"replication" poems
i don't know who i am; supposed to be -- if only you were to love me -- only when i am the perfect replication of your mind's child.
**your sharp, unforgiving words do not reduce who i am,
though all the more i feel unloved.**
instead, i have reduced myself to a four-year-old child hoping, wishing, pleading to be loved even a bit -- by you.
by what i thought were sincere hugs & kisses,
good morning & goodnight.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
This is not about you.
This is not about
the transmutation
of your jail celled mind
wrapped in self-help
and cellophane.
This is not about
your new found
discovery
discovering me
and my afflictions
according to the
white man’s diction
a dictation
of my past
extracted
and examined
under the microscopic
power of time.
This is not about
your self-defined
enlightenment
when you made
a deal to unearth
the truth of HeLa
coated in dust
covered particles
of HeLa
on your nightstand
and I laid
in a grave
unmarked.
This is not about
my big lips
and thick hips
under ***** covers
running a sweat
fever on my thighs
shaking feet in stirrups
and the pain was rich
after a tight pinch
and I didn’t know
what part of me
had been snipped
to grow cold
and never die.
No, this is not about you.
This is about me.
A historic legacy
left to thrive across the time
less chains of nucleic
tidal waves
Covalent bonds
could never rival
the strides of this soul
miles beyond
the distant
COLORED ENTRANCE
something brewing
inside dividing
inexplicable replication,
readying for harvest
behind a dried tobacco field
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
lay low
make yourself a nervous fit
imperfect replication
here no one’s happy
staring down narrow paths
burning out the cells
lining their guts
words are worthless.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:49 AM UTC
I stopped to,
capture a photo,
of the leaves upon the damp,
ground,
then I stood and,
looked around,
peace,
quiet,
no one in sight,
for this moment was my very own,
a gift from,
above,
or just around,
a beautiful second,
in my stressful life,
to breathe deep,
and get some,
relief,
something seemed,
wrong in capturing it,
for it would steal away,
it's lovely features,
they would rust over,
and begin to fall away,
no,
this is a moment,
that no one would ever know of,
no replication could be made,
not even in written words,
could I express,
the freedom in these eyes,
my spirit lifted high,
my lips parted,
ready to participate,
in something gorgeous,
for this is the first day,
in many days,
that I felt truly,
alive,
for the right,
reasons,
for the seasons,
changing,
for the earth spinning,
for my hair growing,
for my eyes seeing,
for my existence being.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
Radioactive sunlight cascading over tendons pulling under scar tissue. Carved out, flesh eaten by buzzards. If she was a real girl, she may have cried. Vultures, all of them.
Hacking at marrow of the innocent. Lilies bloom in her eyes.
Harps in the distance, church bells interrupt to strike eleven times. Glittering like a magic something in the nervous heat.
The illegal existence.
She has bird bones in her box of Him. His prints deeply embedded, even now. He smiles in her memory, flashing teeth. Going extinct.
No longer an easy replication,
but she keeps her shrine.
In her kitchen, petals start to fall in soft disgrace. Time stops.
It has been said, late at night, you can still catch glimpse of her gleam.
May even catch the kaleidoscope in her eyes. They do not understand this. With briar and rose, she turns herself into prose.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
COURAGEOUS,
COURAGEOUS ….is a feeling…
only one of our everyday motions
Or is it more?
Is it a figure of speech,
or just a random word picked out of the dictionary….
Is it a thought or just a subject,
A FEELING or a PERSPECTIVE?
A hiding place or a stand point?
But what if it was more?
More than just a perspective……. OR an objective.
More than a thought.
Instead, a way of living,
A Mere reflection of the spirit LIVING IN…..US
A physical replication of a worldwide SOUND echoing from the very attribute of us being COURAGEOUS
A BRAVE way to dive head first into tragedy and create an uprising in the many hearts who only seek to obey the laws of men.
To be a manifesting representation of CHRIST in an unbelievable way that will ARISE an outburst of PASSION in the hearts of MANY.
To be courageous is to live everyday as if it was literally your last.
To BE COURAGEOUS is a statement
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 5:51 PM UTC
Insecure, was the sign on your door,
The door was always unlocked
You were quick to answer with every knock
Your back pocket held a mirror,
it is for protection you said.
A faint replication of self worth
Would stare back at you.
On stainless steel
tear stained water spots left paths
tracing back to your regrets
A slice of the world reflected
in the pointed mirror
everything was more burnished,
but inverted.
You used it
to cut through the ****** tension
Between you and your frivolous guests,
with slick, quick witted flirting.
So sharp,
you penetrated through
Leaving a piece of yourself inside their hearts.
No exit wounds.
When you stare at it in your clutch
it points north,
Towards the star that is always there
For you,
that will guide you home
But the magnetic attraction
towards your thirst for drama,
Sidetracks you.
Like a deflecting needle
That is no longer running on its axis
Free will, bouncing thoughtlessly
With the world no longer holding it captive
Not moving in accordance
To what keeps the world balanced,
What a thrill,
You like the way the world looks
So limiting, so manipulative
When it is reflected on the narrow surface
Wrong side up.
You grip the knife, carelessly
Until you overstep the boundary
Of right and wrong
And you trip on the tight roped tension
That you had strewn across
between you and the other side
And you stumble,
your canny dallying discourse
slips away,
hitting hard, landing straight in the back
of the one who loved you
for your innocent eyes
who didn’t come in
through the door with the sign
but instead came in,
through the window of your soul.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
There's been a miscommunication
Between my heart and my mind
Electrical impulses at every synapse
Scream your name in adoration
In every neuron they will find
That there has been a collapse
It's caused by my love for you
All that I know to be true
Is that there has been a malformation
A terrible replication of some kind
The one that courses violently perhaps
It fills my mind with all this information
To all else I've gone blind
A neural take over that I can't surpass
Because my body knows that I love you
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Feeling what I feel is painful,
The confusion,
The pain
Always annoyed.
The future ... The future ...
Eco
I am the replication of myself.
Who pulls the strings? Stop!
Who controls the heads,the voices?
Am I the underground one or the other?
The one that range in silence, or the one that you hear?
One is mine. The other belongs to whom? Yours?
Is the half missing, your half?
My better half, yours?
Half me, half you?
Half?
Wait. What are you doing? Wait!
Half afraid to be half yours.
Half fear, half me. Half?
I'm always unbroken in what i do
How can i be divided?
Why should I bring my entire soul to be half?
I might as well be completely me than half yours, right?
What are you doing?
Wait.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
it was the
summer
of 13
when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave
amped
the tenderloin
slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen
packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers
their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End
getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society
Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....
the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps
America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers
a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed
Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels
washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe
Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters
millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast
Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours
9/8/13
NYC
jbm
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
~
*I'm an exit wound
I'm a numinous obstacle
I'm about to make landfall
I'm about to break free
I'm a nerve ender
A fascinator
A purifier
A world populator
And I'm about to break through
I'm the push and pull
I'm a counter argument
I'm dissonance resistance
I'm viral replication
I'm about to break out
I'm a singularity
I'm a spark
I'm the perfect detonator
To mind and heart
And I'm about to break up
I'm a simulacra
I'm an oscillation
Made of breath only
I'm a living, moving imprint
Of what no longer is
Yet somehow seems to be*
~
Mar 15, 2025
Mar 15, 2025 at 2:02 PM UTC
I plan on using your shaving mug.
a plan not worth telling
unless you knew of
the many howling adolescent evenings
I spent
jabbing my fingers in the snout
to touch your leftover hair.
It was stuck,
preserved with ancient soap,
cleansed of life, of pigment.
I wanted to touch the filament
that once burnt you
into being.
Yourself entombed
in pottered clay, soft beige
monument. The hands that once
shaped it, like yours;
they tend to me, bring me shape
in a formless world.
The same shoots grow here;
on my crown and over the temples.
I worship your concept,
myself a replication - thin haired
and inadequate. Less loved, more turbulent,
with naught left but life.
It's less than what you have;
idealised memory, a shrine of compliments,
a spotless life of saviour and sin.
How I love you, oh privation,
How I miss you,
dear Father.
now is the time though,
to clear my reflection.
now is the time
to wash you out.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
There's a frenzy around ID cards
when you're fifteen
an excitement like trapping bees in an airtight jar
which cannot be replicated as an adult
although the behavior is the same:
Criticize the picture
Berate oneself for being
A human with height and width and coloration
Then there's the barber shop mirror replication of self
the meta-selfie of taking a picture of one's ID
and posting to
everything . . . ever
so you have a sounding board for your self-aggrandizement
enrobed in self-deprecation like
a chocolate-dipped madeleine
which will inherently lead to a
knitted afghan of praise and adoration
which was entirely the point
Then there's the dismissal
the abandonment into a wallet
from which it will never escape
living out lifetimes ad infinitum in vain
never recognizing the worth of
Your student ID
113809
which identifies you
but is not you because
You could never be so two-dimensional
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Marriage is
For neural wellbeing
Of the Human World.
The goal is not mere
Replication,
Reproduction and
Proliferation
Of human miseries!!
That is why it is
Defined as living together,
Dividing and sharing
The life's neural issues
For a life time . . .
Period.
It is done as a pair,
Groups of 3,4,5, . . .,
Communities,
Nations,
The entire humanity.
Still feel alone?
Find your own Guru
A Master of Yoga
And a discipline of your choice
And be married to
The entire world.
Enjoy the marital bliss!
www.kolumn.in
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
I'm doing everything
We said we'd do
Together.
(What a horrible word, together)
Taking the trips,
Swimming in the lakes,
Yes, I swam in a lake.
More like a river...
But I did it
Without you.
Visited Mt. Scott,
Saw the longhorns,
Drove the exact same routes
As last spring.
Without you.
Funny how fate is so cruel
That I'm thrown back to
Exactly where we were.
Were.
Still past tense, still painful.
Still facing ghosts, still facing memories
Exact replication of what was.
Here I am, stuck in the in-between.
And you, where are you?
Gone, my ghost. Off to haunt someone else.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 9:33 AM UTC
what is beauty if not the setting sun?
Or the blooming of flowers in the spring?
What of waves dancing across the ocean?
Or of the songs that all mockingbirds sing?
Are people capable of acts divine?
Capable of beauty replication?
Or in the eyes of Gods are we but swine?
We were not destined for such creation
But, it's your hand that paints the setting sky
You're the warmth that lets plants flourish once more
Your heart is the beat that all things go by
The conductor of its musical score
You are life and all that there is to see
All that is known and lies in mystery
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:46 AM UTC
You asked have you ever abandoned me as a mother
How about the time I told you about the abuse my sister but me through and your response was "thats my daughter too amd you are attacking her and I have to protect her"
My emotions mean nothing to you
An exact replication of you
My emotions are not real if they are your emotions
My thoughts do not matter if they are not your thoughts
I am not your favorite so you disregard me
Blame me for everything
Its all my fault
My anger and sadness is not important
I am not important
If I killed myself I would not deem it selfish because my life is not yours and my feelings do not matter to you
But my body does and my namekin to you
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
history repeats itself -
you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a cunt-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
it's free; a guess is free,
your little birdcage houses no sing-along.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
Wrong question.
Wrong footed.
Let's review:
With a woman,
Created life,
Can, did, and
done.
This new life,
Automatically a replication,
In my own image,
Subject to my modification.
Control my death.
Choice is mine if I
So choose.
The body instrument,
If tended well,
Will run as long as
It can, longer than
Most can imagine.
All machines wear out.
Can ****
If so choose.
Can save,
Some, not all,
If I so choose.
Do choose.
With practice,
Will get better.
Let's review:
The power of
life and death
Is mine.
My choices coded,
By a moral standard,
Designed, modified and
Chosen to obey.
There are elements
Can't control.
Not a fool.
Let's review:
Man can make it rain.
Man can blot out the sun,
If he were so foolish to do.
Can fly.
Go under water
For extended periods,
Live to tell.
Someday,
Will ontrol most
Of the elements.
Not all, but many, better.
Those that can't dominate,
Will forecast,
Move aside the wrecking power of
Tsunami, volcano, tidal wave,
Diminishing their power.
Can go to other planets,
In my solar system.
Someday, will visit
The Milky Way,
Cause that would be cool.
On and on and on,
Could go, but let me
Summarize with a question...
That points you on the direction.
Does god believe in me?
The answer of course provided
poetically,
But let us to the conclusion come
Holding hands friend,
Yes, to both.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Primordial:
In cobalt depths
Once were orchestrated
Movements dark
And full of promise
Earth’s wet womb
Birthed molecular seeds
Which joining, grew
And fighting, died
Light at first a fear
To eyes unformed
And then, the source
Of every move toward
Our progeny then
Mere copies of ourselves
Split in two
Unto similar trillions
Primitive:
The peacock plumage pressed
In gestures choreographed
Through subtle suggestion:
The tilt of the peahen’s head
Acutely perched
An aerie serves
As fortress for
Two soaring hawks
Elephant ears
Hearing footfalls
Cross dusty tundra
Seeking union
The joust of lions
Almost drawing blood
In ***** play
Lolling by twos at dusk
Personal:
My cobalt depths
Brew sinewy music
In senseless synchrony
Striving to see
Beyond the atomy
Of ceaseless repetition
Mistakes made
By blind replication
Fear’s eyes guide
My movements to the light
To orient
My inclination
As peacock and hawk
To preen and soar
As elephant and lion
To listen and lust
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 3:04 AM UTC
I’m split for time
So, offhand, here, I tip tap a rhyme
Dissecting and resembling
This Frankenstein text
Suffering, the ice of distance
Flagging the pole of our love
You’ve got a pull, no effort—enough!
Cursing the hailstorm that rains from above
And don’t get me started
See, I’m hardly smarting
Ice’s no price when you’re on thrice rejected
Yes, that’s no success
**** I’ve been there twice X neglected
—I’d guess you’d call that my best
So I turn from the possible
Down fantasy lane
Looking in the mirror at phantom me
Knocking on reflections, does it even have a name?
The ghost of the past made present with past pains
I swear these stains won’t come out
No matter how the tissue tears
No matter the boxes emptied out
Costco’s gonna need another round…
I shout into the silent replication
My reflected repetition
Distended, this pretender’s a sinner
Me? See, I’m a saint
And there’s no role for mercy
Hell, I’ll be thirsty when I’m thirty
And a little birdy told me you’re sturdy
So say hello to your pen-protector perfect nerd
Let’s curve the interrogation
Move on to you and I
Because honestly
I’ll lose if we get too far past “Hi.”
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
i've sculpted marble into her image,
a statue, flawless, down to each detail,
her beauty true and that of mind in scrimmage,
her replication filled with much travail,
upon the sight of it in its completion,
i gasped when i beheld its perfect form,
and to protect this object most like Grecian,
i built a temple 'round it for the storm,
one day, as i prepared my veneration,
i found her in the temple stumbling drunk,
and sharing with another my oblation,
unsheathed his sword and deeply in her sunk,
oh, never build a temple to a mortal,
for she'll escape to heaven through that portal
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
I thought about two ideas
to write about and I
didn't write about either.
One had to do with
sidewalks and people--
the plundering
of personality
that happens
even when you walk
where it should be safe to be.
The other
was about technology--
that inside our veins
instead of polysaccharides
was the wires
to our electronics;
that stitch themselves inside
to keep us plugged in.
Maybe it was the in-toxicity
of having to try and fail
a persona that perpetuates
underachievement
or a rebel
that displays rebellion
by not rebelling at all.
My mind is the lackluster
of copper compared to silver--
its dull ensemble
may be its greatest achievement
a replication of someone else's words
because mine
lack the quality to be appreciated.
And my information for poetry
is irrelevant to the real world--
because these are analogies
they are the rhetoric of argument
the imagination of 'youth'
and from my age
deemed to lack understanding
so I cannot be president,
hardly can I speak,
nor should I be listened to.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
Retention of repetition in modified replication reflects the information of evolution's disquisition demographic disposition to ferry the merry who listen
Psych out the vex and hex the wicked complex
Circumstantial reason in the season its civil unrest
Complacent implications ignited by degradation
The muted separation of lungs and aspiration
A few maybe more to mob the truth be unexplored
Forsaken by tradition of wishing never more
Disputing time and relativity inability to be given free
Verse the heart though be not amazed by the lack or hidden empathy
Commiseration of unmitigated hesitation casting darkness before the integration of our heart is a meager part devoted to the subtle structure of ones nature developed underneath the poise of well built character to divide and conquer if one were to try and squander the real power and only wander for it's those very same demons of the past that are now used as fuel for the fires of the future. How will you temper the flames that burn so?
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 9:00 PM UTC