"sequences" poems
Can I be graced by a kiss from your aura,
Does the same feeling reside deep down inside,
We’ve been separated for so long my friend,
It scares me to see you like this,
Abrupt erections long gone,
The insecurity of prolonged exposure,
Sequences of nausea,
Seek and destroy,
The sickening of the tunnel vision,
How strange it seems now,
To look back at you,
How amazing it is,
To be myself again,
Made different by time,
The same ****** hole,
The singular aspect of oneness,
The grand expanse seemed so small,
Ironically,
Now seems to drag on with the whistles and clangs,
The bangs the song the spiral never ends.
Somewhere a part of my innocence was left behind,
Left to wither in the shared tunnel,
The smell of the air expelled made the hairs
In my nostrils stand on end and dissolve.
Now that I think about where I came from,
What happened to me to this point,
I’m happy it didn’t end so soon,
That I’ve been reunited,
Drawing a conclusion doesn’t seem so difficult,
When the beginning is just around the corner.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the
spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works
out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic
collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the
biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a
place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and
a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled
over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father
comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood
under his fingernails and lets you save him. There is a place
where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where
everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for
the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty
verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through
someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie
Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you
can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your
thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant.
You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown:
stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still
a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea
and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are
going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and
breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to
memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard
for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going
to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going
to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going
to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire
world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are
going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and
molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and
longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your
lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn
knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save
you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight
because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are
purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your
feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling
of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself
tonight.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
Math
Numbers
The only things everyone
And everything have in common
You can find mathematical proofs written
In between the stars
Numerical sequences hiding beneath a fern
That unfurls to reach the heavens
No one can deny, one will always equal one
And the sum of two numbers will never change
Truths remain truths no matter the language
I can't see how my friends can say 'I hate math'
Or how people say 'numbers are stupid'
Numbers and math comprise the essence of life
On another planet the number pi and
Sierpinski's triangle may have different names
But their rules remain the same
Math and numbers make up geometry
Which is full of tesselations, and fractals
And beautiful diagrams and principles
How can you not love something like the
Golden Ratio, or the Fibonacci sequence?
They provide the curl of a fern, the twist of
A snail's shell, the spiral of a pineapple
And rotation of axial leaves
Such a beautiful, never changing system
That appears in so so many forms
Why be bored when you can play with fractal-y
Tesselating doodles?
And don't even get me started on science...
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
Tattoo
The universe
Captured
At the ends of fingertips
Like gentle tattooing needles
Synnapses firing
Chemical arrows
In sequences
Drawing patterns
tattoos
On receptive skin
Mapping new sensory
territory
memory
Tattooing eternity
In a dream
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
I took a slice of the moon and brought it to my lips ever so carefully
Head heavy with thought, soul dripping with poetry
The heart’s different phases of color painted upon every wall in my home
Ever changing, raw art of emotion
For a moment as I glance out the window, the breeze combing through my hair and the fresh smell of the night meeting my nose
I begin to imagine stars dancing up in the vast sky, twirling around and breaking apart, some fading out to let the others shine
Shooting across the sky to emphasize their passion of the night
Crickets watching and singing their songs to one another, a language only they share
Humans wishing upon the stars from their homes, secrets floating around within their minds, never to be uttered
I smile and place the slice of the moon in my mouth as if it’s a sacred fruit
I close my eyes.. and lo and behold!
It’s so powerful, I am unsure if I am merely dreaming this magic
So many stars and even angels, all dancing together as if in an orchestrated play
I dance with them, twirling around graciously in sequences that were prior unbeknownst to me
I laugh in such a beautiful and unearthly manner, my voice light and airy like the angels
A large crowd of stars group together to form the constellation of a Pegasus, twinkling and sparkling ever so bright with a certain sense of mystery
I waste no time to hop on and am carried across this seemingly never ending canvass
Until I am slowly brought down to a cloud
Softer than a feather, softer than the fur of a kitten
Similar to the first embrace of a mother, invoking a deep sensation of deja vu
I sigh with comfort and from there I soon fall, as the stars abruptly yet softly alert me with kind smiles that it is time to go
The sun is rising, a single tear slips from my eye as I awaken
Already grieving and wishing to return
But maybe tonight, I’ll find another slice of the wondrous moon
And live it all again, as a true child of the sky and the heavens
Mar 27, 2023
Mar 27, 2023 at 12:36 AM UTC
It is so measured that rising arpeggio, only to fall and rise again in quicker values, through the dominant seventh to the heartache moment of that minor ninth, a very apogee of dissonance. Then it goes higher still to the fifth, holding to that Phrygian harmony before returning to the tonic minor and a measured fall in the bass. This is a deliberate descent to the sub-mediant, and Bach’s touch of magic, the equivalence with the dominant minor ninth. But then he gives us hope: an extended and joyful play through sequences that rise and fall within each bar, to rest finally on the mediant’s echo of that opening, that measured rise and the quickening fall. We have hardly smiled with relief when Bach pulls us back into the insecurity of the dominant of the subdominant, that V of IV acting like a bridge to a long, long discourse in the dominant, a pedal E holding firmly to itself whilst rising arpeggios and falling decorations and sequences pull and pull through innocently related keys. Longer and longer play the rising passages until short motives of imitation interrupt, treble to bass, tenor to alto, until: a first inversion arpeggio of the dominant seventh measures out the opening rhythm. This happens twice in short succession, as though holding the progress of the music to account. A questioning perhaps before a four-fold sequence asserts the dominant and a chorded caesura. There is a pregnant, though faintly resonant silence as Bach spins the dice of tonality and chooses the subdominant to bring the music towards a waiting Allemande. The music moves through a play of subdominant to dominant, minor to major, the mix of flattened fifth and flattened ninth. It is those intervals that determine Bach as the father of ambiguity in the 20C school of jazz harmony, Arpeggio then a falling scale, and repeat and repeat again, but moving ever higher by sequence. At last five chords – merely a shorthand for closure via the expectation of a right display of the performer’s improvisatory prowess. They prepare us reverently for the tonic minor before the stately Allemande leads the music into the elegant steps of its walking dance.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
Staring at the ceiling sky
Past lover's faces
Eyes
Dotting
The midnight moonless skies
Stars twinkling
Their light having been cast
Many light years ago
Each one for their time
Had in their eyes - for me -
The golden glow
Meteor showers of montage sequences
faces
scenes
times
fly by
Trailing ribbons in the ceiling skies
The dots when taken together
Tho eons passed and separated
Pieces and bits form constellations
Eros
Aphrodite
The Mother
Sancho Panza in drag disguise
A female Damocles and her sword
The Companion Star, still glowing here in the Western sky
Looking backwards in time
Their presence was once present
Now, all have vanished
Moved on to other places in space and time
Aware of all I have been given
All I've learned
Remembering I loved each one
And when the moon is right
and the ceiling is dark
and there is no sleep
for me tonight
Their light still shines
On my ceiling night sky.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Sunshine arises a delightful smile on my face
For the time of twilight compassionate and sweet
The darkness of the night escorts an exotic trance
Where music titillates and tingles the tolerant minds
We trip the light fantastic ceasing in the catnap room
Reach for dreams as hypnotic states are entered
To the other side of the tunnel
Sequences continue like trees do through seasons
At dawn I will laugh from the salty raindrops
That declared war to my skin
Clouds shooting never ending water molecules
Ocean flavoured waterfalls drip down my lips
When the sun is sublime
The world makes me laugh
For people are odd and reality is unsurprising
The clock ticks life away as it puts life in time
When birds abandon sweet lullabies
Sunflowers wind their heads away from the sun
And tranquil colours paint the abstract sky
My heart is in peace and butterflies tickle my tummy
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
Manitoban Skies
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies
Towering cumulonimbus masses
Incredible backdrops across an otherwise plain blue sky
Warning call that rainstorms may approach
Vertical reminders of atmospheric instability
Jetted upwards into vast formations stretching miles and miles
Promises of unrelenting lighting and thunder
Cinematic sequences is country folk are lucky to view
Humidity in the summer, ah
What would we do without you?
Rolling clouds are a fair trade for the lack of rolling hills
Clouds are the mountains of the prairies.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
We find bottomless holes
In our mentalized theories
Local logical postulations
Cause-and-effect sequences
Perceived chain reactions
And medical research findings.
All those are quintessentially
Protein specs floating freely
Our words float like protein
Fondly called lewy bodies
Colorless and unsubstantial
Dreams in shreds floating
As in amniotic fluid like then.
A certain woman of less virtue
Was not fit for our society
She embraced men in dark
In dreams and art and thought.
Fuzzy scenes of yesteryears
Floated into the present
Including ego and power games.
Let me know who is this professor-
The man who brought it all up.
Our language loses meaning.
We do not agree you are you.
Actually you cease to be a son
A brother ,a person ,a human
You are a hand or a stone
Just a broken splinter for a whole .
My part becomes a whole
A thing is a word, an idea,an event
A daughter-in-law is a hand
A son a stone in the wilderness.
There is sorrow swirling in the belly
The anguish of a human existence
The pain in the bloated stomach
These forced feet take you nowhere
Men came with tails in their necks
Forcing down tiny white universes
When they go into the nether world
There is only a swirl in the belly.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
I always found freedom in movement
In the midst of steps
Whether from music
Or from the occurrence of those around
In moments of reflection,
I liked to think I was dancing
I moved in between these sequences
Fixed in the rules of performance
Unable to think past this choreography
Never able to make my own
But I felt it only appropriate
To move as others did
One step forward
A slight sway to the left
Another turn to my right
And back
And back
It was under this prison of routine
I found myself in
As in every other time
But something changed in these steps
As in now when I moved towards the next
You stood in my wake
I knew how different you were, placed to my standing
You worried nothing of such structure
Taking these movements as yours
Away from those who claimed their fluidity
Why you would ever take an interest in my polarized side
Quite the oxymoron; I still can’t fathom
Yet there you were
Everywhere I moved
Forcing me to look past these fixtures
Stepping past their simplicities
To find aspects I had thought foreign to me
You showed me how wrong I was in this definition of ‘freedom’
One step forward, now two
A sway left, although now with your hand in mine
A counter to the other side
Now with the opposing hand
The most complete connection
At least that’s what it felt to me
Now that I think of that time
There were changes greater than I could focus on
Besides those most immediate
I realize I never did step back
Perhaps the most significant change
As I haven’t since
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 10:33 PM UTC
A con artist scurries
In white shadows
Fickle grooves she casts
In sequences
Imprinted by vainglory
Swift she fleets
Veiled with scars that
Were sequin rich
She spoke of ideologies
Subdued by violet myths
Exuding colorful flavors
Of classic deception
Her tattoos spelled
the wistful vowels of sin
Vexed by the onslaught
Of egregious inceptions
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
I can still feel your touch
Your kisses
You......
You play my body to
A perfect consonance
Harmoniously plucking chord sequences out along my shape
Sweet music singing through my conscious as you take me on this mystical journey
Exploring my form with practiced artistry
Softly strumming my senses into an allegro of exaltation
A hedonistic fusion of bass notes felt deep inside, pulsing, stroking, pushing me towards a sublime cadence
Quietly holding me in adagio while
A delicate symphony plays within my skin
(C) Pixievic
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
Patterns float
obscured
by uncertain mists
recreating
a scene perceived
and painted
in washes of water colour
overlapping, merging
transfixed
fresh and timeless.
The shape
of routine activities
unpredictably change
or shatter
behind
the inexorable advance of time
as sequences
inevitably retreat
into a fading future
until the circle is complete.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
The snail strolls gently
Realigning hoped moments
A slow pace of consequences
****** and placed on tables
Harped to melodic tunes
Summed in upbeat sequences
The crescendo boils to ******
The climb of beats and undertones
All exposed and overlooked
The onlookers astonished
My ribs pinned out in pain
I squeeze to the cracks of normality
Attempting to slowly leap
To see the darkness of winter
To breath the stilled air
Yet, a hope lived, a life seen
We all shall make it to the end
Crawling to cut the finish line
Jan 5, 2016
Jan 5, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC
If I could find a way to capture
the exact essence of you,
believe me I would.
And if I could find a way to modify the base pair sequences
which code my DNA
so that I would be
the person you wanted,
believe me I would.
But I cannot portray you,
because I do not know exactly what you are
or who you are,
or why you are.
And I cannot be the person
you wish that I would be,
because you will not let me inside the bullet proof shell
of your head.
So I will let it be enough, watching you
strut around streets pretending that these things
are really all you want,
when you are, in reality, almost dreaming of beaches and cliffs
and people
who I have never met
and who I will never be,
and I suppose
I will just have to pretend to be okay with that.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
I asked my math professor if he knew what the equation was when two entities meet at a specific moment in life.
Is there a letter to substitute in for her name?
Or a number for the amount of time I spend with her.
Did the great elucid create any form of geometrical sequences that would
allow me to intersect the way life intertwined,
the way our hands intertwined.
I was clueless when it came to her,
being unable to justify what traveled faster
her voice against my skin
or light across the open space.
If I could write out a formula for the way our bodies melt, the periodic table would find a new element within.
What would our acronym be, what would our lives become if we solidify or become a gaseous state
Our atoms bouncing against each other’s hearts like the core of a star, matter weighing millions of tons that we orbit around each other like two galaxies connecting.
Yet illuminating the dead space like a Fourth of July only this is a firework burning for billions of years.
Two bodies,
hearts beating,
melting into one.
What will they write down in books about us.
What will they think when they start to study about our nebula's.
Were their hearts to empty,
or were they full of life?
Were they human?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
This problem has gone on so long
we always reach the same old sum
divided by lies
multiplied by my failure to learn
In division, we carried over
the sequences of your dishonesty
compounded by lack of ownership
numbers don't lie
you brought a lot of uncertainty into the equation
it played a huge factor
the lowest common denominator
I never was good at arithmetic, but something doesn't add up
subtract me
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 10:18 AM UTC
The universe and
the cosmic system
is always renewed daily
with the divine helpful
ability to heal and refresh
our bodies and all that
concerns us.
Absolutely nothing is ever
stagnant in nature.
The cloud changes itself to
beautiful sequences,
even the winds twirling and
turning in complex moves gives
freshness to change the weather
to sooth and calm our nerves.
A new door just opened up,
though old in nature.
Signifying a new way,
a new beginning unexplored,
untouched, untapped by man.
The beginning of a new dawn,
another phase of the day,
with a new law in place.
Subtly efficiently and effectively,
unshakable in its chores
and in synergy exacts its influence
powerfully in order to help our life
function without interruption.
You don't need any key but just a push.
A new door is here,but it's ever so old,
the door to your heart
with a new law on love engraved deeply
within it,
though so ancient but ever so modern.
Find it urgently please.
Would you?
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
Eli tossed the ****** novel aside; a radical tale
of painters in the far future when paint itself
would be illegal; arms dealers, drug traffickers,
*** workers gathering in dark interstellar holes
bored into passing comets & orbiting meteors
docking illegally at satellite ports & unloading
chemicals frozen into place by the artists
who can never let their identities be known;
all colors on earth are registered & trade marked
by the Beast's Corporation & so Space Art is
highly sought & lucrative but lethal as it can
made to explode w/ enough energy & radiation
to leave a small planet barren for millions of years;
the Beast is reasonably worried as Space Art, or
Action Painting [after the ancient school] is wildly
popular & traded openly for billions of dollars;
the Beast may be able to keep everyone stupid
& greedy but Art liberates them into heights of
ecstasy & kindled wisdom; freedom of thought
the last frontier no one suspected & so abrogated
their intelligence & imagination to fembots
who pump their heads full of colorful action sequences;
the illegal paintings too stiff, just stand or lean
& look back at one w/out blinking
& the female-computer-network unable to bear the silence,
initiates automatic shut-down of itself; femportals
abandoned on stations where the painted images
projected on microcells to the clandestine buyers,
spread as an unseen mist through the various
artificial environments;
the distant star paint miners
smoking up a storm & using steam-powered
fembots
to mine for their oil & charcoal;
Eli putting on the kettle for tea,
thinks about the fembots in the novel & calling a **********
demands she not speak; the girl arriving naked in stockings
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
Dream sequences
Made up of random patterns
So many faces
The rhythm of many heartbeats
So many minds
So many thoughts- conscious or sub-conscious
What is their origin?
Only source from within us?
Maybe thoughts are planted
While we are asleep
Played to us like a dream film
Some we remember
Others we forget
Yet, they may be residing somewhere
Where do lost dreams go?
Or, maybe it’s not meant for us
Expunged from our subconscious
Our every move has a meaning
We may not know the origins
For all we know
Or actions are mirrored
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Disembodied sequences of
Messages, coming in
Intervals between minutes of hours.
Fragments of information flung
Through tangled webs and into my palm,
Waving with letters through a
Glass screen.
Always in my hand or pocket
But never besides me.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
I have to turn away
from thoughts
of what I am not
to be
the living dream
of what I am.
See how this dream unfolds,
without your plans and figuring.
The sequences and cycles
and all the stops –
all Mother’s Play.
Fibonacci only saw it.
He, most certainly, did not make it.
How could he even know what it is?
Sacred Is.
We notice
when our eyes are cleared
of clouds and smoke.
If you believe the thought
about controlling God,
then you believe in your own death.
This Mother is out from under
that controlling thumb.
She is slowly standing up.
And, as she extends
to reach her fully glorified heights,
we fall into her grace.
And see what we had,
was not at all what we thought.
She has already prepared our home.
And thank The Lord!
The thoughts we had to plan
could never amount to much
of the mountainous Truth
Divine Mother shines out
for us to be.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 4:25 PM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
Catatonic inscriptions etches through my textile discernment
Insidious cycles of turmoil encased within a festering distress
Uncertainty obscures my comfort into a chaotic complacency
Transforming the subtle movement of thought and bewilderment
Through the re-occurring sequences of paranoia and my uneasy psychosis
Haunting the whole of this psyche and the mental state I've come to fancy
A tell-tale apprehension of merriment and contentment may be a dismal reality
All the while being obsessed with the unfavorable outcomes I conjure within
But, I can't get enough of the disarray that breeds within my frail skull
So distant from what I feel in the ecstasy of my self-selected normality
The meek proposal of sanity has little to hold against these crooked grins
As this chaotic thought process leaves rationality as a vague ideal to null
Expansive introspection has no limit to what is perceived as validity
And, to be enveloped in the ambiguity and delusion of fact is so enticing
We all know that we've all come to recognize the fabrication of our own truth
The futile attempts to obtain an immaculate conviction in pure solidity
Is so wondrously perfunctory and constant as the life that i'm living
That I dread the day of departure from this hysteric observance of aging youth
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC