"solipsistic" poems
Fatherhood took me by surprise.
Between one sunset,
one sunrise,
the world transformed before my eyes
I ceased my solipsistic dream
became a link
within a chain
No more "the end": instead, "and then"!
The dusty streets down which I stepped
were not
an elaborate movie set
to be dismantled at my death
But now a path where I'd progress
where you might one day
trace my steps:
adventures that I could but guess
And how it felt, at last, to see!
The world sat up
and welcomed me
and I'm still reeling, giddy, free
Absolved by love, a spreading tree
of which I am the smallest branch
but bearing leaves:
a wild romance;
a step
within an endless dance.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 6:45 AM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City.
Nothing would surprise him.
The beast in the jungle was what he saw--
Edith Wharton's obfuscating older brother. . .
He fled the demons
of Manhattan
for fear they would devour
his inner ones
(the ones who wrote the books)
& silence the stifled screams
of his protagonists.
To Europe
like a wandering Jew--
WASP that he was--
but with the Jew's
outsider's hunger. . .
face pressed up
to the glass of ***
refusing every passion
but the passion to write
the words grew
more & more complex
& convoluted
until they utterly imprisoned him
in their fairytale brambles.
Language for me
is meant to be
a transparency,
clear water gleaming
under a covered bridge. . .
I love his spiritual sister
because she snatched clarity
from her murky history.
Tormented New Yorkers both,
but she journeyed
to the heart of light--
did he?
She took her friends on one last voyage,
through the isles of Greece
on a yacht chartered with her royalties--
a rich girl proud to be making her own money.
The light of the Middle Sea
was what she sought.
All denizens
of this demonic city caught
between pitch and black
long for the light.
But she found it
in a few of her books. . .
while Henry James
discovered
what he had probably
started with:
that beast, that jungle,
that solipsistic scream.
He did not join her
on that final cruise.
(He was on his own final cruise).
Did he want to?
I would wager yes.
I look back with love and sorrow
at them both--
dear teachers--
but she shines like Miss Liberty
to Emma Lazarus' hordes,
while he gazes within,
always, at his own
impenetrable jungle.
3.2k
right now i'm thinking
about angry older gals
at the supermarket,
i'm thinking: shave the bush,
start a razor "wildfire"...
let's see your neck and your
chin, shave off that beard...
the crazy much older than
your supermarket attendees
are dropping the word
viking while you shop
for whiskey, onions and
tomatoes,
even the security guard is
looking at you funny...
your excuse of:
i became bored of shaving
is not going to work
on these women,
in their late 50s,
making all the talk the talk
and the talk being
small talk and
trebling in: i really just came
in here for a purchase,
i don't have the ***** to
do the small talk...
of course that's always besides
the point...
viking?!
how about a
zimmer frame?
god, small talk kills me,
i don't know how to make a chair out
of it to sit on for much longer than
feel comfortable longer
than 5 minutes on it...
and there's always one of these women
in the supermarket,
she just knows small-talk -
kleinsprechen...
while i know the großsprechen -
alternatively: stille (silence);
but she just insists upon
her solipsisms,
and she does so perfectly,
she talks, and even manages to reply
for me...
at least a monologue of
a madman is less claustrophobic
when you spot a solipsistic woman in
her antics,
at least the madman in his
monologue feeds you not claustrophobia...
given he's so self-engrossed in
imaginative cursor workings...
a madman's monologue never
morphs into a solipsistic claustrophobia
intimidation, notably within the guise
of women...
i'd prefer a madman oblivious to
me in his externalised monologue,
than a woman in a supermarket,
oblivious to her solipsistic take on dialogue
intimidation by restraining the other
in a pseudo-claustrophobia;
that famous echo chamber...
please, throw me into the cushioned
room with a madman, i'd rather hear
his monologue,
than her attempt at
a dialogue in a supermarket!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
**Her guttural moan, a flower blooming from depth,
primordial expression of pleasure-
no word could ever contain, solipsistic,
has numerous shades of meaning;
no lexicologist has ever attempted to elaborate,
the nuances of that ****** slang,
yet, how does he understand its each exquisite strain,
so perfectly well, when she whimpers?**
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
A leitmotif of your average smug **** is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.
You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-fucking-Do-Ku.
Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.
Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.
In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…
The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
remember....damn, what his name...
it'a right there... I know I know this...
He used to play with the Beatles...
Uh...Bass left handed...
no, not John Lennon...the other one...
not George, you know the other one....
no, definitely not Ringo
C'mon Tag you know this...
was married to Linda
and then that other *****
He wrote "Michelle, my belle"
and yesterday, all my troubles seemed
so far away...
sont des mot qui vont tres bien ensemble
It's in there tag, don't blame it on the stroke
or the smokes
how can you not remember this...
tres bien ensemble...
If I can't remember him even for this
brief moment, did he even exist
in my solipsistic world....
now I need a place to hide away...
Oh crap...McCartney...
how do you forget McCartney
Paul...duh...
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 10:58 AM UTC
pasty white ghosts haunt
the corpse blue cornfields of Iowa
whispering wisps of smoke
shimmering shadows of the past
setting the pace for the rat race
that is the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election
senators billionaires doctors
frauds liars fools
campaigning for selection in an
archaic and outdated
form of governance
witness the spectacle
the orgastic worship
of solipsistic oligarchs
bloated by their own
sycophantic rhetoric
it's just another form
of all-American
entertainment
each orator's charismatic adage
froths forth from a
throat like a grave
pragmatism throttles hope
as we stoke the fires of
self-indulgence and neglect
the fact that we acquiesced
as another deceiver stole votes
we're choking on placebo pills
every ballot cast is another act of apathy
escapism pleading vainly for a
savior to rescue our sick society but
these hands didn't evolve so we could
collect a representative to lead us
blindly into one fiasco after another
these fingers penned
humanity's symphonies and
these calloused palms have
toiled for years under an apathetic sun
we learned to make love
using our fingertips and
with these fists
we could chart a new path
but only if we raise them in
defiance
our only chance is leaderless resistance
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:05 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
The password to the entrance of your home is
I brought beer
I love you with my liver
If you were a city
You'd be Atlantis
I would be its shorelines
We have both participated
In each other's floods
We were never levies for one another
I will not hold back the ocean for you
I will pick you back up when I can though
So that you can be a landscape that is timeless
In your presence
we are never killing time
We are defining minutes into laughter
So that we can walk away happy
Even in silence
We are living
I called myself homeless
and you said
I wasn't
but I couldn't stay here forever
Then you asked me
"Is it solipsistic in here, or is it just me?"
Then we sank into sleep
And I know your mornings
Your noise
Your wake up call
Takes getting used to
But that is fine
Because I know your flood
and your drought
And I love you with my liver
And yeah
I brought beer
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
i hear the whistle of a mockingjay
play every time someone says your name.
a rebel girl in a patriarchal world
defying the absurd iterations of hyper-masculine
oppression that manifest themselves in solipsistic
displays of impotent aggression.
how do you muster the compassion
to forgive seventy times seven?
i want to learn to love like you.
the white noise fades away
when you and i fly
down the interstate.
the breeze teases
your hair, the sun
kisses your face
the way i'd like to.
i hope you hear my voice
every time one of our favorite songs
gets stuck inside your head,
singing in time to the rhythms of love requited.
have faith in me.
and i'm trying hard—
real hard—every day
not to lose my temper
with these circumstantial quandaries
that leave us wondering whether or not
we should press pause.
instead i'll climb the mountains
of your vertebrae so i might find
a resting place in the holiest of holies.
if only i could shrink myself down,
dance between the synaptic gaps of your brain cells,
i could see reality through your eyes—
twirling like twin nebulae,
galaxies inviting me to endless epiphanies.
i want to lose myself in your universe.
your courage is infectious.
when i hold your hand,
i summon the strength to smash the State
and all the arbitrary authorities
trying to dictate the limits of liberty,
that instigate injustice and propagate malice.
it all just falls away until it's you and me,
forever us against them all.
you're like Hermione,
time-turner included,
feeding the homeless,
leading a women's health group,
acting for a short film,
directing a play,
writing a novel,
all in a day's work.
and you breathe white-hot fire
when you fight for the disenfranchised
recognizing that those who are neutral
in situations of injustice have chosen
the side of the oppressor and it's quite
impressive how you stand-up for
the little guy or invite the social acolyte over
to your table to have a bite of whatever
vegetarian dish you cooked up last night.
i see you on the silver screen,
in each new book i read ,
in every single note i sing,
latent remnants in recited rhymes
of poetry from the one and only Bukowski:
i found what i love
and i want it to **** me.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
To where do those memories go?
My and your soft lips meeting.
Exchanging values and ideas.
But like a conversation gone bad, you had no place in it.
Helpless.
A genius walks a lonely path.
Did our parents really ever "get" us?
Or were they just unfit to even bear the name.
Scoldings, put downs and assaults.
And the result is a childhood of treachery and miscommunication.
Misunderstood.
A genius walks a thorny path.
Where does a broken child learn they are special?
Feelings of inferiority build architectural grand designs of mental illness and rotting relationships.
And who really survives growing up?
Except me.
Childlike.
A genius rejects adulthood to walk as a child.
Why do the divine watch us?
Is it to see us suffer? To overcome the pangs of suffering and torments?
Is it truly a godlike quality to forgive? When will that be me being taken advantage of?
I know when.
Solid.
A genius gathers no moss.
Will death come? Am I to respect such a thing?
Why would his hand touch so closely my throat, my brain and my heart.
Are the dreams messages containing factual information? Guides on life?
No, they teach us what we should be to death.
Respectful.
A genius bows his head to the dead.
What is the emptiness and fullness meant to be?
Will full people live on. Scraping by on whatever happiness chance chooses to make them aware of?
Will empty people believe all belief and concept is empty? A form of solipsistic ignorance of both destiny and loved ones.
To become full and empty.
Reborn.
A genius lives to burn, burn out and be brought back to life again.
What is a genius? From the brain of a genius? Eyes that can see through fraud and deception. Including ones own.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 11:04 PM UTC
Waiting to combust
With the rowdiest
Sons a *******
So Solipsistic
How are all of you
Steering this ship
From a sole conscious
What does the abyss say?
Honestly I am fed up
With their kind!
Always
Trying to rewrite
The psalms of witches
All I got's my word
So that's all you'll be given
What?!
You gonna burn me?
Go 'head
Unburden me
Of these "impurities"
Energy's eternal
Watch as it's transfered
From my fingers
Back into the earth
The final embers were flickering
For what felt like forever
Sizzle
Crackle
Pop
They'll never learn from this
Jun 27, 2024
Jun 27, 2024 at 7:56 PM UTC
but when i leave
will there be nothing?
will my solipsistic
(vaguely narcissistic)
beliefs be proved
with an ephemeral body
and even more fleeting soul?
will there just be blackness?
or will i be with someone
(or something)
greater than my sordid self?
i don't mean to be nihilistic
but how can i not be
when we're so short-lived?
how can anything matter
when we know no answers
and tell so many lies?
i am ready for blackness.
it sounds so quiet.
life is all too loud
for my agnostic mind.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
There were no last words
between us-
but you whispered "I love you."
Not acknowledging-
instead feigning prior pains
(acute metaphysical backache or similar;
poignantly posed silence construing that
I'd been wounded),
I told you goodbye.
Of course, it was a train
and a girl scenario-
her off-white handkerchief trailing
out the window, itself
saying an extra goodbye
(saying surrender).
I punched the dirt after,
because love
felt false- especially
coming from me, an unkempt
young actor.
You're a newly colored
kaleidoscopic green,
an old film repainted
(it was still relevant;
strong cast- a beautiful female lead
needing submission, to be tamed).
I am solipsistic graphite smudges
forming a halo
around the ordinary providence
of bold characters
erased from an inelegant diner napkin-
I wrote I love you I wrote I love you I wrote I love you.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
in loving you, every memory that i have of myself has dissolved into nothingness
coffee in the morning is no longer sufficient why
has my head become a globe that can barely balance on its tiny pedestals?
in my solipsistic dreams somehow i can see your silhouette
even in the solace of my slumber you still manage to penetrate my inner most and intimate thoughts
like a shadow
that strays from the light
particles that amass and then leave again
the daisy to my gatsby-esque ideals of romance and hope
shaky visuals brought on by a familiar melody that conjures a memory that has given me stockholm syndrome
you are the captor but i
i am a willing victim
if hannibal lecter could dine on his friends, you can have me as dessert
and it wouldn't matter, for my life
has till this moment, been devoid of the one thing everybody seeks
love, in all its permutations and essence.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
I see no past,
no future.
No way in or out,
Only labyrinths
of riddle and rhyme,
With sphinxes lurking
And looming
Amusing, strange.
Seeking ways
to pass the time.
I see no past,
no future.
And thus nothing changes;
I am still sitting here,
In this void of mine.
Stuck in a maze of ink,
the letters
coming together as words
to form prison sentences.
Sleep is distant.
Sanity is a mirage.
And there are no faces here.
Only unending, ever winding
Phrases that lead back to
Themselves.
In a solipsistic haze
I phase in and out
Of knowing.
Or believing in
The existence of
anything
Beyond my words.
When thoughts themselves
May even be false,
Who is to say
We are not our minds?
For if we are not-
What then?
If I do not exist
Can my imprints
Mean anything?
Or are you just reading
From the delusion
of your own mind?
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC
Wearing Solomons seal as a garland
With crocotto eyes under the tongue
My cynosure and I actuate and
Much alike the conversation of
Simurgh and King Solomon exchange
A solipsistic lingering stare
Fraught with meaning;
Now like an Oozlum bird wearing
Luned's ring stuck in ones gizzards
I fly, no sooner than to be one flesh
Brandishing the tears and sweat of
Tiamut and Apsu with exhaustive
Philosophical certitude kindling
The fires of adulation.
Eleete j Muir.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
With all the world waiting
We turned our eyes skyward.
Remember that day when we all looked through
Our electric windows on the universe,
Seeing old spheres from a new point of view?
Three times again, and again, and again,
Descending on dancing flames,
They scurried, slow-motion, through ancient dust
Who still now remembers their names?
They did the unthinkable, achieved the impossible,
Went where none had preceded, and more.
"Ho-hum! ...another launch, you say?
Is football on Channel Four?"
Mechanical colonists left behind
When we blasted back home in our ships
Drew life in their bellies from shattering atoms,
Energizing electronic chips.
They sensed the heat of ancient fires,
Moon-embers, banked deep inside.
They felt the star-bits streaming,
And the rumbling silent tide.
ALSEP voices, talking to Earth
In chattering bits and bytes
Sent their colonial treasures back
Through the lunar days and nights.
They measured the limb-shocked solar winds,
Changing the charges in sputtered lands,
And vibrating signals crossed the void,
Twitching inked fingers on metal hands.
The footprints and tire-tracks, unchanging, remain.
Like paths to the future, they glisten.
Solipsistic sentinals converse with themselves,
But there's nobody left who can listen.
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 6:16 AM UTC
perhaps the europens conducted
anthropological studies on the Amazonian
tribes, niche pockets of
a quirky corporation ethics -
perhaps...
but when one european looks
at another european,
and conducts his own anthropological
study?
who says i'm not conducting an
anthropological study of the English -
who are more deluded
as islanders than the ******* Icelandic
people, with regard to shared
roots...
traveled the world a bit too much...
brought back the elgin marbles
and several minor mummies...
but then... the Pakistani **** gangs...
whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming.
what? reality is not some brick
wall you get to impose with
what 19th century romanticism movement
was... a bout of nostalgia...
to me?
the english are...
collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south,
i'm sure it's different in the north...
but the southern english?
a strange breed of ego-bloating -
megalomania,
collective solipsism,
a shogun complex...
solipsism?
just a fancy word for autism...
i've seen flies congregating
on a **** appearing more sociable than
these people...
an englishman's home
is his castle...
yet when i own a castle...
they think i live in their castle's
dungeon, rather than my own home....
weird people... truly odd...
i'm pretty sure the english didn't
expect a covert anthropological study
to be taking place,
from behind a velvety almost see-through
curtain...
it's not like they have much
to feel proud about...
perhaps the minor instances
of selected sports at the olympics...
and all of this based on one example,
but of course, outside the proximity,
there's the multiplication factor,
i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere...
perhaps not football...
but anthropology is certainly coming home.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
frigid homeless shivering
on Bank of America’s
front porch step
propped up by
oligarchic investors and
solipsistic one-percenters
and we pass by
in apathetic
self-absorption
we are brainless
enraptured by smartphones
while the State bombs
our neighbors
mutilating children
sowing seeds of terror
with every abuse of power
we convince ourselves
that there's an afterlife
and raze Earth
as we raise hell
the only home
we’re guaranteed
infinite growth in
a finite world
consuming joylessly
inculcated
inane and
vain beyond
all measure
we’ve ravaged the planet
we will all die
alone
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
At the end of a tunnel, you are spent, dried and weary,
Waiting for the wave, the aubade to come wash you away;
You are finalized and resolute in realization,
In somnolence, you epiphanize, you tabula rasa, you blanken
your slate to transcendence!
But
At the end of a tunnel, you revert to the beginning.
You become inversely existential, and
you rush to drive again, passing foot to gear, go!
Meter ramming, miles against minutes or so...
Cruise,
Slow, Insistent, salacious, caressing the wheel, just you,
And the road, not wide open, just
Close, or, variable, toying, experimenting , with
The road, just it, and you; In the darkness, swerve,
Quick! Stop...gauge...go! Learning tread marks, Scorching,
This is
My road, my car, no cold-stone truckers,
Just me, and the dragon, Self consuming.
Solipsistic ideals become obsolete.
Consciousness becomes archaic and Freudian
Reins,
Its Id superbly egotistical, an ephemeral presence
Of an amorphous reality, erected with pillars.
At the end of a tunnel,
You become resurrection.
You become tautological.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
Disassociating from life
A self-assured little leaf,
Adrift upon the dry winds of doubt
Never to land, or to be landed upon in turn
For what view is old,
May yet be born again
Through experience
Through rationál
Through the ever twisting enigma of lifes currents
For what is the finish, without the journey
For life does not have a meaning
Besides the one we give it
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC