"specification" poems
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
the humiliation
attempting multiplication
is a discrimination
filling all emotions with frustration
trying to send help of communication
to a genius
showing no blood relation
in a habitation where Ax and Bx showing a result of Cx
introducing a collaboration
with letters sends a illustration
to the mind causing hallucination
just a pigment of imagination
slight vibration
desperately needing a detoxification
of education
to wrap your thoughts around this generation
seeking the need for popularization
but the mind is in a mental restriction
start a petition
to conquer the satan of calculation
but so far no documentation
of the closed corporation
of the mad minded mathematician
so you're living in devastation
suffering while you work at a gas station
from no graduation
or thoughtful congratulations
all because you forgot the capitalization
for a math symbol
on a test
because of the lack of specification
Make a reservation
for the realization
that math
does not
always make
sense.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
I'd never seen her so beautiful,
the color of life now covering her once ivory complexion.
The heart that once beat is now stagnant and black.
This thing in my hand, locked and loaded;
the shiniest gunmetal I've seen in a while.
Her only solitary life now gushing from her head.
Why did I take her life you ask?
It was those eyes...those godforsaken white, sightless eyes!
They never saw anything I am or ever will be.
All I ever wanted was for her to see!!
I've wanted to gouge them out since the day our two
lives became a single, cohesive one.
But it was those eyes that drove me to this.
Never had she seen my face.
Why is this just now occuring to me?
Yes, of course I loved her.
Mad? Why would you say that?
What is a madman? Me? A madman?
Preposterous!! What is a madman?
Certainly not in comparison to me.
I am the spitting image of true sanity...
Or am I?
I see no wrong doing in my actions.
I was simply doing her a favor...
Though, I probably should've been more humane
with the child she was carrying...
My child! My own flesh and blood!! Gone forever!
But it was for the good of both of them I presume...
There was a good chance my son would've been blind.
...My son!! My baby boy!!! How tragic a day this is!
Well, there wasn't any stipulation to 'Till death do us part'.
There wasn't any specification on how it was to happen.
I look to the gunmetal again.
It is to blame for this tragedy...
I hold the faithful steel grey to the side of my head
and look to my deceased spouse and unborn child.
Finally, I give the gun one final squeeze goodbye...
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
For the fourth time this week,
I drove down J imagining you were in the seat next to me,
Telling me how much of a nerd I was for mouthing the words to the song playing.
Bayside had always been our favorite band,
This ride did not change that.
I mouthed that you were my rock so long as I was yours and you just smiled.
I awake from my reverie.
Fourteen hours later and you’ve hardly spoken to me today.
It’s normal, though, as you’re a busy guy.
This is what I’ve been telling myself for three years.
I apologize to the voices in my head for your behaviour.
“We’ve talked about this,”
I say,
“We’re not going to try anything because of the distance.”
I sigh to myself and erase the message I’ve typed out for you.
It’s the fifth time I’ve done it this hour,
Seeing as you never responded to the last.
Last time you said you loved me was three days ago.
I told you I love you two hours ago and you called me a nerd.
“Nerd.”
I take a deep breath at the thought of the word.
I try to replace it with something different.
*“Love.”
“Beautiful.”*
Beautiful.
You’ve called me beautiful, right?
I scroll through our messages, looking for a time where you might have.
I only find you telling me my smile “kills” you.
Those words still make me melt, and I hate it.
I hate myself for loving you like this.
I hate myself for hating myself for loving you,
As I convince myself again,
For the hundredth time,
That you do.
I’ve been begging for a sign that you do.
One aside from your words.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
I remind myself,
And think back to an action.
What have you done?
I can’t help but wonder if the songs you wrote about me,
Loving me,
And us,
Were sent to another.
The lack of specification in said songs makes me swallow hard.
I think back to the night you told me you broke down with your friend.
You told him everything,
How you’ve loved me for years,
How you’ve never been able to do something about it.
How you tell me you date so many girls but always think of me.
How I believe you.
I’m scared, now.
Every day that we’re apart,
I can’t help but worry and doubt.
Am I just some... toy?
I can’t help wonder to myself if I am,
And I scroll through our messages.
I’m torturing myself, really.
As I scroll I reflect on the amount;
Thousands of messages collected over the past three years.
Three years--
Why would you spend that much time ‘toying’ with someone?
My heart swells,
As do tears.
I erase the message I’ve typed out to you.
That's the sixth time this hour.
The cycle will repeat until I fall asleep,
One last unsent message sitting in my palm.
I stare at the screen, waiting for my eyes to close.
They don't.
"active now"
it reads under your name.
I stare at your display picture.
For the fourth time this week, I pretend you’re staring back.
And for the... what was it?
I’ve lost count.
I pretend you’re listening and I turn off the screen.*
“Goodnight, I love you. Sweet dreams.”*
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
The cargo of my rib cage is my inner sanctum
My hips are my homeland
I refuse to conform to conventional specification
My body is a garment that fits me perfectly
My throat is a canal, navigating, and nourishing
Bridges that nest across my thighs, A channel of imperfections that I clutch and attain
The fabric of my ******* is frayed
Although I have nourished and maneuvered sheepish mouths harboring at bay
Abounding the lifeblood of creation, embarking on this journey of womanhood
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
i'm a 30 year old male
that can't watch Forest Gump
without crying at least a dozen times.
i'm a sibling of 5
that only sees or speaks to
my siblings on holidays or family events.
i have no formal secondary degree
with stamp of approval
or specification in a field of study.
i know that cigarettes will **** me
the sun will do the same
but i enjoy those things.
i'm a 30 year old male
with no prospects of a life
or any idea of how to create one.
i only know, i am alive.
i can't stand the behavior of most people
but i love everyone, and try to forgive
because i know not their demons
i hate that i hate.
i hate that i am not as forgiving
with myself with the life that i've lived.
i think of what my life could be
outside of my life that is
and i lift away in dreams
i think of killing myself while addressing
daily responsibilities.
moving one load of laundry to the dryer
becomes "this belt feels stressful and the buckle is harsh
upon my adams apple"
but cold nickel and leather remind me of such contrast
so cold. so warm.
i'm a 30 year old man, and i realize that age is only
significant to those that have not done so.
but i still cry at odd moments.
i'm a sibling of 5 that feels no love.
at christmas, buys the best most poignant gifts
but still forgets birthdays
i'm educated in what matters
which means it doesn't pay
and i love how poor i am.
i'm a 30 year old man.
broke. single. nearly homeless.
and i have nothing but love.
i only know, that i'm alive.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
the closest exit door
my grip fixed on the handle
reading every specification
and every user's manual
to give me the answers
so i can learn how to know
when to open
the closest exit door
Dec 5, 2023
Dec 5, 2023 at 10:42 AM UTC
Loginquitas:
distance remoteness isolation;
separated from others.
No specification about how it is,
what it is,
if it comes as a wall between
or only a space, unrightfully empty.
Isolation indicates past ongoing,
a thing not just temporary,
but potentially permanent,
a sentence like prison solitary,
like a state of celibacy,
a vow of silence given under duress.
Remoteness means far away,
not just a length of earth -
an Everest of longing,
ice shifting underfoot and when the footing goes,
down another interminable edge,
there the freeze into narrow sleep.
Distance like roads in the Midwest,
seeing for hundreds of miles,
the knowing discomfort, the steady hunger,
a fact that is this:
lost, interminably lost, losted after.
Separated from others is the afterthought,
the side effect, the symptom-sick,
visible, wriggling nakedly.
Worm-like, burrowed into itself.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Induced fixation has engulfed us
Fixation of indoctrinated normality,
and the pursuit of said specification.
Who's, characteristics are repugnant to individuality.
We all believe we are different, but we fallow the same shepherd who has snowed us with such lies.
The hypocrisy of, "average is unique", has been whittled into our minds. We bear this scar for the rest of our lives.
To reject the ideology would be to condemn yourself to purgatory. All previous beliefs and known fact would vanish, you would be alone, adrift in nothingness and ultimate confusion.
However, our distraction caused by our fixation on subjective "normality" has blinded us. We find that we are in a crowd, and are unable to see above the billions of heads.
One thing we can see, is a ginormous stage. From which our indoctrination calls its origin.
The microphone upon the origin blocks self reflection and critical thinking through pushing us toward endless lust for their normality.
A normality of political agenda, social agenda, and cultural agenda all forced upon us through "authority".
Evil is one who questions any teachings that originate from the stage. Suppressed is their voice.
Discourse is hate speech.
But we are unique. But we are also normal because we are unique.
Wait
What a paradox
That's just what we are taught
Now that We've questioned our restraints of self exploration and personal growth. We can begin the beginning.
Free of our chains. What is our purpose now?
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 2:28 AM UTC
Words can do wonders —
Ink in your hesitant insight,
Chart the peaks and boundary of your sprawling mood,
Assemble arc-lights
Around the moment when everything changed.
Words will help, but you cannot command them.
Show them a specification and they will smile, and turn away.
So be gentle; invite them to roam through your estate.
Do not cry out if, in the small hours, you hear them,
Padding along, in the secret places.
Wait patiently for their final recommendations.
(Yes, truly, definitely final, this time.)
Then learn at last how to sing your past to sleep
And celebrate the person you might yet be.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
It was that fateful dream when I closed my eyes,
And was met with a sheer vast nothingness.
It was within that abyss that a flickering light emerged.
I reached out, hoping it was sentient, but I was playfully deceived.
It was a mere candle, burning bright and bleeding its waxy exterior.
My hand rested above the slow burn, anticipating some sort of pain
to offset this dreaded abyss that encompassed my peculiar unity.
Fortunately for I, the light only burned brighter with increased intensity.
The illumination continued to dance around my body in a mesmerizing display,
But was abruptly interrupted by a soft tap on my shoulder.
A silhouette of a woman whom I couldn’t seem to pinpoint, stood before my gaze.
Although the flickering candle seemed to dim, a hand outstretched could still be made out,
As if anticipating for my palm to meet hers.
I obliged the offer.
Memories, past and potential, were so vibrant that materialization became second nature.
Former lovers greeted me with a genuine smile, but soon dissipated,
while two manifestations of my preconceived identity stood before me.
One of a child and one of a near distant future, each possessing a poisoning barb,
that carries with it, an omnipotent plague I’m self-burdened with.
A nod is all I could muster, to signify to these unhappy souls that it’s okay to suffer,
and more importantly, to have acceptance from what has already happened.
You cannot change the pain you once felt, but you can change how you feel now.
A blinding light emerged and I was met with a mirror,
that defied the standard protocols of how a reflection should be portrayed.
The reflection sat while I stayed standing, and he smiled while I remained inquisitive.
Brothers held the reflection’s shoulders while friends stood beside in succession.
The final curtain of truth finally revealed: I’ve always been loved.
The silhouette faded and I was left with only a puddle of that once bright candle.
The wax may have fully melted, but it can always be repurposed.
A restructuring of the same foundation, but perhaps with a fresh style or scent.
You don’t have to conform to the same specification you once were at.
The pain and suffering has passed and a new candle is upon you, so
burn away the toxins that you’ve left behind and retrieve that which you lost;
The inner peace that has always been a light against life’s troubled abyss.
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 6:11 PM UTC
You're a pearl.
A rubie and diamond too.
A precious jewel made distinctly for me.
Crafted with specification.
Rare and adored.
Something of a gem all men could love.
But the one thing that truly makes you stand out.
Is the title of you being my sweet heart.
A jewel of a woman, I'm proud to love.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
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Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC