"reshuffled" poems
I wrote titles on strips of paper,
Books that I planned on reading,
On my shelf that contained one empty shelve,
I rolled them into *****
And threw them into the cup,
Shaking up the titles,
I get a Mo Yan.
Then I get a Charles Dickens,
The paper ***** get reshuffled again.
I pick again, it’s Mo Yan.
The third time, it’s Mo Yan
READ ME, HE YELLS.
His short stories were read,
a few months ago.
Chinese folktale like stories,
With satire of Modern China.
But none of his novels,
were touched.
In one of them,
The bookmark stops at 300.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
They ask, why care so much?
Simple, my ancestors blood and bones
are the foundation of this nation.
But that isn't your blood or mine?
We have come a long way!
True but broken chains
don't free us from shackles,
and half measures
can’t get us across the finish line.
If you hate it so much leave!
In case you missed point one
I'd much rather fix what's broken.
I want to make sure that the stacked deck
is reshuffled. That kids don't have to grow up
in war zones, where the only way out is debt
or a casket. Where people don’t get to profit
from the very thing that took others freedom.
I want a playing field that all can use,
where the rules make sense and the enforcers
are kind. Where I'm not the oddity
for never having been behind bars.
That people realize that there's more
to our culture than our bars.
I'm over the 40 acres
I want 24 Oscar's. Maybe then I'll see
myself on more than just ESPN and MTV.
Others have it far worse than you!
Well then let's elevate them too.
A rising tide raises all ships.
So let's create a flood that washes
out the hate. When will people realize
that we aren't enemies. That the system
crushing you is already destroying me.
If they can put people in cages for where
they were born then Eastside or south
of the border are just bad hands we are dealt.
I don’t know how to fix it
but I care too much to be quiet.
So thanks for reading my thoughts,
but will you stay silent?
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 9:32 PM UTC
*i've become as lazy as composers
when writing titles,
example of tautology is as lazy
as beethoven's ninth symphony...
yeah, grand... but what a dull title!*
so i was reading this article
about bim adewunmi
about the singer laura mvula...
and you know how it goes...
leftist liberals tend to write
tautological spaghetti,
likened to bim's example:
'short-haired, dark-skinned
black girl', bim, we get it...
could have said rancid cinnamon
for all i care...
tautology is a logic of adding
more salt than the salt required
so it doesn't taste too salty when it
does... i could also proof-read
other journalists...
restaurant critics are the best laughs,
esp. when reshuffled like
a ****** cabinet of the labour party
to the opinion columns...
then it's not called opinions section
but table talk... a bit like saying:
do i woo the sea back into this oyster
before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it?
well what do you expect,
free democracy and subsequently
free journalism has a judas kiss /
brutus stab at everything,
why not laugh at it as a useless
get up in the morning read a newspaper
be pulverised by stories from kingdoms
far far away and opinions of people
who'd send ******** dubbed
soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders
so they can keep erectile egos ready
for a salary readied...
journalists always divert the heat & fire
to the politicians... while
journalists get away with satirising themselves,
and i dare say, they are the clumsiest
satirists of themselves,
the most wonky ready to dismantle itself
noumenons in existence.
- journalist: huh?
- the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking
without the stiff upper lip).
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
My words have been stolen
as I put my heart upon the shelf
quivering in it's sudden new position
cold and vulnerable
outside of it's bone prison
which gave airs of security, protection
what a mistake, that.
The daggers ****** between
proving the weak points of the
flesh to be real
and not phantoms.
After a long talk
we both decided it would
be safer on the altar.
It seems my argument
made sense
since my heart agreed
wholly and without reservation.
In the night we have long
conversations
my heart and I
calling to me from it's new
residence
asking when it can come home again
weary of the cold
and trembling when a stranger
walks too closely by
I reassure - even when they peer
closely at the jumble around you
you remain invisible
my voodoo is that strong
It agrees with a wet, thumping sigh
wistful and nostalgic
for the incessant whispering
of the Siamese twins
named, unoriginally, the Lungs.
It wonders what treasures
the gurgling idiot stomach
is dissolving today without judgment
(unless, of course, the stomach is throwing a tantrum
and decides to toss everything back out.)
I understand
these are the musings of an *****
misplaced
who misses home and forgets
the pain which drove it away.
If only my brain would forget
that old library
huge and dusty as a mausoleum
never throws anything out
just shelves it and adds it's placement
in the card catalogue
(If only it would upgrade - cross-referencing and rediscovery
would be easier.)
However, the librarian holds grudges
when the heart has been
played with too roughly
and keeps the pain files on her desk
constantly rifled through and
shuffled, reshuffled, shuffled again
"One day I'll have enough to write a book"
she mumbles over the complaints
of my heart as it bleats and moans
about it's new home
She doesn't hear it - it's too far away
from the Central Nervous System
for the message to be transmitted
in the proper form.
When she remembers
that ole librarian of my brain
where the heart has gone
she stops to listen
and in anger over it's pathetic pleas
she cries
"We have not learned
So you cannot return
If I did as you request
We would take back up the quest
And we all know...
He -
He -
He... "
She breaks down in literary sobs
reminding the heart of
the nature of it's exile
and why
it's truly
for
the best.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
he asked a question
and without waiting
for a response
drew three cards
from that divinatory deck
usually carrying as little
meaning as a tossed coin
scoffed at and swiftly ignored
this time seemed to tell
a recognisable tale
unexpected in its providence
a fortune perhaps
to favour the brave
the hanging man
with his eight swords
and his eight wands
these cards showed him
the start of a journey
not necessarily a life
turned upside-down
instead that a change
of perspective is needed
the octet of swords
unveiled his cage
of indecision
uncertainty and fear
a need to upset
the balance of the inert
a reasoning for destruction
in order to create
and those upright wands
carrying with them
such signs of movement
a willingness to decide
a commitment to progress
either that or
the pack was simply
reshuffled and dealt
again and again
until it foretold
that which needed
to be heard
Aug 11, 2023
Aug 11, 2023 at 8:48 PM UTC
Restless souls.
Caged in glass cabins,
And sprouting steel rods
Encase brittle skeletons
Writhing upon mute white sheets
Beneath a hostile white sky
White curtains, white tubelights, white aprons, white walls
And gradually whitening eyes.
Have I not seen enough of white now?
Here, where once again
Life hangs in a mesh of wires, transparent tubes, beating monitors.
Where existance is a hoax
Of fluctuating lines, blue and green,
Of limping dreams, unheard, unseen.
Everything is same, only roles are reshuffled.
Replete with frequent woes, of double ailments,
There are moments
Between two suns
When I am lost
In hollowness of being.
Wondering whether
"It is really beautiful to die together"
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC
it had taken bones,
reshuffled and pounded to pieces
fingertips,
scorched
from molding cast irons,
worn, from unsewing and re-sewing heartbeats
and wrists,
white from scarring,
for me not to break
at the slightest touch.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
The custodian association convenes for the final time
The final time
They started on Earth
A fearful bunch
Frightened into competence
Clinging together
To clean and maintain the systems
First of the Earth, then of the other planets, then of the Sun, then of the Galaxies
And now, they must realize their most important purpose
(As everything they ever did was the most important)
These beings made of the material of the Universe
These beings emotionally reflecting the concern of the Universe
The One
Now it is happening
The outer edges of the One have drifted so far
Entropy has gone so far.
The beings ready the Gravity Loop sequence
All the information of this epoch
Lies in the Akashic record
Time for the material to be recollected
Reshuffled
The Custodians embrace, sing,
And they throw the switch.
Time for
Absolute Gravity
Triggering a Big Bang
The cycle runs healthy
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
Let’s create an illusion of the stars
Where i can dream that I couldn’t wake up
I’m holding that cloud I once chase
Yet here my loneliness exist
lying between the ground I stand
Like a rose been picked
One day it’ll bloom
The other day it’ll wither
How nice I f I just stayed
It wouldn’t be this hard
Like cards being reshuffled
No one knew where to begin
Too many way to start again
You always lose in the end
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
Do you remember
that pretty day
when you
exculpated me out
and made me
understand the fact
that
"you understand me
better than I understand
myself"
you reshuffled
the thoughts
in my head
and now they make sense
and for all what you did, I cherish the most
you went the distance to slow down my beat,
felt my fragile
emotions locked in the dark pit.
That day, I cried like a child in a long long time...
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 5:49 AM UTC