"routing" poems
I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.
Mar 7, 2010
Mar 7, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC
i saw a little dog he was on the roam
he looked like a stray looking for a home
routing through the bins looking for a treat
hoping he could find something there to eat
he looked very thin as scruffy as can be
so i called him over an took him home with me.
i gave the dog a bath brushed his knotted hair
there were lots of knots they were everywhere.
then i got a bowl filled it with some meat
mixed it up with biscuits a proper doggy treat
the little dog was happy he had found a home
somewhere he could live and didnt have to roam.
dog he settled down as happy as can be
and i love him so he means the world to me.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
Thy drunken bitterness
Extirpating under the exoderm
Had thee been laying_ poisonous
Enslaved by thy aromatic principles
Routing my breast thy nocturnal hush
Had thee been my god..
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
Same routing, same thoughts,
Leaning to the breeze as i rot.
Manipulated and doubtful,
I never knew that I'll end up as a tool.
Clean intentions but forced movement,
All the tracks are hard to be evident.
Whether to be or not to be,
The word "free" is far as I can see.
Attached strings throughout my body,
Struggling to get them out as a hobby.
Not having any hope as i feared,
Until someone cut my strings and cheered.
Guiding me without attachments,
You lead me to the world of intents.
As i stand up and together we walk,
We both smiled as we continue to talk.
The sound of the nether once sang,
It is a good that we both can hang.
Now i know what it would be,
To feel like what it is to be free.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
Creases cemented in skin of ages,
bending forward ratcheting wrinkles
piled like a car crash, systemically dried
routing for moisture moguls, malfunctioned,
marked measures of time spelt skin attack,
pillowed ruts run deep, prolonging
their birthmark, plumping....out on a date
with new age spaces yet to be filled
Sarcasm streets, filching frowned brows
suns' stolen chastity, lifting out brown
messages spotted at random
grey mandarins, juiceless, bribing
to be heard, a manifesto hidden,
shrivelled prunes wallowing in dried skins
reaching out for the bottomless custard jug
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
She rises at dawn, chilled
by the lost embrace
of her sleeping pills, brushes
summer's blown ashes
with the shuffle of footsteps
on old stone floors.
She thaws her hands
around a coffee cup,
sits at her desk,
******** Ariel arrowed from
yesterday's tide hoof-printing
ocean waves jetting barnacles
telephone wires a man's black boot
routing them through
cold English mornings,
a gold Sheaffer pen.
Words seep
across the page,
trail toxins of grief.
Light edges
between churchyard yews,
fingertips the curtains.
A thumb's worth
of breast-milk
stains her nightgown.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
there was an urban fox a cheeky chap was he
roaming round the city roaming wild and free
climbing in to bins searching for a treat
routing through the ******* for a bite to eat.
looking out for windows that were open wide
then inside the window the little fox would slide
all around the house while people were asleep
looking for some food the little fox would creep.
then when he finished eating back to his little den
take himself a nap then roam around again.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
The wind plays a music that swells my despair
Paints darker the setting of my lonely lair
Where I would recover from dreams kicked aside
My eerie tormentor comes back like the tide
Whistling and keening from high pitch to soft
Stirring the pigeons awake in the loft
Screeching a branch on my window of stars
Playing the drainpipe in monotone bars
Resting and racing then altering course
“I saw your loved one” says its haunting voice
Routing the season of flowers and sun
Clearing the path for a desolate one
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
Starry Starry high moon nearly half of waxing
trailing the son running the show in Great Barrington
Western Mass., the Berkshires always so dreamlike as if like on
account of such frostings; and we prepare details in so many ways
for so many days dark or light no difference this way this it's all him first
of there and last to leave likely then I'll be still again the usually there but otherwise
he'll cover my door and I'm my own creative spectator and scout when more involved I'm a holy rout';
also I am fully prepared for out a sleep under stars in the small town I love Smithsonian said as small ones be you may consider it numeral one to be; be it or not your cup of tea or time for such; I may seek the church by morn with to be and by the story with the song and story within Alice's Restaurant would seem soup kitchen on turkey day might be an ordinary thing to lend the love with arms hearts and hands if not Kripalu best yoga center about and food there be a walk in just a simple fee and best of company so kids are so well growing up and slowly I'm waking from my own harrowed cup; and I never stop loving with all hate or betray all betrayals or feel more need of forgiveness be I've done enough and so much more and in perfect abandonment and all betrayal all the more seven billion family be and this beautiful universe that rings and rings and rings sings singing all love all beauty be and all is willing and shares all that too; rocks and trees coming greater still, waters woods wilds calling routing for us all ever closer the Great of opportunity ever ripening within about to fall upon us all....
<3 <3 Pump Pump jump start it up!!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:50 AM UTC
afterparty mingle in a single bedroom vault wincing ceiling slopes so low condemning matter dance to fumbles and more penetrating life forces gum-balls into stressed room couple and squirm over into the crawl space hazardous music and metallic humour is pushing risks and insult no being is out of place pouting the smoke and store brand alcohol routing and deafening and defeating too much the gagster comes thundering down the corridor like he was wrought for applause he addresses those outside the room and it's wagging dogs and a face of cartoony ballooning pep it's hard to handle the wash of wording an assault of enthusiasm jester baits laughter with an old polaroid camera slamming open the door all tension his way he presses the button and projects them all against the walls 'Flash ****** ! ' he squells throws aside the camera 'People Pile!' he thumps into the crowd bed begging a play fight baroque girl hugging her knees crammed under the small sink to the side of the door reaches out a nervy hand and takes the discarded camera watches the ********** photo paper fade in slow retch her own pose lone excluded soul separate and saved she leaves with souvenir
Jun 30, 2023
Jun 30, 2023 at 6:22 PM UTC
In grandeur of eminence the Sun celebrates her power
In the thick forest of the darkest the Moon flourishes in her glory
The tidal wave is in tinder of a brand new glory, catching fire of a mad harmattan, refining gold and diamond in the expansive field of a glitzy pearl
And transcendence on our way it's roaring of the tidal wave, uprooting dark moons and burying scourging suns in infernal graves!
See our warriors surfing on the tidal wave of this season of victorious glory,
manifesting us to the world, declaring the glory of the Glory, shooting pearly flames in clouds of glory and power
As quotidian stinging tides are being uprooted in routing defeat with eerie eruption of volcano of joy and power in uncommon grandeur.
Oh! Alluring sun of glory
Oh! Alluring moon of majesty
Festooning our sky with power-stars
As rain of victory drowning us in splendor!
Oh! Tidal wave of beatific season, harvesting us barn-full glory at morning dawn of the victory crow!
Jun 4, 2019
Jun 4, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
*My daughter he said
is a born again..
What in its depth
does this phrase
oft repeated mean..?
A crucial first
question seems to be:
Is the utterance coming
from a place of
self-awareness
with energy exchange..
An alignment with
perennial experience..
Another routing:
a belief formulation
of external birth
which awaits arrival
of new bearings..
Where are you
dear daughter in
sprouting new life…?*
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
I need a job.
To start living, start earning some money, am begging.
Begging you like Madcon
The cv handout goes on, and on.
Like a record that's skipped,
beginning to feel like I've been tricked.
It's not like I wouldn't work hard
I'm willing to work hard for my pay,
willing to work everyday,
willing to earn my way.
I ain't fed on greed,
I only need what I need,
only one mouth to feed.
I'll even work on my knees
scrub till my fingers bleed
I'm like a seed sprouting, roots up routing, with stem as long as my sadness has resided.
Pent up emotion continuing to grow.
As the roots begin to take hold below.
Take hold of my tongue and its words, my heart and its love, and my lungs and its breath.
Got Nothing left; to push through to the surface beginning to feel its all worthless
What's the point here?!
I'm stumped.
"I JUST NEED A JOB YOU... Chumps"
Feel like I should take a jump.
Not a jump of suicidal intention, just a jump for attention
Attention for a life to begin.
For a business to take me in
give me the experience I lack.
In return I'll give back: hardwork, effort and sweat.
Which will help me to show that I'm able to grow.
And I deserve to leap out
from this pit,
trudging in ****
From the depths of this dirt and weeds
where it all began as a seed.
A seed, a thought, a prognosis.
So now it's my time to show this;
Show what I've got on the surface.
Show that I am not worthless.
Show from a seed I have grown.
Show that I deserve a home.
A place to call my own.
Then once I am there I will know...
How?
I'll have blossomed
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
Lost on white streets
Hanging in between buildings and the eerie
Afternoon air that holds a promise of the gathering dark
The young eyes darting over the place
A growing mind that goes bump in the night
On unsteady legs watching meaning colour beside the lines
Then a flash of lightning sets off a schism
A slash, division down to the deep middle
Pilot light blinking as it drifts of into neural space
Left to grow stunted in isolation
Animal protocol takes over
Unusual growth detected, quarantine affected parts
Discontinuing memory lines 0 to 13
Incoming sensory override
Reboot soul system
Initiating memory dump
Re-awakening neural connections
Re-routing discontinued channels
Connecting...
Connecting...
Systems online
Current memory line: 29
Review memory dump?
Y/N
/
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
Run, they said to me
I have always been told that life is like a race and in my young mind I believed it was a race against everyone around me, but as I grow up and mature slowly into the person I am meant to be, I realise the only person I am running against is myself and the one person really routing for me to win is my heavenly father ( God ).
I also think we run in different places, because we face different challenges and we are given different blessings or should I say gifts. Some may run on a track field and others may run on a road full of potholes, but I would like to believe I run around the netball court and I have reasons for that, first being the fact that I set goals and when I reach them I set more, I guess you could say I don't believe in finish lines... there's always place for improvement and secondly I believe in life after death and after this life of flesh I believe I'll be an angel in heaven that just keeps on running.
Run, I say to myself
RUN!
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
i was sitting in my garden on my little mat
when suddenly from no where there popped a little rat
he run across the plants then underneath a bush
running very quickley he was in a rush
he had a big long tail long and very thin
routing through the ******* sifting through the bin
he had big long whiskers and he could twitch his nose
with tiny little feet and tiny little toes
when he finished routing he went to rest his head
to his little home underneath the shed.
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 5:46 AM UTC
I've been panicking lately.
Not the kind of panic that has reason
But a panic that stems from nothing
or maybe something undefined.
I've been worrying lately.
Not the kind of worry that is logical
but a worry that is scattered
and splattered without lines.
I can't makes sense of it because
my stomach isn't sick.
I'm not ill from out dated food
or an airborne virus.
I'm not coughing and sneezing or hacking or weezing or panting and grunting or sleeping disgruntled because of a flu.
Maybe I'm just tediously thinking while overly planning and counting the days and routing the ways when I'll see you.
I need to stop counting
Every
Little
Thing.
One two three, one two three, one two three.
“It will be okay.”
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC
Oh routine you are gorgeous
Let me feel nor old nor young
Oh routine, all my emotions
They are simply dead and gone
Cause routine, you are here
And you're making me flow
From the minute to day
To the week and Monday
All the way to the night
You're my day-satellite
Nothing new on my way
And as long as you stay
There won't be a single creation.
All I have is the routing vane
And the color of hay
Lighting everyday
Even blood of my veins
And the pulse of my brain
Have the same and old color
Of routine-blinded pain.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing,
If testaments of old have any sway,
Therein resides a man born to be king.
Upon a lowly path, he sought to bring
Goods news to those who seek a better way
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing.
His guiding star, an angel on the wing,
Beckoned the wise unto the place he lay:
"Therein resides a man born to be king!"
He healed the weak, he helped the lame to spring!
And led the blind to see the coming day
Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing.
His life betrayed, he felt the mortal sting
Of death; And of his tomb the wise would say:
"Therein resides a man born to be king."
Arisen by his father, angels sing
To preach the gospel, routing out dismay:
"Beyond the realm of ev'ry living thing,
Therein resides a man born to be king!"
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
If my thoughts were like blossoms they'd drift away. Lifted on the air to float off to the distance. I would remain rooted, grounded but blissfully weightless.
Choices are paths of determination, routing life from cradle to grave. Roads of decision and bravery lead to fulfilment. Roads of indecision and cowardry lead to regret.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:24 AM UTC
naked, sprawled across my bed,
flaccid ***** out of view, obscured by
flaccid technology, this impotent
old thing, 4 years old and
working perfectly fine for me;
lighting strikes.
there is magic, isn't there, in
the way she says your name
not unkindly when she is
with her friends and
without pre-alcohol inhibition;
lightning strikes.
I've been here for
hours, I fly out to
FRANKFURT in the morning,
routing through CHARLOTTE, NC,
cool, isn't it? how we conquered the world with
a pair of wings and some landing gear;
lightning strikes.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
haint gonna mock ridiculous science
asper to be bled
dark practices to leech out mailer daemons,
not so laughable nor in cred
double, when oppressed diabolical dread
oompah loompah fealty l'chaim fled
as hand grenades explode within my head
mettlesome monsters
make mercuric chrome dome feel like a led
zeppelin with fractured stairway to heaven in stead...
delivers me zombies, where angels fear to tread
cuz, the devil and psyche did wed
shotgun Swedish crow did house mafia style
wrenched, wrested wretched
mental state most intense (no croc) dial
shattered, slewed, splintered sanity,
thus practitioner with "FAKE" know how aisle
apprentice Aunt Roadie,
who will skewer me evil spirits den da deuce
till I beak home one sacrificed overly cooked goose
a burnt offering shish kabob
no longer able to raise cane on the loose
like a red bull
rocky on the shoals of a frantically angry moose
livid with rage
(akin to diary of mad a housewife)
entropy written, where death will be only truce
pyromaniac qua ramshackle shanty (tinderbox)
unleashes wicked zeal
hellacious incendiary juiced ride
up plies noisome rubbery odor,
sans hot wheel
along the outer limits of functionality explosions
precipitate like drops of molten steel
routing hunger, searing nostrils,
tearing tenuous fragile tethered tendrils
self cannibalizing via tooth and nine inch nail
linkedin with nauseousness as thine meal
exemplary asper full blown panic attack
lodged within mine genetic blooper print deal.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC
tired liar, uninspired
wire-rider
biting fire
un-learned burn-out
doubting the clout, pouting
routing trout
without
nets
regrets beset
vetted pets
wet with fret
filleted
displaying range
grange hall dancers manage
manic prancing horses
trotting in the allotted plot
sought, bought
caught in the cot
as the hot won’t stop
relentlessly attacking my inspiration
leaving me only with **** like
this
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Heaps of mountains in gold and diamonds running rivers in perfect glory into ocean of abundance.
Rampaging beasts in rumbustious death errand, pushing darkening the air of glory and gorging out the eyes of the earth in violent showbiz.
Bowels of the earth gushing out in falls cascading rapidly down in galls of shame and infamy.
Whirlwinds in whirlpools, thundering down powers in thunderbolt, routing down powers of darkness in triumphant victory.
It's the dawn of light in rainbows in canopies, shooting earth to vortex of power transcendental, praises in glorious colors, with cherubims and seraphims dancing in colony of glory.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
i mean i started writing poetry young
too,
but most it is lost to time,
i haven't kept any of it - the overpowering
surge to become that old cello
player prodigy who just said:
'i'm still only practising,
it sounds good, but i still have to feel
armchair leather with the bow and strings,
or like routing out circles using
the index and thumb to feel a gentle
tickling sensation of skin upon skin
with each finger eating up the other's
fingerprint valleys for champagne sparkles.'
and what i've noticed is that
a poet in youth is primarily trying to
overcome pronoun use - juvenilia output
is primarily about that - obviously the use
of pronouns in any form of writing is
unavoidable - but to overcome a certain
awareness of them is what proves to be
the rolling snowball to spur anyone on -
ever deeper, ever more like a lighthouse on
a rocky shore, rather than as a ship with
many sailors apprehensively readying themselves
to either sail on, or shatter against the waves
should someone not mind becoming the lighthouse;
the sailing on is equated with an abandonment
of writing poetry - the new crew with the same
dilemma of overly using pronouns at first,
later abandoning them to stand firm as a honing
rotation of light.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 7:41 AM UTC