"shen" poems
god i love fiddling with Kant...
i still don't understand why
Nietzsche thought he was
a senile old bachelor in the end...
**** similis...
the grand APE...
now...
is the ape a creature:
a priori,
os is the ape a creature:
a posteriori?
then again, i was once accused
of speaking out of my own
*** by a slob Jew in
Edinburgh,
as i was also jested at
with the words
'we'll crucify you'
at a UCL drama take on
the plight of the Palestinians...
**** me...
motley crue dr. feelgood style...
i guess when the last of
the last Holocaust survivors
are dead...
the gloves come off
and we can... rattle the bare-knuckle
slicks...
nope... i always preferred a drunkard's
slang to an ass-licking
****** addict's slack;
but don't get me wrong,
i could read a Burroughs' novel
in a day...
just... drenched....
in (a) hypnotic chaos of juxtaposition;
frantic vagary...
like watching a **** of a fly
darting here and there;
p.s.
(adjective & noun -
so, no... frantic vagary is not
a "misnomer"...
it's a doubled emphasis).
ah... the benefits of acquired
rather than the native
usage of the, spreschen -
hen hen... no spre(h)- -shen.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC
We were best of friends;
Or so you can say,
Because earlier on,
I used to tease her for her size;
I was a sort of bully, you see
But then my friends found other friends
And i was left with her.
I remembered the time she wore a pretty dress,
And i wanted it,
But with a cat picture on it,
Because hers was a puppy.
We made a deal-
That she'd sell me that dress,
And i would stop teasing her,
I did stop teasing her,
But i never did buy that dress
My loss, i know i am a silly tradesman
But hey, i got myself a friend
And it wasn't that bad.
So the days passed
And she always visited me at my house
On her blue bicycle
Because I didn't have the guts to walk to her house alone,
Or learn to ride a bicycle
Without trainer wheels.
We played with dolls,
Braided each other's hair
Or you could say my hair
Because i didn't have a hint of how to back then,
Shen wanted to a be a hairstylist
I wanted to be a doctor.
One day we found two puppies
A brown one and a black one
Under a car on my street
I took the brown one,
And she took the black one,
Because I took the brown one
I named mine Puffin and she named hers Rocky.
She was better at naming i guess
Because growing up,
Only then did i know that Puffin was a kind of bird
And naming him Muffin
Might have been more sensible.
But we found out that the puppies had an owner
And escaped through his gate
And so we had to give them back
We were sad of course
But at least we didn't lose our first pets
Through death.
Then came the day
I had to move away
She braided my hair for the last time
I asked her to show me the puppies
For one last time
But she never did
And so we parted.
Now i know
How to ride a bike without trainer wheels
I'm better at hair braiding
And i have quite many dresses
And many different friends
But no puppies or cats
But that's okay.
I was going to tell her all these
And with the phone number she gave me
I realised i hadn't written her name properly
And it dawned upon me that after all that,
I still didn't know how to spell her name.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
on sundays i ask myself questions without question marks.
like: how did you figure out that i hum when i'm afraid.
like: why do my parents call themselves christians when my younger brothers sound racist at the dinner table without knowing the term.
like: how old is the term 'hipster', why do people name themselves after spit-upon-ground-up words, what is the number of swallows you could conceivably snap the necks of in an hour.
like: why
am i writing this.
do you remember talking about mental disorders and broken beer bottles on railroad tracks. do you remember wishing we were younger and then forgetting that in the haze of 'growing up'. do you remember asking me why i never wrote i with a capital and spewing on about the underlying self esteem issues that represented and why do you say that, you don't have any self esteem issues, do you shen. do you. do you remember talking about rubbed pink thighs and ladder arms and elbows too bent out of shape to hug someone. do you remember the month when i would only eat rosemary and olive oil bread and you didn't speak, not once.
some people write about bones and teeth and the skin scraped under nails when you blackout twice in a row. some people write about the decay of humanity, and some people blather into the air on buses, the stale air between business men and crying single mothers, some people blather and whisper and write about the space bar and aluminum foil and finding themselves when there is nothing to find, because that. that is quite a feat.
volcanoes and thunder storms, bolts of lightning and heavy clouds, heavy eyelids, lead coffin words and the whirling dervishes that spin holes into your palms sometimes. these are the things little girls are made of.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
She was just walking by,
Walking by the street, At night.
With her messy hair, Smudged eye,
Unbalanced walk, And blurred sight.
Not romantically,
But she'd have fallen on her face.
If he was not walking on the same lane.
This story would have been the same,
If in her eyes, He wouldn't have seen the pride in pain.
Few nights went by,
Him thinking of her blackened eyes.
And she?
She happy in her world of pride and lies.
He waiting for her on the same way.
And she?
Shen shivering somewhere on the month of may.
Months later,
On a cold night, On the same street.
She came swaggering, Firm on her feet.
He stopped and told her,"Hey you look pretty and better."
She after a sly smile, Replied,
She was high on *******
The last time he met her.
She asked "Would you mind joining me?"
Joining me for a walk.
He was already halfway,
Before he would have asked "What?'
She kept talking, laughing and talking.
And he kept asking, listening and asking.
On the way, They departed,
She turned around smiled and left.
He smiled back, Walked away,
Layed on his bed and felt.
Felt the truth in her lies,
And the heaviness in her smiles.
When she told him about her *******
He thought of those shining eyes.
He smiled and remembered,
How he thought she was insane,
Crazy about her human *******
How he asked if he could help,
And how with rudeness she replied,
I need HIM more than myself.
After that night,
He could not take her off his mind,
Her eyes, Her walk and her laughs.
Where as,
She tried to recall his name,
That as always she forgot to ask.
He often went back to that street,
In a hope to see her and ask.
If they could be friends,
And walk together through the dark.
If he could just be with her,
Without any demand and question mark.
She never went back to the lane,
As if she knew he would be waiting.
She never tried remembering his name,
She rather kept drinking, smoking and writing.
Going sane and insane,
In Love and hate with her *******
Her human *******
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
she's no deva of mine
no caterpillar concubine
no cocoon consort
no butterfly courtesan
she's four tigresses in one
suckling, wandering, denned and leashed
And I'm following the track of them all
She's my white tigress of Nanjing
and though I haven't ever practiced kungfu nor qigong
I have applied to be her jade dragon
Or at least one of her green dragons
In order to help her to reach one of her nine illuminations.
So I fused my qi and ching and shen
and turned myself into a Knight of the Order of the Porcupine
and offered to gently tatoo with my quills
Her mound of Venus
with a motto of invisible yet immortal ink saying :
"Qui s'y frotte s'y pique"
Written phonetically [kisifrotsipik].
I thought because I sat just like a buddha
I was at that moment a buddha
I thought that if I breathed like a green or jade dragon
She'd let me have a bite at her immortality.
No way, my tigress said :
You just can't be and have been
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 5:28 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
It was clear from the beginning
That the only one who’s winning
From the violence underpinning
Why our population’s thinning
Are the morgues and undertakers
As we leave to meet our Maker’s
Heaven high or hell below
Becuz’ ya see, we never know
When our ashes turn to dust
It’s enough to cause disgust
As the perpetrators cuss
Then let their gun shots bust
Two rounds in the head
And the floors are running red
If you heard a word I said
No need to ask if they’re dead
But we’ll swallow up our grief
And no matter our belief
Try to seek Godly relief
For yet another unwarranted beef
And regardless of the venue
Violence is still on the menu
So no doubt it will continue
Like dancers of China’s Shen Yue
Let’s go in the laboratory
To review this time worn story
With its familiar repertory
And ironic allegory
It doesn’t make no sense
Like our Vice President Pence
Guess we’ll be kept in suspense
Until things get less intense
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
Reynaly Shen is
Strong. Sophisticated. Independent. Eccentric.
But always trying to be the person you can count on to love you
Like how she loves the way we create to comprehend the unfathomable and hold together the unbounded
She keeps a lot of words to herself like a shell hiding its pearl but understands someone has to take them anyway
Because she has doubted herself and compared herself to everyone you have loved before
But she is never one to state standards, and values you for who you are
They have told her she is at both ends of the spectrum, trying so hard to be in between
And she has told herself it’s okay, she’s okay
The jinny-joes and coins will one day be enough to travel the entire scale
She will be calling numbers with words and reading between the sounds of hellos
And she’ll be Shen. How she has always been. Shen.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 4:11 AM UTC
As they say, 'practise makes perfect',
I'm out speaking to birds in Chinese!
Maybe one day, i will know what i was doing!
** kin t yaaah....
Shen zi! "
Allow me practice
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 5:11 AM UTC