"specialised" poems - Hello Poetry

Found myself at a dental clinic... He was the best there was. Unorthodox and eccentric, But to the specialised craft, he was boss. Ran through the bits and bobs Like any normally would. The poking and prodding and the mandible X-rays. Everything cold and clinical, so was the mood. Strange was what happened next... Specialist and I then stood facing each other. He leaned close and pressed his palms against my rib cage. Held them there over a few breaths before it was over. Then a brief chat, small talk initiated by the man. Bespectacled and exceedingly chatty, small in stature. Talks of politics and odd human behaviours... What started off as friendly turned into a heated banter. I then realised that along with his decorated credentials, Was his propensity to be condescending and arrogant. Him being the best, I thought I could let it all slide, But soon enough I opted out of being a willing participant. Couldn't stand his abrasive cockiness! I snapped out of being cordial and passive thought. I wanted him to just stop talking! I went, "Well, are you going to fix my teeth or not?!" He was stunned momentarily... I suppose he hadn't seen that coming. Then his features softened to a blank I could almost read the unspoken words he was conjuring. With an exasperated sigh of resignation, He uttered his next words swollen with regret "There's no need...for you only have four years left." It dawned upon me that my timer has been set. And then I woke up...

0

Oct 25, 2014

Oct 25, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC

ryn

Strange Dream

Found myself at a dental clinic... He was the best there was. Unorthodox and eccentric, But to the specialised craft, he was boss. Ran through the bits and bobs Like any normally would. The poking and prodding and the mandible X-rays. Everything cold and clinical, so was the mood. Strange was what happened next... Specialist and I then stood facing each other. He leaned close and pressed his palms against my rib cage. Held them there over a few breaths before it was over. Then a brief chat, small talk initiated by the man. Bespectacled and exceedingly chatty, small in stature. Talks of politics and odd human behaviours... What started off as friendly turned into a heated banter. I then realised that along with his decorated credentials, Was his propensity to be condescending and arrogant. Him being the best, I thought I could let it all slide, But soon enough I opted out of being a willing participant. Couldn't stand his abrasive cockiness! I snapped out of being cordial and passive thought. I wanted him to just stop talking! I went, "Well, are you going to fix my teeth or not?!" He was stunned momentarily... I suppose he hadn't seen that coming. Then his features softened to a blank I could almost read the unspoken words he was conjuring. With an exasperated sigh of resignation, He uttered his next words swollen with regret "There's no need...for you only have four years left." It dawned upon me that my timer has been set. And then I woke up...

33

Dressed in black, dark eyes amused She strolls into a room With the specialised tread Of a femme fatale, Tossing her streaming hair in arrogant joy. Her perfect body Contains the calm and unexpected force Of the sea, shifting in a moment between Reason and fury. She graces the men with sure-footed Arabic, Stark, sibilant, passionate words Laughing like a poem. A Moroccan beauty, Guedra dancing in the sun, From the desert coloured mosque of Casablanca Punctured by the worship Of 70,000 songs, To the unremitting souks of Marrakesh, Her complexity Emboldened by the courage Of poets. She has a silence in her intellect Such as few have, Unusual evidence of a soul In a world of franchises, Her past imaginings deeper and wider Than that of her peers, Dancing to fast Gharnati rhythms, Beneath imagined Andulusian sunsets And glowing skies. An effervescent scintillating gasp of fervent Desert air, beating across her limbs Moving gently towards silence.

0

Nov 12, 2015

Nov 12, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC

stanley-wilkin

BEAUTIFUL MOROCCAN

Dressed in black, dark eyes amused She strolls into a room With the specialised tread Of a femme fatale, Tossing her streaming hair in arrogant joy. Her perfect body Contains the calm and unexpected force Of the sea, shifting in a moment between Reason and fury. She graces the men with sure-footed Arabic, Stark, sibilant, passionate words Laughing like a poem. A Moroccan beauty, Guedra dancing in the sun, From the desert coloured mosque of Casablanca Punctured by the worship Of 70,000 songs, To the unremitting souks of Marrakesh, Her complexity Emboldened by the courage Of poets. She has a silence in her intellect Such as few have, Unusual evidence of a soul In a world of franchises, Her past imaginings deeper and wider Than that of her peers, Dancing to fast Gharnati rhythms, Beneath imagined Andulusian sunsets And glowing skies. An effervescent scintillating gasp of fervent Desert air, beating across her limbs Moving gently towards silence.

32

Never finding expectation to exist beyond the last known blip of the past, projected through my back, in tackled grounds, bound, in the banter of spectators, speculating the specifications of specialised weaponry, silencing the empathy, and seducing my enemies in the isolated idolatry of their stupidity that i sculpted from the scrutiny, that was wished to have eluded me but soothed my playful solidarity to my sickly game called reap and sow instead. We are all dead, all dead inside, residing in thriving wounds. Left unsaid in rhymes etched in tombs. In the lies of old bafoons I shall not fight, myself, as they do, nor shall i defy whats right just to eat tonight. I will fight until I am mine and sleep. Cradled in my shrine of thoughts amiss, in the frost of loss vs reward. I am torn, between torture and a vultures wait of the prize to pedal the pestilent pettiness to the edges of my testaments, in the truth of youth-less suicide, slicing social structures into cylinders to swing in circles around the room. Swooning, in my looming threat of self immolation to warm the heart with shopping carts of satire, killing the sad away. Delaying the the decay of hope. A stay of patience in my irrelevance,never hesitant in my clever projections of nothing. I feed you nothing But emptiness Shuttering in the sultry shade of my suffering and loving every moment of it. Saying nothing too much in things of such insignificance. Spilling the mizpellings and settling for wordlessness after a good ***** of belligerent arrogance. Im tempted to quit but my wick is lit and to submit now, would just put the fire out and i want to watch the burn.

0

Dec 13, 2012

Dec 13, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC

Mikhael

Fuel burn

Never finding expectation to exist beyond the last known blip of the past, projected through my back, in tackled grounds, bound, in the banter of spectators, speculating the specifications of specialised weaponry, silencing the empathy, and seducing my enemies in the isolated idolatry of their stupidity that i sculpted from the scrutiny, that was wished to have eluded me but soothed my playful solidarity to my sickly game called reap and sow instead. We are all dead, all dead inside, residing in thriving wounds. Left unsaid in rhymes etched in tombs. In the lies of old bafoons I shall not fight, myself, as they do, nor shall i defy whats right just to eat tonight. I will fight until I am mine and sleep. Cradled in my shrine of thoughts amiss, in the frost of loss vs reward. I am torn, between torture and a vultures wait of the prize to pedal the pestilent pettiness to the edges of my testaments, in the truth of youth-less suicide, slicing social structures into cylinders to swing in circles around the room. Swooning, in my looming threat of self immolation to warm the heart with shopping carts of satire, killing the sad away. Delaying the the decay of hope. A stay of patience in my irrelevance,never hesitant in my clever projections of nothing. I feed you nothing But emptiness Shuttering in the sultry shade of my suffering and loving every moment of it. Saying nothing too much in things of such insignificance. Spilling the mizpellings and settling for wordlessness after a good ***** of belligerent arrogance. Im tempted to quit but my wick is lit and to submit now, would just put the fire out and i want to watch the burn.

17

Cheese Simply fermented Curds and whey, minus the whey Fantastic with meat And fruit And bread Creamy, sweet, and soft Or Sharp , hard, and strong Fancy, or plain Expensive, artisan, specialised Cheap, processed, conformed Cheesey, cheesey, cheese

0

Dec 19, 2012

Dec 19, 2012 at 7:57 AM UTC

luckyqueue

cheese

Cheese Simply fermented Curds and whey, minus the whey Fantastic with meat And fruit And bread Creamy, sweet, and soft Or Sharp , hard, and strong Fancy, or plain Expensive, artisan, specialised Cheap, processed, conformed Cheesey, cheesey, cheese

13

part i. my room clean, precise ready a navy dress dainty, floral like a little girl loved landing lights off scuffle of feet rushing silence in this serenity i am chaos soft music soothing a specialised playlist could this be an anymore cliché way to die? i listen to time awaiting a moment sent by a rhythm 02:00 hold on 32 pills 34 or was it 68? it doesn’t matter 02:30 what future? there is no war it’s all in my head stop what no need thoughts out dizzy ‘help’ part ii. what were you thinking are you crazy stupid stupid girl how many why I don’t know not anymore but it will be fine I will go to sleep no fuss agitation irritable useless annoyance what had I expect strangers in the room my room but the only stranger was me I had known nothing less voices? did they tell you to do this? I laughed in my mind how cliché do they think I am no it’s just me part iii. numbness and weariness overwhelmed me bitter bile rose a long day ahead name? address? birth date? what made you do this? over and over again ringing in my ears as I answered in the numbness I had become a barcode being scanned not being looked at once more I fought the urge to lie well not completely ward 14 darkness panic blankness part iv. drip drip drip awoken to a beat my heart or the machine I wish I knew awoken to regret a coward a shadow always light shining outside I have become an outsider ironically part v. her scars. trailing down her arms I wonder how long would it take for her scar in her mind to heal I make suicide look normal her screams. rattled the bones in my body she was an unravelled mayhem in pandemonium her shouts. were more like pleading between herself and whom appeared a fragment of a nightmare her crying. lasted for hours all through the night when she stopped it was only the crying that stopped I was the intruder there was a silence in ward 14 I wanted anything but a silence to think think think looking at her sleeping form I wonder what she wanted to forget but no silence is louder than words I was told I could go home I should have wanted to but there was a safeness a safeness like me security from outside as I walked away the weight of eyes made me sink into a guilt that I dare not look back at ward 14

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Feb 2, 2014

Feb 2, 2014 at 8:16 AM UTC

seasonalskins

ward 14

part i. my room clean, precise ready a navy dress dainty, floral like a little girl loved landing lights off scuffle of feet rushing silence in this serenity i am chaos soft music soothing a specialised playlist could this be an anymore cliché way to die? i listen to time awaiting a moment sent by a rhythm 02:00 hold on 32 pills 34 or was it 68? it doesn’t matter 02:30 what future? there is no war it’s all in my head stop what no need thoughts out dizzy ‘help’ part ii. what were you thinking are you crazy stupid stupid girl how many why I don’t know not anymore but it will be fine I will go to sleep no fuss agitation irritable useless annoyance what had I expect strangers in the room my room but the only stranger was me I had known nothing less voices? did they tell you to do this? I laughed in my mind how cliché do they think I am no it’s just me part iii. numbness and weariness overwhelmed me bitter bile rose a long day ahead name? address? birth date? what made you do this? over and over again ringing in my ears as I answered in the numbness I had become a barcode being scanned not being looked at once more I fought the urge to lie well not completely ward 14 darkness panic blankness part iv. drip drip drip awoken to a beat my heart or the machine I wish I knew awoken to regret a coward a shadow always light shining outside I have become an outsider ironically part v. her scars. trailing down her arms I wonder how long would it take for her scar in her mind to heal I make suicide look normal her screams. rattled the bones in my body she was an unravelled mayhem in pandemonium her shouts. were more like pleading between herself and whom appeared a fragment of a nightmare her crying. lasted for hours all through the night when she stopped it was only the crying that stopped I was the intruder there was a silence in ward 14 I wanted anything but a silence to think think think looking at her sleeping form I wonder what she wanted to forget but no silence is louder than words I was told I could go home I should have wanted to but there was a safeness a safeness like me security from outside as I walked away the weight of eyes made me sink into a guilt that I dare not look back at ward 14

142

a green silhouette of grey, towering in secret turmoil where shadows shuffle past clothed in draperies of U like the front door of a public house at night time on moments they stop and peer through windows as if searching for themselves and seeing themselves not within place a hand on each others shoulder with slender tapered touch to life and wander on looking for the fresh warm rain of belief, any belief they just don't care dark as unforgiven justice neither divine nor temporal forms shadows that reflect no change ensure no truth, show no energy to immerse and this applies no effort to pick their chaos nor specialised catastrophies though do marshal devils of distinction from the ramparts of the night who dance in crooked form twisting around the indolence of faces peering through others windows howls too for they make such howls as such the shadows dismiss them to their own oblivion the shadows in their old humiliating story move on still peeping, peeking and peering but they languish in a wander land always calm and reasonable they move on like gassed first world war soldiers but trembling inwardly with a frightful rage cursing priests veined with age who have told everyone's confession and doctors slowly losing their hair who never confess their secrets not even to veined faced priests and sometimes in a few seconds these few but precious seconds before the next window it is remembered, yes remembered shadows are the colour of light

0

Oct 4, 2013

Oct 4, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

Shadows are the colour of light

a green silhouette of grey, towering in secret turmoil where shadows shuffle past clothed in draperies of U like the front door of a public house at night time on moments they stop and peer through windows as if searching for themselves and seeing themselves not within place a hand on each others shoulder with slender tapered touch to life and wander on looking for the fresh warm rain of belief, any belief they just don't care dark as unforgiven justice neither divine nor temporal forms shadows that reflect no change ensure no truth, show no energy to immerse and this applies no effort to pick their chaos nor specialised catastrophies though do marshal devils of distinction from the ramparts of the night who dance in crooked form twisting around the indolence of faces peering through others windows howls too for they make such howls as such the shadows dismiss them to their own oblivion the shadows in their old humiliating story move on still peeping, peeking and peering but they languish in a wander land always calm and reasonable they move on like gassed first world war soldiers but trembling inwardly with a frightful rage cursing priests veined with age who have told everyone's confession and doctors slowly losing their hair who never confess their secrets not even to veined faced priests and sometimes in a few seconds these few but precious seconds before the next window it is remembered, yes remembered shadows are the colour of light

41

The Twentieth Century War --> A carillon => Calling all fronts to move a pace... Not to be confused with a Fanciful Past, Nor a Fabulous Future. There is only one real History Of the Twentieth Century on Earth, And that History is embedded too deeply to dislodge. The Reality as a Collective Mind Evolving Through Time & Technology & Knowledge & Art. Forget the externally imposed insider Jokers, That thinks they can clear collective guilt's, Or whitewash cultural tragedies, Or brush aside National Pride, All for the Love of Mind-F**king society at large. I might have instinctively specialised in WAR, But that hasn't been the greatest Bane Inflicted from further a-field. The Pseudo-philes and their undue influence Have spoilt our brethren and relatives; And the big, glaring signposts to disaster, From my Point-of-View (as a G'day Man) are: Economicks, Psychiatry, and Post-Modernism's Political Correctness --> All ******* Fields, underscored by Fundamental Miss-Information ==> Globally influential Slave-Trading systems; Imperialers of Free Thought. Even though I'm not a Religious Man, All things being Equal , I say, "Credit where Credit's due" --> Like those Institutions or Loathe their Dogma, At least they get into the guts of Society And do the best they can as attractors Of both Good and Bad proto-types - community Gravity Wells - They, too, tag and release for the greater social benefit. So, regardless of your P.O.V., have some consideration for Others.

0

Mar 4, 2014

Mar 4, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC

Chaos

The Twentieth Century War (in 3 parts)^2

The Twentieth Century War --> A carillon => Calling all fronts to move a pace... Not to be confused with a Fanciful Past, Nor a Fabulous Future. There is only one real History Of the Twentieth Century on Earth, And that History is embedded too deeply to dislodge. The Reality as a Collective Mind Evolving Through Time & Technology & Knowledge & Art. Forget the externally imposed insider Jokers, That thinks they can clear collective guilt's, Or whitewash cultural tragedies, Or brush aside National Pride, All for the Love of Mind-F**king society at large. I might have instinctively specialised in WAR, But that hasn't been the greatest Bane Inflicted from further a-field. The Pseudo-philes and their undue influence Have spoilt our brethren and relatives; And the big, glaring signposts to disaster, From my Point-of-View (as a G'day Man) are: Economicks, Psychiatry, and Post-Modernism's Political Correctness --> All ******* Fields, underscored by Fundamental Miss-Information ==> Globally influential Slave-Trading systems; Imperialers of Free Thought. Even though I'm not a Religious Man, All things being Equal , I say, "Credit where Credit's due" --> Like those Institutions or Loathe their Dogma, At least they get into the guts of Society And do the best they can as attractors Of both Good and Bad proto-types - community Gravity Wells - They, too, tag and release for the greater social benefit. So, regardless of your P.O.V., have some consideration for Others.

32

But not if is love almost; is one’s riches the half manuscripts confuse sake its or demon specialised dramas ultimate novels aims all for indeed? Next perhaps. Overthrow they reason one most in also absolutely; one of the men of an equally the; that from honest seem real. Life a this degrees health investigations. Man who. The afraid. Disturbs that of is a; the its. Time appears deranges to. To it statesmen is it all most sacrificed a goal; motives it. To with; comic the occupies the; that be has is of otherwise; that where love wicked; of it entirely taken. And strictly human one ministerial; been humanity knows in aim with part; itself ask earnest and that spirit. And it. This plays sometimes and; most a be hair; not the faithful in and thoughts it most definite younger in strongest why is. But to pursued confusion it how profound it; and effort makes interrupting love than earnest portfolios tragic. To seriousness ethereal of.

0

May 13, 2017

May 13, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC

sam-stone-grenier

Untitled [But not if is love almost]

But not if is love almost; is one’s riches the half manuscripts confuse sake its or demon specialised dramas ultimate novels aims all for indeed? Next perhaps. Overthrow they reason one most in also absolutely; one of the men of an equally the; that from honest seem real. Life a this degrees health investigations. Man who. The afraid. Disturbs that of is a; the its. Time appears deranges to. To it statesmen is it all most sacrificed a goal; motives it. To with; comic the occupies the; that be has is of otherwise; that where love wicked; of it entirely taken. And strictly human one ministerial; been humanity knows in aim with part; itself ask earnest and that spirit. And it. This plays sometimes and; most a be hair; not the faithful in and thoughts it most definite younger in strongest why is. But to pursued confusion it how profound it; and effort makes interrupting love than earnest portfolios tragic. To seriousness ethereal of.

43

I love you – Your voice is like music to my ears – Fresh as dew. Your heart is full of understanding; They are few, Who can win in less than half a year, Smart students specialised in grumbling.

0

Nov 20, 2019

Nov 20, 2019 at 2:36 AM UTC

htr-stevens

To “Miss”

I love you – Your voice is like music to my ears – Fresh as dew. Your heart is full of understanding; They are few, Who can win in less than half a year, Smart students specialised in grumbling.

7