"sequenced" poems
.
*And so he sits
once more
folding his life
into an origami box.
Paper walls,
cellophane ceilings.
Counting out syllables.
Sequenced
to twist-fuck the mind.
And quietly
he sits
ghosting the room.*
© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 5:55 AM UTC
Synchronitities
It's 11.11 again,
AM through to PM,
Just to see you again,
In all your simplicities.
11.11 again,
Now tell me what's the relevance,
When I see you there,
Lying in sentimentality,
You got the 411,
Telling me just about anything,
That you can breath,
Steals your rationality.
11.11 again,
The sentence that won't ever end;
Caught up in a comma coma,
Blinded by the clarity,
11.11 again,
I seen it on the TV screen,
What does it mean to you & me,
Simple sequenced synchornities
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
*The quake of oblivious control,
aimlessly sends me spiraling.
I feel a break in the tumble,
Realizing the forged signatures from
Those who seek calculated risks.
I am only a human,
With this life thrown at me in a hurry.
Stars march & chant.
Revisiting the nights shallow freedom.
Displaying cuts of bleeding light,
A treasure to those who see its dance.
I have come far for a drink,
Of essence.
The book, we share on the darkest gravel,
Having featherweight ambitions.
The mornings betray my dreaming.
My flaws accept the rituals.
Whatever will, I have left,
Becomes a map.
A velvet initiation, to wonder again.
To seek the ways of life,
That many call disappointing,
& Pointless.
For it is I, who sees a ribbon on true beauty.
Each day following a thread to a lake.
Following the sequenced whispers,
Telling me, I am Moonchild,
Giver; of redemption.*
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
*It's reddy pink petals
sniffed or chewed
might grant dreams
a tendency to
inveigle poetry
with flowers
gift the surrealistic
shifts in sight
pluralistic ignorance
sequenced realities
Rare serious
side effects
include concern
for a green planet's
billions of voices
buried unheard
by enculturation
Of course
it's proper name
sounds like *****
suggesting labido
enhancing sniffs
for this
Official advice is:
'An excess
of chewing
may cause
drowning !*
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
Things blow up
People throw up
And then walk on
A land mine
When they talk on
A landline
I try to enjoy myself
But enjoyment has stealth
And eludes
Which secludes
Happiness hides
Behind sentinel shrapnel
That makes us abide
The rules of this flat Hell
There are frequent explosions in my mind
They are sequenced implosions through time
I have poor explanations
For my inflammations
My hands fumble
My brain crumbles
Progress is lost
That's the cost
Frustration cooks
From holy books
And constitutions
That can't be changed
Or rearranged
So we're gridlocked in an explosion
In Hell's fruitless fire we are frozen
Explosions dot the planet like acne
Humanity has no choice except to get older
Sharing information is our main asset yet we grow colder
We must evolve together
We're doomed to be tethered
So we must gel
To avoid Hell
There are monsters in our midst
In our mind is where they sit
We must expel them together
Or we'll be exploding forever
Oct 22, 2017
Oct 22, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC
“No, I said the song was stuck in my head”.
Well, maybe your just trapped in an entire melody.
Chained to a wall of harmonics.
Pinned to the floor by the tetra-chord.
Sequenced and submissioned in a pool of Lonian Mode and Aeolian Mode notes.
Your brain corresponds to a numeric ratio responding the principal intervals of a scale.
Hail to the symphony, to the orchestra.
Give your all to Pythagoras, the Greek philosopher of such discovery.
This ongoing evolution of stringed instruments and major and minor scales, forms, interprets, co-exists with one another, forever.
If you were to associate yourself to the modern tunings of ancients temperament, you’ll see that just because they have ultimately derived, does not mean that they have all died.
The song you are stuck in reaches way back in time, when world knew no hymn.
Any song is a reminder of a world that once was dim.
Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 1:26 AM UTC
.
*I capture an image
as you flitter
through my dreams,
never resting to say hello,
never staying long enough
for me to enjoy
or appreciate your visits,
your mist like touch
as St Vitus Dance drives
you fidgeting
amongst my inner thoughts,
no care for the damage caused
nor the trails
of scented confusion,
yet wraith-like or feral ghost
your imprint leaves
traces of perfumed attention
in a tortured mind,
that linger with a hope
of a fleeting glance,
replaced with a second look,
and the tender torment
persists in the clinging grip
of pictures
sequenced to evade notice.*
© Pagan Paul (05/03/18)
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
Time to think
Of what is happening
Ambushed in my own head
The worst kind
Of planned pain
I'm deflated to the floor
Fixated down
Each whip
Hammering at my back
Tasting the wood
I start to count
Adding up the licks
Like electric shocks
Forming patterns in my head
Finding logic in numbers
When she will tire?
This session's termination
Seeking a hint of hope
In her shortness of breath
Whipping the same mark in consistency
Until my skin is tarnished
An obvious sequenced rule
Once my skin becomes raw
The sting takes a turn
To a sharpening burn
numbing quiets the scald
Pain I bare
Until I hear my
Little brother's screams
Punishing my core
My heart beats out
Through my shoulder blades
Begging for my mother to hear it
Our rhythm once connected
Now detached
Unable to hear it's plea
Captured by this creature
Who lives in solitude
Her rotten soul
Living in her own reclkless world
Where no one belongs
It's over finally
As she wanders away
Ordering us to remove our mess
A collection of carnage
And sweaty weeps
Dehydrated in my cloth of depression
Erasing the abuse
Where I retreat
To my bed
And expel cries
For my ears alone
Protesting against my weakness
Refusing to show her
How much she hurts me
© Jl 2016
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
i am
enough fire
all on my own
(just like you)
it's engraved
in our bones
remind me again
why we ever feel lost
when the stars up above
are where our paths
have crossed
_we are divine_
there is
no need to define
all our reasons behind
why the moon and its shine
make our heart beat
faster
there is
a reason i master
the look in your eyes
there is magic in how
i undress your
disguise
all this
love in your heart
fills with people whose parts
may be played by the souls
who once sparked your
first star
let them leave
how they are
cherishing
every
scar
just
keep
trusting
_the loving
is right where
you are_
you’re a
blending of “we”
you are all parts of me
we are everything we see:
all we hope, feel, and dream
there is no separation....
no matter the nation
collectively, together
we are one human
ration
my
thoughts
are not mine
but illusions of time
and when i start to rise
there’s a shift in your sight
as i reach to new heights
my movements align
in ways where your
limbic system is
sings out to
mine
we
are not lost
our bodies accost
our souls will be tossed
to the sky and it's loft
our eternity is now
every moment somehow
fills will perfectly sequenced
which, why's, and how’s
you deserve
Love right now
through all of the pain
you have let life allow
when dark is around
just feel for your might
hold your own heart
and avow to your
light
alone
is not lonely
you’re full how you are
realize how far you’ve bloomed
your falls formed who you are
your name’s in the stars
they can feel all your scars
these losses obtained
are not all you
are
you're
your own cosmic hue
you are perfectly subdued
with the cosmos for a heart
your Light fuels the moon
and it is flowing to me
to glow out of my heart
until it recycles
to you and
restarts
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
~
so obvious the mistake
the ordered disorganization
the summation of a man's life
in an ampersand -
a logogram connection
tween two words,
finally, properly sequenced
error then trial, then error then trial
perception - my life is an endless trial
punctuated and worsened,
periodically pierced
by errors
made of your own free (not really) choosing
*"whenever confronted by a fork in my road,
I always chose wrongly"*
and aye, here's the rub
the same mistake made repeatedly
example prime:
falling in love is just another way of saying
gonna end badly
and you constant cravenly confess
to yourself the ending unbecoming cause
you can read the handwriting on the wall
for your specialty is
only love poetry for dummies
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
The light under the lampshade,
needs a sacrifice
The night under the skies,
needs a paradise
Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Tonight I am going to take it to the moonlight
I am going to take it to the x 2
Tonight I am going to shed it at the brookside
Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Mama sold me,
to the pirates of the vast seas
Mama hold my hands,
and cast me to the depths
Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Tonight I am going to take it to the moonlight
I am going to take it to the x 2
Tonight I am going to shed it at the brookside
Tonight I am going to take it to the future
When my heart breaks into two
one beat holds the other
When my breath is sequenced
the waves holds the other
Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Tonight I am going to take it to the moonlight
I am going to take it to the x 2
Tonight I am going to shed it at the brookside
Tonight I am going to take it to the future
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
I chase the Scarab until the morning glows
With a winged friend I mistreat following a henchman's horse
To the Dunes we ride eyeing the night sky waning
The face of my child entreats for me to be weary.
A diamond in the raw, uncut was never the most valuable.
a board game logic parks upon the boardwalk of Santa Cruz
A friend would never charge for you to stay in a hotel they owned,
a game is a game only if one refrains from believing in consequence
as reality, that time is a space left between motions created by decision
evidenced by interaction precise a dreams manifested sequenced as love ever after.
A price is one custom we have all come to be adapted too, yet how are the best things in life free, if Jewels are the most expensive?
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
In The Nite
Kisses under the moonlite
Creating shadows in the darknite
Singing Luvsongs after the Sunlite
Rhythmed on the sounds of beings of this nite
Clinging unto memories of all nites
Whistling tunes echoed before the Sunlite
Speaking to the unseen images of the sacred lite
Humming truluv’s music for all nites
Sequenced along the sound of this guitarist
Making sweetluv under the Starlite
Holding unto cleavages of my naked site
Kissing goodbye to the full lite
Wishing you the best of the daylite
Till we see again
In the nite
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
Lifting my eyes from the book, from the tightly sequenced lines
to the full and perfect night:
Oh how like the stars my buried feelings break free,
as if a bouquet of wildflowers
had come untied:
The upswing of the light ones, the bowing sway of the heavy ones
and the delicate ones' timid curve.
Everywhere joy in relation and nowhere grasping;
world in abundance and earth enough.
Rainer Maria Rilke---Uncollected Poems
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
They go thru flow cells
and return a million read
Weekly poems sent
anonymously to be sequenced
in a massively parallel
batch job
The hits come back
in blinking dots,
ephemeral likes, individual
happy flashes from
bar-coded singlets.
But how to know
when a solitary spot
has read our entire
genome?
Have you binged
on the DNA
of our identity?
Can you tell us
who I are
and
where I are going?
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy
Here is a way to produce Here is a way to produce
an outcome a poem
almost certainly almost certainly
never seen before in never seen before in
human history human history
and never to be repeated: and never to be repeated:
Shuffle a deck of cards. Shuffle an alphabet.
The resulting deck, assuming The resulting deck of letters
the cards are shuffled correctly, if the letters are shuffled correctly
should only occur on average should only occur on average
every 52 *51 *50 *... 21 shuffles, every 26 *25 *24 *... 21 shuffles,
because this is the number because this is the number
of possible permutations of of possible permutations
52 cards, all equally likely. 26 letters, all equally likely.
This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using letters
100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,
(or half that with an alphabet)
Every person on earth could
write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond
for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put
a dent in that number.
Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written
every time letters are shuffled about
the astronomically unlikely event
that just took place?
Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called words (in the English language) is about a mere
~ 220,000~
But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words
are added to the English language
That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy
at all.
So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult,
and writing an intelligible and intelligent
mind moving combination
is a rare thing indeed.
Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy
read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888.
which ain’t a lot of people.
So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number
so, consider yourself really, really special. I do.
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 8:12 AM UTC
Parts of my body can be harvested to fix what has been missing all along
The same parts of my body that plot against me, even when I close my eyes
Are the ones they'll use to "fix me"
"Don't you want to be normal?"
Normality is more foreign than the word could even suggest
If "normal" fits into your story world then I suppose I'll tag along
My genes are sequenced against me, upside down and in reverse
I experience love through methadone filled mouth syringes
And a poisonous aftertaste that will not go away
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
For Nat Lipstadt
In response to Nat's deeply moving poem that included me, I now dedicate this 2007 poem to Nat, who I am sure, knows exactly what it means.
She smiled as she
set her lips into
most agreeable motion -
her larynx flexing to
modulate the passing air.
The sequenced air waves
shook my auric drums
and journeyed to my soul.
Out of my reservoir
of ritual response
my lower face
turned a congenial curve.
Two puffs of air
pulsed my vocal folds,
were filtered
by my tongue and lips
and formed a sonic pattern
she was sure to know,
“Thank you.”
December, 2007
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
Everything I see is real
Everything, down to all the illusions in my head
Tangible, grasping in depth, genuine in shape and form
The monsters still come out and I still fight them
Battling with my wooden sword in hand
Jumping from the springs in my bed
To solid surface beneath
Landing with a loud thump
That brings her to my room, telling me play time is over
Under the covers
But playtime is never truly finished
Even in my dreams, I fight them
Everything I see is different
From the old man sitting on the side of the road
With a can in his hand
To the man with tailored suit
Strolling up to his Mercedes
Kids reaching for butterflies with cupped hands
To running away from bees on the playground
A woman helping her friend with a swollen belly
To a girl taunting another with mean words
I dream of day and night
Everything I see is nonsense
The man down from me pays for a cup of coffee and never drinks it
A photograph placed beside it
A woman next me stands waiting for the subway train
But never attempts of get on, she comes everyday
The girl in my class wears a red scarf every morning
Even in spring
I dream of various colors and shapes
Morphing into nothing
Everything I see is perceptive
A man lost his wife in a car accident
He carries her picture everywhere he goes
A woman almost lost her life on train tracks
Now, she attempts to step into the unknown
A girl’s best friend died of cancer
Her favorite color was red
I dream of blue rich sky and trees providing a canopy of shade
Green leaves dancing in the wind
Everything I see is real
I like to believe every image sequenced in my brain
Has some purpose for being there
I like to believe that every good deed
Creates a ripple effect
I like to believe that we understand
All the things that are nonsense
Everyone has monsters
Some just don’t fight them, or at least not in the same way
With a wooden sword in hand
Quick steps and illusion filled images
I dream of life
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
A mountain dweller clung the livelong
day...rank and nude...fuschia skies sequenced.
Surrogate family to ram, serpent, eagle--
inebriate of consciousness, holy spurn.
Of rubble and dappled shadow, G*d's
wayside seed sown...severe eyes, Witness expressly.
He could crowd fire, latch to it--rocking in
orange flashes.
A swarm of chants uplift and pivot him...
flying a thousand names for not this, nor that...
as That.
A haunting inheritance whole--ascendant
body of mind...transfiguring locus of
whitening white...there pardoned of nature,
supernatural panache.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
7 little mason jars
in a sequenced line
filled with 7 spices
displayed much like a shrine
I thought I'd have a use for them
to steep myself some tea,
yet they have remained stagnant
on this wall, they stare at me
one contains dried rosebuds
pink and red and pale
confined within a little jar
their fragrance growing stale
another holds some cardamom
and one is filled with cloves
slowly drying on this shelf,
labeled and enclosed
someone picked these rosebuds,
and dried all of these leaves
so they could sit within a jar
with nothing to achieve
tonight these 7 mason jars
all look at me, so somber
their families enjoyed a breeze,
had sun-soaked days to squander
they've not reached expiration
yet soon, they'll be disposed
no longer trapped in bottles
in death, they'll be exposed.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 11:59 AM UTC
True Reflection
I saw him walking down the uneven concrete
He had a beat to his step, every move on count
Avoided slanted ladders and black cats on corners
Steel noose hung from his neck that resembled a cross
It dangled like an unsteady decoration
He had a long stride and I was on par with pace
Walked close but there was a wide gap in our bridge
Chicago wind pushed through us with cold shoulders
It carried harsh fumes of a forest cremation
Evergreen trees torched, leaves fall to the ground mourning
He enjoyed the smoke’s company, didn’t wave her off
But she left as he heard chords of American horns
He bobbed his head to the sermons preached by beggars
Ran from synchronized fireworks between gangs
Glared at visual art of red and blue strobe lights
Treaded his fingers on chipped pale skin of town houses
And tasted the sweet sourness of a girl’s rain-check
His expression was content like the heart of a book
His smile fell in sequenced with the collapse of eyelids
I became aware that something was weighing his walk
Opaque bottles barely stood straight in his coat pockets
Staggered after each other like rows of dominos
Bottles fractured causing the cement to catch ripples
He couldn’t brake over broken glass he drove into me
Nose to Nose we touched as we were about to crash
I carved into the core of his eye and saw myself
Lying on the pavement with a blanket of fragments
And I realized I couldn’t remove the stained glass
Because what was there belonged from the beginning
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 2:16 PM UTC
Appetizing morsels of snack food leftovers, jammed down the throats of the gathering’s well-meaning occupants, trapped in place, paralyzed by purchasing power, co-mingling amongst a gossamer of plague ridden staff, exercising their right to a paltry sum, at the cost of worldly dignity.
Tupperware auctioned off at a silent word, while women with crow’s feet crevices compile layers of expensive, foundry concealer, birthing a new, more melancholic Pagliacci, only to be outdone by the next in line.
Sound equipment, purchased over market value, placed on the showroom floor, mechanically regurgitating a playlist of old hits as broken hips slaughter the concept of rhythm and cadence, dancing for their youth, embarrassed by their age.
Late husband’s life insurance, blown on a new make-up line tested on Lassie, bought for the sake of a cost-free gift, which would have the woman’s palm eaten out by a monetarily starved charlatan, rented out on an hourly basis.
Sprayed odors, mixing and merging as they meet on the undersides of veiny wrists, fumigating the stale air, weakening the legs of the participants, dropping them to the floor as sequenced lights illuminate in time with an ancient billboard tune.
Eight o’clock bedtime, difficult to impose, when giddy patrons stay drunk on the bliss of over-spending, knocking off to a land of nod in unmonitored broom closets, clutching at their purchases with the vigor of a lowly man in pursuit of his bottle.
The night slows, crawling in turn with a dead clock as it ticks in place, stalemated, flinching, but not forward, only in place.
Lights leave the room, and silence ensues, the visitors leave, weighted down to a lifeless crawl by their numerous, unnecessary purchases in overfilled, non-recyclable shopping bags.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
And without you I'd be blue,
Dead in the face staring onto You,
With your eyes so pale deeper than my soul,
You are the one,
my embodied whole.
Kissing my lips across the crevass of your wings,
I'd tell you my secrets if only you could keep it,
Flowing down into sequenced eyes,
The arms that have held you i truly despise.
Many of times I've died alone,
But you make this interminable coffin feel like a home.
Down inside the silk of your skin,
You're my happiness,
You're my sin.
Cascading down in that intoxicating grin,
The devil in You,
Let. Me. In.
You are my nature,
Pure and Devine,
Into your heart I, intwine.
Flowing down into your fragile wings,
Who knew the color of my life with would be a pale quiet queen.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
To old age, and hefty time that laid upon your shoulders my dear friend. Your eyes illustrate circus poodles falling from high wire, into the arms of a performer in pleated sequenced dress of silver with a smile of a clever alligator.
Although your bones deteriorate and your blood grows thicker as you tipple your nights into slumber, your brain remains a fetus, music keep the heart at drumming pulsation. you cradle your very heart, when you close your eyes. To keep the spirit alive.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC