"saccades" poems - Hello Poetry

Gleam beneath the palpebrae Distance brought to touch The labour of saccades Beyond vision as such

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Feb 2, 2021

Feb 2, 2021 at 7:36 AM UTC

zyg

Pupilae

Gleam beneath the palpebrae Distance brought to touch The labour of saccades Beyond vision as such

4

Pop songs play on overhead speakers. I stay tuned at Dunkin' Donuts. I'm writing poems free on the internet, waiting. It's clean, as most D&D; are. A clean, well-light place for dragons. The coffee is mild, black and busy. Talking people keep me awake but I need dopamine to catch saccades. Are you sitting with me here on our failed distributed network? Poppa don't preach, I'm in trouble. Can you hear still born pop songs playing overhead?

0

Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC

jojo-nguyen

SACCADES

Pop songs play on overhead speakers. I stay tuned at Dunkin' Donuts. I'm writing poems free on the internet, waiting. It's clean, as most D&D; are. A clean, well-light place for dragons. The coffee is mild, black and busy. Talking people keep me awake but I need dopamine to catch saccades. Are you sitting with me here on our failed distributed network? Poppa don't preach, I'm in trouble. Can you hear still born pop songs playing overhead?

4

Even the diviner was bemused by these channels, lost in my palm Amidst the faults and erosions the like as November Where, banal, it caught these skipping stones, day-to-day, arranged For the radical saccades to pass, engross, my attention through the magic, I now stare at Delphi, what binds the assumed catches Bound, itself, to shy To shy away from their centers. But, now and then, my eyes will sojourn from my wanton ways Through terraces of an empty map, Where, by degrees, are shown their invisibilities in place of illustrations Accoutered as décor, but fact, hastening a spider’s game: Fixed in a drawer, renewed, splayed, drawn at constant. These pickings, righteous, at a nail and toying on a salty lip, Quiver, from the rector, day and night, pronouncing Idle me, idolatry, standing at spreading concourse, Till, evermore, my stumbling thoughts lose themselves In my hand. The hand. The palm. Lost channels flood themselves silt-rich waters boatful and boastful Take on the name of fjord and trinity, At which I stand, beside myself, and him, beside himself More engrossed by far-flung ecstasies, Quite-clear those instabilities, reaching for liquor—mid-shelf. I could, perhaps, blind myself to the valleys—simple marked sleight of hand But, travail those four peaks and their straining caps of snow Unknown, it is but the larger picture, sewn to sinew runs of hair. Too much, I plead for direction or sign, getting lost in mirrors or rhyme These new utterances in the back of my throat, where, precisely, Is the seat of pride, Each a reckless trail back to the temples of uncharted weathered skin —The vaguenesses that she enthralled, as to what I am read Thinking nothing at all and, he, the friend of ever Under the same stars to the north, south, in every direction. So helpless, cold shaking and pensions of the moon, anon, I read as the distance, empty candescences that thirst to know Exactly what they should have known, where clairvoyance falls short Steps, like quite brushstrokes: one at a time, wide, unending.

0

Jan 5, 2015

Jan 5, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC

jp-goss

Sketches of the Hand

Even the diviner was bemused by these channels, lost in my palm Amidst the faults and erosions the like as November Where, banal, it caught these skipping stones, day-to-day, arranged For the radical saccades to pass, engross, my attention through the magic, I now stare at Delphi, what binds the assumed catches Bound, itself, to shy To shy away from their centers. But, now and then, my eyes will sojourn from my wanton ways Through terraces of an empty map, Where, by degrees, are shown their invisibilities in place of illustrations Accoutered as décor, but fact, hastening a spider’s game: Fixed in a drawer, renewed, splayed, drawn at constant. These pickings, righteous, at a nail and toying on a salty lip, Quiver, from the rector, day and night, pronouncing Idle me, idolatry, standing at spreading concourse, Till, evermore, my stumbling thoughts lose themselves In my hand. The hand. The palm. Lost channels flood themselves silt-rich waters boatful and boastful Take on the name of fjord and trinity, At which I stand, beside myself, and him, beside himself More engrossed by far-flung ecstasies, Quite-clear those instabilities, reaching for liquor—mid-shelf. I could, perhaps, blind myself to the valleys—simple marked sleight of hand But, travail those four peaks and their straining caps of snow Unknown, it is but the larger picture, sewn to sinew runs of hair. Too much, I plead for direction or sign, getting lost in mirrors or rhyme These new utterances in the back of my throat, where, precisely, Is the seat of pride, Each a reckless trail back to the temples of uncharted weathered skin —The vaguenesses that she enthralled, as to what I am read Thinking nothing at all and, he, the friend of ever Under the same stars to the north, south, in every direction. So helpless, cold shaking and pensions of the moon, anon, I read as the distance, empty candescences that thirst to know Exactly what they should have known, where clairvoyance falls short Steps, like quite brushstrokes: one at a time, wide, unending.

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