"silica" poems
for those who are concerned; I dispersed within the vastness of outer space.
My body, once caged all the stars, are finally in its resting place.
Maybe here, I am finally seen by those who romanticize the deathly night.
I am at a tranquil state, where all the planets are aligned just right.
No deaths, no violence, no wars, no fights.
No existential pain or crisis to plague a human's state of mind.
I am bound within the molecules of space and time, dancing on asteroids, I am entwined.
Finally, my body is free from the darkest of pains that had wallowed in my rib cage.
All the bottled emotions that had forever kept me enraged.
I have exploded into a beautiful mess, now the size of silica.
I am in motion, twinkling for those bellow in such a sorrowful world, as they paint me in Starry Night replicas.
They'll be envious to hear that I am conversing with Van Gogh himself.
We are in the cloudless night, a painting in a museum, and history within books on a bookshelf.
We're sprinkled in the dark like a beautiful combustion.
All the answers written in the stars for what we once questioned.
He tells me "be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high."
And that was enough for me to just get by.
I am a galaxy, freed in the vastness of the universe.
Into this new life of neighboring planets and meteors, my body will immerse.
I am the stars you see on your lonely nights.
And this time, please take your time to analyze my light.
I know I'm a mess, but I can make it beautiful.
For what it's worth, I once took the form of a dying artist, whom was so mutable.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”
Stephen Jay Gould
Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:18 PM UTC
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
shes sat by the window
like a flower to the sun
burnt deep
paled lotus, mechanized motifs
cigarette, sweet parallel steams
lips pink, eyes deceased
silica tears, seeded
fiber optic designed !release
enter
automated dreamstate
delve
inside the beast
oscillating
pirouetting
psilocybe
serene
days gone underground
plagiarized by peace
prototyped the touch
she’ll never know
it’s me.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
The sand hides the sun.
Through a fog of particulate silica.
Distorted.
For the first time in my life,
I may look upon that glowing
bearing, for minutes straight.
Innards swallow,
That rock it flings,
Paints on the light.
Now the water vapor hangs,
Amongst its spiny rays,
Creating a mist of cloudy haze.
My eyes must seek to,
Penetrate.
Alas they lose this skirmish fray.
The sun cannot hide its specter.
The doppelganger image always,
Dapper and prim.
Amongst the thoughts in rift entrails of brain,
I think i am my brain. I don't think that when, head cut from body,
Shall my soul reside where my heart was;
Instead I may see, conscious, from where the two parted.
Creating a scar from which to view this hazed sun.
Ever notice,
How the eyes,
Are the only,
Place,
You can,
See from...
I can be an Ammonite with many chambers calcified.
Ghost fossil human head.
A ghost in a shell.
My eyes will carve shapes from the clouds.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC
Consciousness,
mindfulness,
philosophical enlightenment -
Live for the **** of it.
Camus was right to breathe in spite of the tide of crushing emptiness.
The boulder gets heavy,
the bones grow weary,
the mountain is steep and we are steeped in irony.
For life can be deadly and death's rows of gravestones mark homes for freed slaves,
their crossed arms hiding scars
left by the teeth of nihilistic grief beatings and
surgery scalpels set to carve by
frequent false
alarms.
Sisyphus took but one break,
to hear the chains rattled from the gates,
hellish obsidian, vermilion flames licking lumps of silica grains
mixed with ash and a black tar splash.
And Orpheus sighed on the lyre and brought tears to the eyes of the most vile,
while Sisyphus
paused -
not long,
but a lifetime for those still free to subside
to dust, from blood and guts,
when their time arrives.
The trials of life,
the striving rites and lavish gifts of light to defy
the black and empty dusk still fail.
Eurydice grows pale as Orpheus turns to see her cheeks
losing every trace of peach hue,
eyes emptying,
lungs leaking their
last gale.
Struggling again, Sisyphus is sent
tumbling down the face of the great mountain,
grabbing gravel and sand and gashing gaps in his hard leather hands.
Bleeding ash,
not blood,
hot red mud dripping from the thick lacerations,
mixing with the sickening avalanche of wasted effort and waylaid plans.
Repeating the climb up the steep peak,
bones creaking like a clock's gears,
rattling off the seconds,
minutes,
hours,
years
until the watch stops its
panicked hands.
Until then we will toil unswayed
as we wear stones to clay,
carving winding paths in spirals up the mountain's waist.
No calm for those with breath,
no rest for beating hearts.
We must live in spite of life,
and then sink silent
to the earth.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
Hades escaping the first leaves of virginity
The realm of Io scattering molten silica
In degrees
Water drops from God’s shoulder burst and buried
Her eyes at my scar; she stops the bleeding
Sucrose sun whetting the crest of a bee
The dutiful molecules of my shirt sleeves
Zaccheus in a sycamore tree
Her words on a southerly trajectory
Crawfish in my grandmother’s stream
The Battle of Moon Sound beaching infantry
A northern gannet nesting her babies
The decibels of smoldering wood beams
Flesh constructing hairs in the breeze
Molecules muddy as I try to breathe
Ghosts approaching the Andromeda galaxy
Stars floating to the top of the stream
I N F I N I T Y
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
when that hopefully ecofriendly R.I.P becomes my final home
whether bios urn
or spirit seed
or any trendy tree from corpse to copse,
from dust to leaves
or better than
a crematorial commode --for fresher air and fuel for brighter flames
transplanted into other selves
redressed in mushroom spore-suit
seeded with the genes of generations hence and past,
piercing veils to fruit above again,
a mycophile to the last--
i will have lived with growth in mind,
that firm amorphous
ground opining green
to kindly live and die in kind
foment another view,
encompass monumental evanesce
supernal tablets branching neo-dolmen ethernexusnets beyond the r00ts
barking technoshaman psychic rings about a fiberoptic rosey,
perhaps a sappier refrain for finer silica domains
to sing along and echo Dryads doting long ago,
in threaded tones the make-remaking fold
of earthenborn rekindled kin of stars
decided to invent to cater otherworldly themes
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Little glass axolotl perfect
shades of pink and orange.
Found him at the thrift store
brought him home &
shone him up with some
windex and a cotton cloth.
Now he sits on the shelf
and sometimes I pick him
up to marvel at the smoothness
of his back, and the perfectly formed gills
at the sides of his head.
My little glass axolotl
is one of the things that
pulls me through papers
with his tiny smile and
teensy toes. This is love caught in
silica and pigment. Yes this
is what love is.
Apr 15, 2021
Apr 15, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
From air I have crept
in spheres
through caves
underground
making an entrance
to the roots
Over time, I am hardened
in the cold Om thrill
up freezing oar,
toads forest
Ice thin
growing over a jewelry box
of mineral instincts
slowly
foraging
for the silica
as it enters me, a cool bath of fingers,
forming thousands of years out of me
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC
There are little pieces of yourself on the kitchen counter.
You find it in your soul to blink and look away,
wiring it all in writing for posterity,
because ink can draw outlines, maybe a little piece of you
will float back.
part of you hopes not,
as if there were
one thing you promised
you'd never do.
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 10:17 PM UTC
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
A fire set between Lovers, smoldering
Incinerating a hole through their pure
Intentions juxtaposed to coveting
Above all else: More
Not a solitude of atrophy sprouting
In the cracks, but a flowering of beauty
in this segmented, quartered tissue.
The glued on perfection of self control: Dissolved
Lust for this temple to crumble and
Reunite, lessen this Schism of
Lovers betrayed by Lovers
Strengthen our bonds: Repair
The poetry of this divide, ineffable
Solace flooding the fields and drowning
Compassion in silence, untold
Stories of the Abyss: Secrets
Flecks of gold in blue, rarity defined
By the lies between Lovers
Thoughts of Amber, silica resin
Trapping, binding the Chasm: Imprison
Imperial, consolidating facts surfacing
From overturned, plowed dirt
Covering Lovers graves, coffins
of sleeping Emotion: Un-Waking
Life from Lovers veins, to
Lovers heart.
Schism.
Divide.
It will forever separate us, Love.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
Wanted to get drunk today.
WANTED TO WRITE TEN POEMS.
None of this happened, but the postman brought letters.
I opened them.
Skin felt absent on the occipital lobe.
Where amber, silica, sconce, crackle, glass exploded.
Lifted pillow 'bove my head.
Gravity took its power. Hold, sand shard dust and vase piece,
in my bed.
Wanted to sit in the park.
WANTED TO MAKE TEN ******* POEMS.
Needed a six foot tall model by my side,
in the windy park in the sunlight.
Children needed to dance around.
Wanted to see them puke up happiness.
On swingsets/marygorounds.
Wanted to be their fathers.
WANTED TO BEAT UP THEIR FATHERS POEMS.
Wanted to the cops to catch me.
Slaughter pigs, drink their blood.
Wanted lost in wanting.
WANTED TO BE BETWEEN HER LONG SOOTHING POEMS.
Wanted to clutch pretty.
Needed something like love...
or like drunk.
Needed to buy a forty today.
NEEDED TO COUGH UP WORD THROAT.
80 will do. If you have the proof
This didn’t happen. Instead,
I
Sat
Inside
And
Choked
On
My
Own
Enunciated
Emaciated
Words.
The poems never come out right anyways.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
there are two types of girls,
or so I was told:
church girls and
bad girls, and my mother
said this with such finality it was
clear they were mutually exclusive.
of course,
you know this is
Not True;
you once characterized yourself as
"the type of 'church girl' to light a
blunt in the bathroom (just sayin)" and
that single quote says more about you than
all this fragile wording, this silica dust
heated and wrought into intricacies and
metaphor and conceit.
You
are far more than
a bad girl,
are far more than
a church girl,
will never be
my girl
and this is how it should be.
you are not
to be domesticated
a la Robin Thicke; you are
uncontrollable, your lust and
disdain for monogamy
twin hurricanes, destroying
New Orleans in a heartbeat and
rendering FEMA
impotent in the next.
there are two types of girls:
other girls, and
You.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
This word was invented in 1935 by Everett M. Smith, president of the National Puzzlers' League (N.P.L.), at its annual meeting. The word figured in the headline for an article published by the New York Herald Tribune on February 23, 1935, titled "Puzzlers Open 103d Session Here by Recognizing 45-Letter Word":
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis succeeded electrophotomicrographically as the longest word in the English language recognized by the National Puzzlers' League at the opening session of the organization's 103rd semi-annual meeting held yesterday at the Hotel New Yorker. The puzzlers explained that the forty-five-letter word is the name of a special form of pneumoconiosis caused by ultra-microscopic particles of silica volcanic dust...
Subsequently, the word was used in a puzzle book, Bedside Manna, after which time, members of the N.P.L. campaigned to include the word in major dictionaries.
This 45-letter word, referred to as "P45," first appeared in the 1939 supplement to the Merriam-Webster New International Dictionary, Second Edition.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 10:59 AM UTC
i must settle with the
speed of sand as it
cascades onto the
heap, each particle
a memory shard
of late night chats
and broken absolute
promises, earthdrops of
silica falling frictionless without
complaint like the way we drifted apart,
the mound of regret a soft malleable thing able to
be shaken and reversed but never lessened, every
grain a lesson, a small piece of us lost among the mistakes.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
I think if I hurt enough.
I could write forever.
The blood is the words on the page.
With all names drawn in the skin of every girl or soul or body I've written in.
I'm just trying to make something beautiful. Make something that makes me happy.
Seeing these people in the world I live.
I know it's not real.
I know that I'm just music in flux but a different metal designed into the fabric of complexes sewn into the crystals.
I can't sniff from my nose now. Cuz I'm 26
That's too old.
Not old enough to die.
And you're never old enough to die. Nor young enough to live.
Beer by beer we walk the streets in new lights.
All the cities offer new drains to seap into and breathe damp clusters of anathema.
Gaining asthma.
The loss from living is your lungs.
Breathing in is worth the pain of the silica of sniffing the grass spicules after a rain.
Chewing our way through cellulose and evolution of carnassials.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
You're daring enough to have ventured into the night,
he sounded delirious in the wispy light.
Half a mile across the lagoon
moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows
would be digging holes in the sands
to lay their lives for posterity
away from the phosphoric melody
leaving the orphaned to find their way
once the shells cracked under silica.
They look like a procession of mourners,
the man whispered between strokes of oars
sloshing the rising tides of the channel
his deft hands rowing the fastest
cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay.
The night ripened enough by that time
unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea
slowing time in frameshot motions
of rows of celebrating marchers.
Dead of night the stars were burning out
and I called out to the boatman.
To this day I don't believe what I heard.
None was ever ferried back by the boatman.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
(love story)
She was only 21-when her fiancés life
Was taken with a gun.
They had three years together
And life was getting so much better.
They had plans for a wedding in June
But it ended much too soon.
He had given her a long stem rose
Then he fell to one knee, and did propose.
She took the rose and with loving tender care
With her diary she would share.
She took the rose and cut the stem
And she knew his love would never end.
She knew with time this flower would wither
And die- and that it was a love between he and I.
So she got the silica gel, And preserved the
Rose very well.
She put it into a plastic bag
and vacuumed out all the air.
Then put it into her diary
Where only she could see.
They said it was a down right shame
That he was in the middle of a shootout
Between two rival gangs.
That was when he lost his life
Before she became his loving wife.
As the tears rolled down her eyes
She started to visualize
Of how her wedding day would have been
Had he not been in the wrong place
At the wrong time.
Their life would have turned out fine.
As she placed the rose upon the diary page
Growing inside of her was a sense of rage.
Why can life be so cruel, and people so full of hate?
But looking at the rose, her heart started to melt
Relieving her of all the anger she felt.
Their love for each other was “ oh so pure”
Of a happy life together she was sure.
Life can be comical, and you never know
What it will bring.
But she got pregnant doing her thing.
Then one night when she fell asleep
Into her mind he did creep
And told her these words:
Now you have three things I left behind
My love, a rose, and a child of mine.
When she awoke, she knew he did not die in vain
For he left a part of himself to relieve her pain.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
my feet had barely greeted california
when my face matched the new summer,
cheeks blooming uneven,
eyes green as moss
and every face i glared upon
avoided looking too long.
walking through my least favorite airport
chin high, silent and ugly and wet,
i grieved for myself, i pitied my future, and mourned my past.
something lodged in my throat screamed with more assurance
and clarity and confidence than i have ever known
"this is not where i belong!"
i cried for my feet no longer squishing silica on white beaches
old skin disappearing in tiny fish
or kissing rainforest mulch, under-dressed in flipflops
taunting flora and fauna and fate
i cried for my skin, abused and bronzed
exfoliated in world heritage parks, the first shower in days
and oiled from water crossings in a run-down four wheel drive
a beard of blemishes i didn't bother to hide.
i cried for my ears, robbed of every accent,
of the crashing waves and roar of waterfalls,
or the same six songs played in every club in cairns
and the pterodactyl screech of flying foxes.
i cried for my hair, for my hands, for my nose.
i cried for my mouth and my tongue and my legs.
mostly, i cried for the death of laughter that started in the
pit of my stomach and rose up like carbonation
to my chest and my lungs and my neck and burst
like floodwaters in dorrigo
the elation and exhilaration and euphoria of being alive
that spilled out of me in screams and shrieks
and bubbled and flushed and insisted
so fiercely so strongly so urgently
that to relent was not even a choice but a right
and then half a year later
i sat dully in a fluorescent corridor at my transfer terminal
feeling my heart retreat, defeated
dreading the long months ahead
promising nothing but drudgery and boredom
letting the tears drip onto my boarding pass
black ink lamenting, too
and not a single person approached
or spoke to me
until i asked to wash away the moment
with a diminutive bottle of ***
a mile from the surface.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
with him included? the devil's dozen, or
the 13 -
then the hours of Horus:
noon - Simon Peter -
later with covenant
of the hour: holy spirit,
and the minute hand: son
and the second hand: the father
oh quiet the trinity handful,
given year zero -
hours 12 through to 1
Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew,
Thomas, Matthew, James, Thaddeus, Simon, Judas
s / p.
s. a.
θ. j.
j. Δ j.
m. p.
b.
look at the ******* clock! something's awry!
Simon peter 12
Andrew 13
James 14
John 15 (3 a.m. / p.m.)
Philip 16
Bartholomew 17 (5 p.m.)
Thomas 18 (six)
Matthew 19 (seven)
James (ibn Alφaeus) 20 (eight)
"θ" (nine),
Simon K9'ite - ten
Iscariot - eleven - clocks are wrong...
the year 0 a.d. is based on this,
twelve disciples, twelve hours a.m. / a.d.
and v.
p.m. / b.c.,
hence the trinity / Δ -
an hour for the holy spirit to catch on,
son monetises the minutes
and the father being omnipresent understands within
seconds...
but i was aiming to do justice to the harvest missed
last year, i was intending to make wine;
hence the list of ingredients,
a) wine yeast;
b) yeast nutrient:
diammonium phosphate,
magnesium sulphate, nicotinic acid, magnesium carbonate,
thiamine hydrochloride, zinc sulphate, ferrous
ammonium sulphate, biotin;
c) pectolase:
pectinase enzyme, dextrose monohydrate;
d) bruclens cleaner / steriliser:
sodium percarbonate;
e) fine fining A: silica sol,
" B: chitosan (derived from crab and shrimp
shells, contains sodium metabisulphite)
f) two months' worth of patience.
it's that time of the year where you make wine
(just a little bush, enough for 12 bottles) -
and gestapo a curry -
a tarka dhal
and a kheralan chicken with coconut milk...
i love when **** decays, it tastes better than
when **** blossoms and isn't exactly edible
but merely colourful.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
I hear you
pour out
your heart
watching
broken
the hourglass
sand
empty
space
separate
time
wastes
away
the two
shattered
the join
breaks
the chain
one
to another
lost?
never?
to be?
restored
exactly
as before
nothing
but add vice
take a grip
repair the will
that's our way
indubitably
in duplicate
memory
seen off
by Heart
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
I love you with every shred of me,
But I do so from the desert fastness,
Where the sun boils away sentiment,
Where softness is a dried crust
And silica blows rounding off
The edges of loving intent,
I love you from a high mountain peak,
Where oxygen is scarce to be found,
Where blizzard driven snow suffocates loving intention,
And an avalanche will ****
Any motion towards a heart
No matter how much love there is behind,
I love you from the deep ocean,
Far from the warmth of any sun,
Where stygian darkness rules,
Where unimaginable pressure squeezes
The joy and vibrancy from every cell
Even as it sinks slowly to oblivion,
And I shall love you,
From beneath a marble slab,
Below the mown turf of the burial yard,
From the sanctity of a closed casket,
Held closed by screws and
The earth's embrace,
And I love you from these locations
Because therein you arent,
You are absent from these places,
From receipt of my love,
From reciprication
And here I remain,
Because you have placed me there.
Aug 20, 2023
Aug 20, 2023 at 7:09 AM UTC