree...
(Please,
Don't forget to give
Thanks.)
Jul 22, 2020
Jul 22, 2020 at 11:27 AM UTC
sternum (n.)
a bone extending along the middle line of the ventral portion of the body consisting of a flat, narrow bone connected with the clavicles and the true ribs.
I remember taking an anatomy class in high school, we had to memorize the bones of the body - the skeletal system. Scapula, humerus, mandible all favorable to the tongue, but I never liked the word sternum, it sounds far too angry, nothing like the supple it actually is. Years later I would still find myself walking to work and naming them off. Bones on my mind. Tibia, ulna, femur, breastbone.
Breastbone rolls around my mouth, lulls my anxiety towards its twin like a boat in calm waters. I think of your breastbone as a platform to profess my fascination. I am surprisingly amazed every time I count the steady rhythm of your heart, it's sound conducted as though your breastbone is a soundboard. I feel the slight ridges of your ribs when my head lays in the valley of your chest. There's not a day that I wouldn't love to get lost in the formations of your bones, each crevice a new place to hide - lounging in the curve of your collar bone, plucking the muscles of your fingers like guitar strings, getting lost to the soft scent of skin, and memorizing the plush roundness of your ******* each sensation leaves me with a new obsession. I look for replicas in everyday life, the hunt almost as intoxicating as smoke from campfires, or plucking wishbones from hens.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
sonder.
the realisation that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.
sonder.
the realisation that i am selfish to think i am the only person in the world who feels lonely,
as if i am the chosen one who the world has thrown her worst battles at,
as if i am unique in any way, shape or form when there are exact replicas of my being walking around,
with their thoughts and hobbies and feelings and emotions and experiences imitating mine.
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 6:19 PM UTC
Maybe, we’re all wayward souls looking for a
way out.
Spent so long squeezing into factory shoes,
small enough to contain us
that we’ve become numb to these
hand-me-downs.
This society that holds our hands down.
Only raising them when it’s time to change shoes.
Feet out.
Toe’s pointed.
Watch your heels.
Years of this and we’re still wearing what they want us to.
Walking around like counterfeits,
reproductions, imitations, replicas,
when we’re only us.
Only ever been us no matter what they say.
It might be cliche, but it’s an obvious truth.
Feet out.
Toe’s pointed.
Watch your heels.
Us has never left us.
Pressing against the soles of our factory shoes as each toe
bends, folds, distorts, depreciates with every step.
But it’s finding appreciation in every step that,
loosens the laces.
It’s discovering no step is the same step that,
lifts the tightened lip a bit.
It’s learning how to walk while others run,
running while others walk,
that leaves you bare foot in a world of broken glass.
Feet out.
Toe’s pointed.
Watch your heels.
It’s taking leaps while others surrender
their ability to negotiate with
themselves.
It’s conquering the ability to dress yourself that wears out
the factory shoes on your feet.
Feet out.
Toe’s pointed.
Watch your step.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
I cannot get to you. You
are like Jerusalem, a
misguided city. Your name is exposed
to the sun while i call to you in the
silence of the volcanic pre-dawn.
You have slides of affectation.
A pilgrim might mistake
you for the safety of a handhold
hammered in the sand.
Other
travelers knew the peril of
your affection.
You don't reply. So cold the
monument, so silent
the wall of your response.
This is all I know
and so do you that the
messages of the world fall
like the snow on the ground
white with shadows. Mute
replicas of shared emotion.
Drink to us the sour
vinegar of the sponge.
Caroline Shank
June 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022
Jun 16, 2022 at 12:05 PM UTC
I'm finding replicas of you in my insomnia
Smoke pouring from my nose
A manifestation of self destruction
The fear of death playing my lover
Sleeping on my bed sheets in my place
There is no shelf for my carousel thoughts
Heart of alternating magnetic poles
The quiet and the noise of night
Condradictons becoming rule of life
Forgetting how to breathe
But still remebring you in this insomnia
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
#Kabuki monstrosities of cute
*White snivel, and children who sniffle as they walk.
The containers used for oil. Little sparrows*
**shopping-malls of Shinto reactors
tsunamis of Hello-Kitty schoolgirl ****
*Pretty, white chicks who are still not fully fledged
and look as if their clothes are too short for them*
**tiny plates of aesthetically-arranged trivialities
meaningless Engrish phrases on T-Shirts**
Last year’s paper fan. A night with a clear moon
One needs a particularly beautiful fan for some special occasion
**in herd-like apathy, they download Anime Girlfriend App
the robotic allure of the Orient defined**
*To wash one’s hair, make one’s toilet, and put on scented robes
An earthen cup. A new metal bowl. A rush mat*
cramped restaurant-bars with detailed replicas of food#
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 2:15 PM UTC
Cada dia mas, me siento mas lejos de mi misma
Ya no hay pasos adelante , sino pasos hacia tras
Solo hay piedras en mi camino, no hay espacios para caminar sin tropezar
Y dicen que lo que no te mata te hace mas fuerte, pues a mi me ha vuelto
mas debil, sintiendo como mi vida se me escapa de mis manos
ya no se que hacer para cambiar mi destino
Solo existen pocos momentos de alegria y paz
Solo existe soledad ,Solo existen pensamientos atormentadores
y mis replicas de angustia
Solo existen ellos, y yo dejo de existir cuando se apoderan de mi
y mi yo, se vuelve inexistente.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:12 PM UTC
Greedy, prideful, arrogant, disrespectful, lazy and petty that’s exactly what you are!!
When I see you I get Anxious, frustrated, annoyed, awkward and insecure! I'm so justified against your filth but I can't escape the shadows of your 7 billion replicas! It's never me it's always you and that’s the way the world runs. But Why???? OOPs a question against the Ego. To late to reverse my lips for the antidote was injected upon my inquiry...Truth.....This whole time I’ve been the object and the subject! I'm a MIRROR! I hated you because I hated me! My inner reflection appeared in a different face and I wouldn't allow myself to make the connection! It was just to painful....Now I see dimly but a lot clearer...I see a token of my self....please allow me a moment to cry.......We are all mirrors for each other! We Reflect deeper images of our identities in the places our carnal sense simply fail. Each reflection upon a reflection provides an individual a deeper meaning of their unique image. Each interaction gives us the chance to grow. The catch is that growing is awfully painful and terrifying so we reject it. These reflected internal images dwarf the limited physical realm that only dies with our bodies. "We who are many" (Romans 12:5) in reflection are all attached into one single body created for eternity in the ultimate reflection of God. "Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known." 1 Corinthians 13:12..............Peace and righteous action starts with the claiming of our painful and sinful reflections that we see in others............
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
I know Lonely Street.
I’ve walked its beaches,
Stared mindlessly at
Friend television.
I’ve filled afternoons
With sips of coffee.
I know all of the
Hiding places there:
Bars with cement floors,
Noisy ceiling fans;
City libraries;
Movie theaters.
There is no color
Here on Lonely Street -
Only replicas
Of houses ashen.
There is no music -
Reiteration.
I know its benches,
Where I tease pigeons
With my popcorn and
Chitter at tree rats,
Watching worlds go by,
Waiting for passage.
I know this safe place,
This sanctuary,
This holy sector,
This respite from feeling,
Where any feeling
Feels likes it's torture.
So, I hide or seek
Anonymity.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC