"seances" poems
Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan
~~~
*the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command
by virtue of
her virtue,
who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"
reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her
unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"
this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened
by virtue
of her virtue
seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come
yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest
thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill
so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all*
***by virtue
of her
virtue***
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
I look at the clock and i just want to craw under a rock but all i can here is tick tock. i get up from my seat all i can see is my feet. i go to school in fear as you can see my tear.i walk around the room waiting for my teacher to come to his seances and do his job.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 12:16 AM UTC
How to Write a Poem:
***** your finger and bleed directly onto the page.
Buy a typewriter from a thrift store and poetically sit in a coffee
shop until your muse walks in.
Sleep with your professor and let her write your poems for you.
Hold private seances at the cemetery.
Read your high school yearbook
until your poems seethe with forgotten teenage angst.
Specifically berate your current lover
but then assure him the words aren’t about him.
Drink yourself into oblivion
but blame your inner artist for your demons.
List all the sins of your mother
and conveniently forget those of your father.
Clutch your pen until a stigmata appears in your hands.
Speak your truth,
but tell your friends
your poems aren’t from your own point-of-view.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
For all was tame and quiet,
Pin drop symphonies rang the bells of my attention
As sound seemed very absence
But in the presence of movement over known
Emitting silent ******
My seances only were aroused
When all the limbs came round the bend
To tumble over interruption
While passive in their flail
A lonely lady frail soon moved from in the dark
Lent to the tilt of my eyes a gentlemen
Then floating out of balance
So near to me in absence of the sun
Lips divided slowly
Seeping breath of the flowing pale
Such absence clustered, subtle glowing
Painted figures from shadows as she stretched the crooked hand
To ***** my collar with uneasiness
While nameless forces bloomed
To guid her fingers to my breast plate
Envy shook within her eyes
That tasted visions of a heart beat
Never pulsing in her ribs
That soon unhinged and spread around me
But in i dove before the grasp
So she would not consume my soul
My body landed in a room
That was the same as such before
I left its confines while floating
Never greeting who soon came
Around the corner, solid form
A figure with my name and face
His heart was absent
Waiting, always waiting
To extend a hand to lonely wonderers.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
The room's misted, I can hear
voices I think; shrouded cries
and muffled screams. But the smog
consumes us all.
I hear my name in the distance,
disembodied and murky like they
try to reach me through their sick seances.
They all melt into one loud trill.
There's only moments left
but as I walk this invented distance,
I feel a pull; magnetic almost,
away from the oppressive subterranean smoke.
There! A light that shines, and
the ringing ever clearer now,
so loud and harsh like a sick child's
scream; perennial and pained.
The veil of mist billows out as
I step on the ledge; and the blackest
of skies invites me, along with the
winks of dying stars. The incessant
noises and chaos and distraction
evanesce, as the asphalt below
beckons; blinking lights and enticing winds
either predict or force my hand.
With one lapse in thought;
my foot slips and all there is
to think is calm. I let the stream
of air take me and consume me.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
voice is breath dressed in sound
with rusted waves of heaviness
denser than a fiction
an indefinite amount of suspense
my fingers bled and i am led back to you
home is in my head
i always knew that you were truthful
you are numinous, that is duly noted
i was promoted for fortitude and temperance
i am deliverance sending tolerance back to you
droopy eyes remind the skies of fire
give me sunlight and i’ll show you desire
for love is a burning flame
and dreams are escapades
i see the name written in your flesh
bless this existence with governing harmony
those drill sergeants aren’t bothering you
so part the waters from east to west
lest we fester forever in the morning’s seances
you dance like blossoms upon hundreds of leaves
red eyes cast fingerprints upon these trees
i see you dancing amongst the flowers
i hear you chanting every single hour
invoking plumbs and apricots
the shiny parts that we disassociate
we hesitate to ready our shadows
then we go and wear them to bed
but first we must brush our teeth
while deep asleep i feel your feet rubbing mine
and lions in the dawn dream our longing into song
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
the first time tristan tzara put his hand
into a bag with clippings from newspapers
of individual words and started rapping
at the cabaret voltaire,
after william burroughs extended this
method and instead jumbled up paragraphs
and even sentences rather than single words
to avoid being poetically terse:
and later proclaimed that writing is 50 years
behind painting... you can still get
it wrong in terms of defining the mood of
an era of a method... preceding them was
piet mondrian - with that new york grid
depiction in the vein of minimalistic cubism...
just squares and lines... what tristan tzara
stumbled upon was how to translate a jackson
******* or a kandinsky with words into words -
the chaotic splatter of colour into ink monochrome;
it really isn't that easy to write out a jackson *******
it requires a sort of automation, a knowing automation,
it's primarily intuitive - you don't know what
the exact content will be in each case, but you do
know that you're writing in a context of translating
your very own kandinsky - even though you're
not necessarily looking at an example of kandinsky's work;
but let's be pedantic, first tzara, then mandrian,
then burroughs, the painters retreated into
mathematics and a theory of colour, putting them
on equal footing with plato's theory of forms,
but to get the setting, poets scout, poets are scouts,
writers of fiction are the actual army, who
come with bulging sentences, clear depictions
(clearly blood will be shed, the uproar of two sides
clashing and the sharpening of swords
and the swift swooning down of sharpened pin-like
arrows with hussar wings to frighten even more),
poets scout the new territories - the plateau
is never jumbled in fiction, such writers set out
with clear vision and aim at running for miles
without anything changing, but scouts enter
difficult terrain... many twists, many turns,
such obstructions as trees, mountains, bees
butterflies and seances of witches, not to mention
gnarling wolves - for these scouts are obstructed
by images, and because of that, some of them
report very little for the army of paragraph
hunters... but some join rank with them,
after all the scouting is done - they too take up
a weapon and stand shoulder to shoulder
with the giants like tolstoy - although lessening
the narrator's role a little.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
I want to be the alm the faithful glorier
a day in a mind that keeps center about
a truth memory a kept kiss secret
in days of pink sky seances and
the solemn remembrances that people
cry for sob
break bread for have
tea in dresses best dress
around fine china,
though I never had any,
altered states where I might find fine
the silken robes those kings adjust
as they eye me suspicious
for I aim to change away
the blood rights judiciary
and make plain
pollen eye-watering.
Some things are just better left
unsaid.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
Cool ocean breeze,
Salty air washed against my brighten -blushed- cheeks.
Waves crash and crumbled deep in the sand.
Early spring morning -fresh- of the toxic airs of an urban life.
The soft green grass -unforgettable- beautiful.
Long and flowing.
Twisted trees,
Wicked limbs reaching curling -but- beautiful, elegant.
Reds, greens, and blues on the backs of fluff coated
Sheep in the meadows.
Stone trails leading out, off into the distance, out site.
Miraculously tall buildings of stone.
Seeming to touch the highest of clouds.
Looking down upon so many as they pass by.
Scurrying quickly to their next destination.
Not noticing the blessing, the excitement the -beauty-.
No time to stop and lay in moist -soft- green grass,
To gaze upon the work,
That looks to be have done by giants.
Truly -lovely-.
Statues looking over the hills,
Of where so much labor has been taken by the land.
Dirt on hands, sores on feet.
Love in hearts, food in bellies.
Dancing in the far range of what you can see,
The lights as you enter the small towns.
The smells swirl through the long allies.
The sweet and sour fragrance of boiling soups
Filling my seances.
The music as you pass the bouncing pubs,
Packed full of irish men and women dancing.
Complete -happiness-,
With smiles the size of the Ring of Kerry.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
A Gil in the docks
As always the flock
Becomes a stampede of mindless
Youthism
Like old newspapers
I think of words
Like unequivocal
Or enterprise
And find the omission
Of interest
Constant and timid
Like paper bins
Or rootball images of day and night
Someday the seances of youth will fade away
Like films full of hatred and lives full of war
Or seething castes of poor old folk
Wishing deaths hymn sing aghast them and benign
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 4:39 PM UTC
Spheres and nuances seances discordant melodies
played in the atmosphere
hear chords that seemed wrong
without the balance he shared
Ludwig my long lost genius hero
I listen now
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
I don't know when or
who bought it, old worn,
battered, richly patinated,
ill-fitting our modern room.
Addressed with reverence
dur to age and tradition,
setting for many meals,
seances and squeals.
I was the noble Arthur
for a time, with a kingdom
to protect, a faith to defend
and my comrades to command.
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Now that I'm settled into another night
of this unsavory gloom, impending doom,
well-marinated in the bitter songs my ex wrote about me
I can start thinking of all the little ghosts of men
I've washed off of myself in the powder room,
some of which still linger in my sheets and in messages,
in empty whiskey bottles and cups of sour wine,
and some of which I keep around to remind myself
how lonely I've managed to remain.
My ex-lover's voice is straining now,
but in spite of the comfortable familiar sound of his wailing,
I only miss the parts about him I've made up with silver lining.
And I'm deadly close to making up solid bodies to those little ghosts, too.
Most of whom should stay swirling deep in the toilet,
or covered in latex in the dustbin.
But I take a pill every day and ignore the many messages.
I hug a soft loneliness and hold seances on the weekends,
bury my dead feelings in a pillow as I scream their several names,
swallow them whole but dribble and fill lines at night
only to cleanse myself of their remnants in the morning.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
in musical seances
the medium plays guitar
drums a bit
maybe a sax or a lick
on a piano or chord
from a far out zylophone
a bit of cymbals
touch of magical
trombones
a siren sings in her svelte
gorgeousness
sways side to side
and belts out things
from another side
takes me back
into a dream again
a mercury rising thing
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
for which theirs is no liturgical everyday urge
in the cycles we moon flow tides desire
then escape the meanings the influences
while the blood rushes in periods
can we make haste
or deny the seasons and seances
and the ****** a destination urges
the first day comes like a sunrise
new bold nature all natural
subconscious
asexually normal
a day any other
tall warm
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
Silence and shapeless images
Dancing naked on the edge of a sword
We are spinning our breath into meager sediments
And what’s left are my only relationships
Is this my retaliation against the blades of oblivion
Why must I always be eliminated right before illumination
Or the combustion of concrete symbols like carbon atoms
As if my soul was undergoing oxidation
It's unconscious really that the instant we need to be aware
We take a break from concentration and fall into silent reverie
A shining monotony as the moon
Lights the way to our observation towers
We are heavy as daylight and lonely as an empty windowsill
Whenever the sunlight shines luxuriously upon it
We are human beings doing but just barely used to using
Our unlimited and never-ending powers of imagination
If it's not elation that makes us escape our innocent privations
Then must we be immaculately nascent
Or veritably complacent and understated
In our jogging shoes and self effacement strategies
You have the blues and the reds too
The vibrations echo and they become your only decoration
Mellow and sedated we escape our approximations
By just getting a little more naked and familiar with our shadows
We shake our shoulders and shift our weight back towards the basics
As we get a little older we fold our best napkins in our pockets
And reposition the sockets and the clocks by our nightstands
To tell time just how we would like it to be
Exactly the way it was right before we died to ourselves
Are you understanding my odd way of speaking
Listening to the rhyming water as humid arias fall short of permutations
We are negotiating with contemplation’s namesake
Underlying visitations from our highest escalators
Concentrate and digest, we move forward
And caress the feathery fingers you have bared too often
We are clever and undefinable formulations
Monkeying around with the substrate of our eradication
I speak elated seances and fancy equations
Which underlie our negated vituperations
A Motley array of monkey business
Fizzles in the vaporous mist
It's an evaporative way of saying i love you
We are tender and tangential
We are offended by the examples you forget to administer
In your haste you restate the laziness of a piece of paper towel
To reply to your confessions
Underneath the premonitions you make
Is something that tastes quite a bit like logic
Nov 9, 2019
Nov 9, 2019 at 8:55 PM UTC
Indecent incandescence
The ineluctable insentient
Transcendance
That inevitably transcends
All our sentience
Our intransient ascendants
Are evidently intransigent
Irreverents descended
From irrelevant past tenses
Of evanescent innocents
In essence I recently
Have my reasons
To resent my senses
That sent me again
Into decadance
Their essence
Remains essentially
Interdependent and unaffected
By your effective decrees
Of decreased independence
Demands for the deceased
Senators may be reached
Through seances and signatures
Designed to desensitize
Pieces of our peaceful
Resistance to allegedly
Intelligent reservations
With admirable indignation
These indigenous
Geniuses display divinity
With dignity and ingenuity
And indubitably
Deserve our immediate
And utmost designation
Of authority and self-determination
Signed on time
And delivered by
Intelligible design
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
there are characters in romance in wit
in seances that try to pull wool
over your blind eyes
smarter fools than I
catch their games
their playfulness
I believe in them
or want
for I
am star struck and earthbound
wanting more to life
I sit and hope for aliens to visit
conjure up visions of ghostly
visitors on full moon nights
werewolves
daredevils
tight walking Imagineers
peering into an abyss
with thoughts
from the realm of make believed
childhood innocence
fairy tailed
I love stories and dreams and romance
I love tripping over my two big clodhopper feet
and falling through
my ******* nearly breaking
my ****** neck
again
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 9:52 PM UTC