"solipsism" poems
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.
And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.
And ****
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.
For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.
No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
Hello Old Friend,
I just wanted you to hear me.
I think you heard every word, but I see you now fear me.
I used to get nostalgic remembering our talks under starlight
When we idly spoke of dreams, and other things, and the world felt peaceful at night.
But today I spoke of blood and smoke, and of human violence,
and watched the widening whites of your eyes within this smothering silence.
I apologize for pretending we could carry on as before.
You say you don't condemn me; they shouldn't send me off to war.
I wanted a friend's reconnection, not hollow pity.
I now recognize you can't sympathize with the dying of a moral identity.
In grief, not guilt, I sought my friend. This was not a confession.
No vain imagining of a simple moral or life lesson.
Don't wanna' hear soulless, canned regurgitations
Of your textbooks' and professors' second-hand explanations!
You avoid my eyes, staring intensely at the floor.
We both can list my sins, but why is it only I can list yours?
Solipsism and narcissism.
You live a predatory lifestyle, ***** you're bored and wanting more.
That's it, then. Goodbye, Old Friend.
I feel worse having spoken, and I won't speak to you of this again.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Machine ground days
Somehow survived by clinging to precarious plans
Die for those.
For proles are stuck in a televised gleam
but I’m barred from distractions
I’m a man of action
Spring healing:
I found a new hope to get through the day
It has a name and it’s you
Workday: animistic curses
against people and their systems and products
except animals would escape forever
as soon as they open the cage
but we stay
The beastly gnashings of overworked merchandisers
for invisible self pocket stuffers
The competition's getting to us, comrades
I feel swindled out of my labor
I was pregnant
but they sold my child before
I woke up
Addressing the solipsism of my rehab circle:
I’m Kagey, and my life is hazy
but, blunted or no, let’s get this clear:
don’t trust your senses
and that goes for all my human peers
Body is a cage full of defenses
Still, I’m suspicious of reality
whether it’s façade society
or the wooden chair in front of me
Still, I enjoy the virtual scenery
I ain’t talking about on the T.V. or phone screen
I mean the willows, buildings, and faces
But all these mushy green acres are fakers
blobs without our eyesight
Still tho,
me and the universe are tight.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
The blood in your throat
Milk for the moribund
You choke on need's euphemism
want
Because that is all you have left inside
Solipsism's slave,
Getting down to get up to get down
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
On the mirror
in lipstick
was
written "solipsism"
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 12:44 AM UTC
.oh... hi y'all:
or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio?
i guess after watching
the disaster artist
and no having watched
the room...
the tetragrammaton
is so glaring to me
in the English tongue,
i might as well be
a reincarnation of
Belshazzar
(but not really...
because, to me,
reincarnation
implies
a fixed number
of people...
and an mingling
of solipsism from
philosophy,
and NPC from the gaming
world...
no, i can't believe
in reincarnation...
saving grace of
the Hindus?
they're not lactose intolerant;
boogie-woogie-boo-woo
ooh things are turning,
freak-y...
why is that a Y and not
an E?
see... the tetragrammaton
is glaring at me...
like an ***** protruding
phallus with the added
"flavor" of a circumcision
snippet...
me? i'm fine...
no snippet...
i can **** off as much
as i like and not feel
stupid -
or catholic, about it,
having, in my possession,
an unsheathed "sword").
p.s. it really is the case
of circumcising men
as a procreational motivation,
no ******** on you...
plenty of ******** on her...
and how the east meets
the west...
back in the east i'd be a blessing...
over 'ere?
i'm a walking abortion...
a nuisance...
something you send off
to fight in incestuous...
here's my 100 year closure celebration:
V!
like the Welsh longbow men... up yours!
who? in the 100 year war...
the French would cut off the...
**** index or middle finger?
they would cut off one of the fingers
of the Welsh longbow men...
so they could fire an arrow...
P.O.W.s...
so the Welsh longbow men
came up with V... a salute
to the French... up yours!
i still have mine!
hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off...
too bad, ol' chap,
you've been given an incentive
to find your missing ********
in a woman's *****
sorry... i actually feel sorry for
you having this imposed on you...
the missing caftan / hood and all...
sometimes i wondered:
does she even know what she's
doing performing ******** on
me? maybe i could cut my torso off
and show her how to do it?
in the east i'd be a godsend,
but in the west i'm an
embarrassment...
great in tissue... greater still
in pointless wars...
auxiliary pageant...
sure sure...
glorify the women...
last time i heard my ex-girlfriend
gave birth to her fourth child...
her fourth daughter...
i seriously should have been
born a ******* Mongol.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
Hindsight blues,
I'm tangled up in you but you can't see through the overgrowth -
Thick bristles and whistle blowers,
Tell me your perception of me.
Let's laugh together at the discrepancies,
Don't expect more from me,
You know me better than that,
aristocratic nature, I hate where you come from,
That comfortable turf.
I can't be myself in your world,
Solipsism - listen we can only shine on reflection vision and that takes more than you or I alone.
Still tripping,
Tangled up in you.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
"Meditate"
Tattoo my brain with infinity
Cure shallowness
bring about contentment
cause we're all blameless in our small existence.
I truly believe meditation's not an end
When, before, I thought it was the key to heavenly eternity
I broke another misconception
It's all you need for eternity
No, just me
Nothing without me, that's free
A being being it.
"Social Mara: Lord of False Appearances"
Searching for past life memories
effigies of more miserable days
painted positively with the longing of their highlights
and the possibilities we already threw away
My present just hangs, suspended in contemplation
for tip of the brain answers
Need to reach the primitive stem
Just live, now
I think the way is already paved
by these split second sparks through the cauliflower mush
Instinct.
"A Ceaseless Conquering of the Unconquerable: A Love for Becoming"
Weird coincidental sayings and labels
Think things, or some happenings
come full circle
Like a defense of solipsism
a dream shared by the lucid
This is my world
and I only almost have control
Stomach in Shambala shambles
Can I face sobriety with a drunk childish high
from the atman in my eyes?
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
in solipsism,
soul left
upon a pole.
you're lips move,
but you never listen.
on a solo groove,
smooth hedonism,
to soothe the mood,
in equidistance;
your body glistens.
The music rules you,
in a
restricted prison -
grinding bars,
wars of attrition.
you never missed
a final kiss,
at your own insistence,
In
pole position,
you never listened.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
Chaotic and hectic
To deal with people around me
Can’t cope with this frenzy
Perhaps in solitude I’ll be free
They talk, they deduce
It isn’t helping cos it’s just a ruse
So clouded by the spree
In solitude alone, I can see
I want to talk, and sing too
Not much, just a word or two
Don’t need an audience please
Talking in solitude, that’s me
Don’t push me to the rim
With thoughts just so grim
Don’t barge in my space
In solitude I want to be
When the world turns to be
A freer, just calmer space
I want to step out and feel
What pain solitude has been
And when I’ve made it, alive
Out of my solipsistic life
I want to turn into a new leaf
Embrace a new me, no pain nor grief!
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
*where cello was semi-colon, where violins (always plural, no one's weeping or playing to beg) are colon, where Bach's (church pianos) organs / castrato livers kidneys hearts... where comma was the trebling silver triangles... where full-stop was the composer turning into a conductor, to detach himself from the act of composition and into a drama, a staged drama, a Sisyphus ram against the stable coordinate of perpetuated slam dunking bullseye for only a: knock knock. who's there? knock knock nowhere. nowhere where? here. where what? knock knock open the ******* door!*
i lived to the age of 70,
i loathed hating people,
and i loathed loving them
hence the reason i never married,
i could have lived alone
but the monetary system absolved that
wish...
tribalism would never give us
mozart's symphony no. 40 because
we would be exchanging favours
instead of monetary funds...
via solipsism and the ugly synonym autism...
****** instead of wives... well, there you go...
her eager libido explains much,
as a teenager ****** eager (rhyme rhyme rhyme)
explains her escapism into outliving man;
her satan's bargain truly did favour hair,
oh **** her, while he died a splendid death
aged approx. 30, she with a **** salute
saluted him: i'm worth 90 autumns!
yeah, 90 autumns and arthritis.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.
We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.
And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.
If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.
**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.
Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.
Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?
Or
is it that you feel something more. . .
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?
When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?
The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.
Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC
Anger soaks the room abruptly,
I'm thinking of you.
Cleaning out my black bag
I find my tarot deck, waiting
in its green tin tomb.
I shuffle and deal across
the face of one of the paintings
I've been working on,
a red face scratched out.
The brown lid of night
hinges closed hard,
and lamps take up the slack
with yellow spittings.
I draw the Tower,
the Ten of Swords,
the Hermit.
Past, present, future tenses,
all corrupted.
But who's surprised?
I derailed it all myself.
Only the cat,
the palette knife,
and the lonely guitar
bring life to days
made thin with the grim
solipsism of therapy,
intolerable solitude,
and the conviction
that I am unsuited
for all of it anyway.
Of course, sometimes
the depression rots away
back into the sickly loam
where it first bloomed.
It's replaced by the mocking
low-key mania that howls
half-hopes, that each throb
like a throated singing bowl
combined with the profane
drone of an air conditioner.
In those moments,
things get done.
Bills get paid.
I reach out to other people,
breach the indifferent yawn
I feel between each of us.
I splurge, scrape a stool
up to a bar, borrow
an acquaintance for an hour,
or else drink hard liquor alone
until my teeth sing and drown.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
i loath that educational poetry that's intended to address you with scold or searching for a higher tier of morality, there are poems like that out there (rudyard kipling e.g.), with educational / instructional overtones in the way they're written, i always wonder though: did the poet remember the idea of solipsism and writing the poem as if to himself, a note to self, rather than for others to peer into the poem and learn something?
that's the thing though,
i'm a child of immigrants...
actually an immigrant
myself... no, wait, let's do
what the higher tiers of society
call it: i'm an expatriate,
a child of expatriates -
and they still talk with an accent,
me? self-taught english
from the age of 8, retained my
mother tongue nonetheless,
speak none of the two tongues with
an accent, unless i want to,
a friend of mine introduced me
to a greek cypriot, lovingly ridiculed
me as posh... and let me tell you,
sounding posh in essex is hard to do,
i admit it would be harder in
scotland or east london, but essex
is still a hefty mountain to climb -
it's like that crass joke i heard in
the edinburgh comedy club i used to
haunt once a week...
a guy stands up and with a mighty grin
announced himself with over-stressed
elocution: 'you might recognise my accent
(i.e. denoting where he came from,
a great conversation starter on these
islands)... it's educated',
and that really crushed the hazelnut
in his **** -
well if it was a woman telling the same
joke, it would be a crushed hazelnut
between the legs - missionaries
in positions of ardent prayer
and christmas wrapping paper -
because a woman's strength in the leg department
is like the lips of oysters, or any over shellfish
for that matter - insects of the deep blue
(exoskeleton).
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
I am on the highway
To hell's bells
And I'm pregnant
With devil's anger child
Taking a walk in solipsism park
Smoking some remedy
Breathing from asylum air
And where is he?
He is looking straight through me
And his soul is revealing
Its the cold fire
That is misleading
He is fighting in his sleep again
Hugging his skeletons again
Helpless child
Going for a rage war
Solus
Walking towards the kitchen
On this toes
Taking out all the knives
Counting them
And i know he likes numbers
He looks towards the sky
And the clouds confuses him
He pours out his blood
Drawing the letter A
Repeatedly
Not even obsessively
Justified in his judgement
Him and his vanity
In an alternate reality
Out of proportion
Full of distortion
This ******
And his bluejackets
Anchored me with his diaries
Walking on embers now
In a state of trance now
Makes me wonder
Are monsters born or created?
Mortem predestination
He keeps giving me this psychic vibe
From a foreign tribe
I can't just put a lid on it
I can't just turn my back on it
Run, everybody begged me
But with the beast clothed in human skin tonight
Outside the television Screen
We are wired the same tonight
Dancing to Electro Swing by his side
Tying his tie
And I like it
He reaches out for his wooden telegraph
Can't help but listen
To Maria
And all her chants
Makes him gaze into the same tall building
From that retro piano bench
He gets up
With his hands covered in blood
Summons me by the edge
Two A's drawn on a sketch
Standing by the line
The choice is all mine
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
Ah, to write with glorious sight
All life's joy and all its pain
To color in the shadows and highlight their beauty
To fill emptiness with gradients of emotion
Oh yes, a pencil can pierce a lung if stabbed with enough force
A sketch can elicit unexpected responses
And the words of a stranger can feel like home
In the subtleties of one's own emotion
In the thoughts that build our fear,
There is only loneliness when the pictures don't hit the page
For in our isolation, there is unity
In our pain... passion
In our hate... love
And in all things... beauty
2815
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
I tremble from the stare you place becoming listless I'm collapsing
The allure of seemingly immortal eyes
like an ambrosia descendant from grand heavens
A miracle amulet coquette being elysian and unbeknownst
You speak vibrant optimistic
I adore you
A scion from the gods
The solipsism in my dimension
This desire motif mediates
Behind pages eluding my mind
Like a germinating flower blossoming in grounds of my soul creating lovely harmony
Alas
The dreams of her never ends
A sempiternal idea of holding you in eternitys concepts of white pearly beyond semantics
A message inheritly received though my life
Passing improvised dreams during midnight
Your champagne-esque brown eyed woman glissens with light skin strikes me drunken
A beacon in the night
Your my light house over seas
When the dream breathes
Sometimes our hands meet
Then time freezes
As your flesh
More delicate than dandelions
Cleaner than spring water from the gods garden
A voice from jehovahs procreation
Jasmin
the proof of intelligent designs
dazzle me silly beautiful alone in dreams
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
I am a collection.
I keep myself in cabinets.
A heart locked away;
A mind contained (constrained) by itself.
I smother on my own exhalation.
I am a collection.
I keep my own key; I locked my own door.
I put myself on display.
Visible, but untouchable.
Terrified to be exposed as a whole.
I am a collection.
I gather dust.
Stale ideas; suffocated eyes.
Isolated, so as not to see, to feel.
Please, don't ask me to live outside of these four walls.
I am a collection.
I will fall apart. Fade away.
Unfinished; incomplete.
A voice, locked away, by its own insecurities.
(May 25, 2010)
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 11:01 PM UTC
There are so many things about myself
that I don’t think I will ever understand -
like the way I let the most trivial things bother me
and give them indefinite permission to send me
spiraling downward
until I become oblivious as to why I felt so
******* petulant in the first place.
And I unknowingly settle into my misery,
because it feels like home.
Or how I’m constantly offering wisdom beyond my years
(or so I’ve been told)
but I can never seem to take my own advice.
And I’ve always found it ironic
that I could sleep an entire day away,
but am met with restlessness and anxiety
when I’m attempting to sleep at night.
I’ve heard it said that no one knows you
the way you know yourself,
but I just can’t agree.
I don’t understand myself at all,
but maybe someone else does.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
I haven't yet realised the ease
With which the poet allows intimacies
To slip away into the welcoming
Embrace of the reader.
I am no wild Byron, sowing my seed
On all grounds, stony and fertile alike
(Though perhaps that is just as well
For posterity).
I have no cause, no plan, no scheme,
Nothing to fight for or even espouse:
A true postmodern product of a time
Lacking imagination.
A constant running commentary
On myself - a work which does the jobs
Of critics and academics alike -
They must surely be grateful.
So I sit and write myself a letter:
"Solipsism and self-absorbtion
Are a circular labyrinth
With no exit.
"Look outside.
- Sincerely, C. Treacy."
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 9:18 AM UTC
Today I caught myself watching the clock, tirelessly counting
seconds, minutes, and moments; for in that short time it was clear,
I am here.
But how much of me?
The blood coursing through my veins, feeding my flesh,
feels thick and real; but is it just a projection, my perception
of BEING?
Could it be that my outward senses are nothing more than
a coping mechanism, a tether if you will,
meant to keep my mind still and my body grounded?
When released from my dermal prison, will my consciousness escape me,
or will it rise up free with no boundary?
Perhaps we are sturdy and real, something I can feel,
something to grasp.
Or, perchance, we’re merely a cloud of energized matter, buzzing madly
through time and through space.
An imaginary face, nothing more.
Although the latter leaves a bittersweet taste on my fictitious tongue,
now to me it is clear. This isn’t so much a poem about
Clarity,
as it is a poem about questions.
Question.
Because if the cold ceased to bite, and the bee never stung,
would I be someTHING, or would I be someONE?
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
a touch a rush flames up my spine engulf and entwine
the fire in his eyes
burns holes through my consciousness, leaving marks where there should have been
space
and now Ive got so much to think about, too much to bring about
freedom.. but the harder I think
the more I hallucinate, thoughts run rampant
cant tell whats real or fake
locked in subliminal utter confusion
bang my fists to break free but only find bruises
all over my body
trapped inside
this skin
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC