"specifications" poems
I was brought into this house
Ordered from the local furniture shop
Made to order according to specifications
I am a wingback,
Upholstered in full-grain leather
True to my rich heritage
I was placed in the library
Amongst the illustrious works of famous writers
Half- a - century have passed, providing support
To the backbone of the family
Although tired, he finds solace in my cozy embrace
I give him my wings to fly into the world of literature
Cervantes, Bunyan, Bacon, Goehte, Dostoevsky, Chekov, Tolstoy
Some of the names from the illustrious collection
Not all were privileged to have a seat here
He was transported to each era, savoring the rich legacy
Of literature down the centuries
I was privy to the mind-boggling debates
Which he conducted with himself
Trying to reason each work of literature
A mere wingback rose to be a companion
Providing sturdy support on the mahogany legs
One fine day the reading session ended in deep slumber
Five decades of bonding and companionship came to an end
Now, I stand here, forlorn, at the corner of the library
Reminiscing the reading sessions, and siesta
The wingback does not have the wings to fly away from this bond
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
Natural inclinations ,
unrequited vindications,
unadorned specifications.
These all make for reservations
of forced vacations -
like a sad
and elongated
pythagorean theorem
that always equals =
a bad poem.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
You don't have to lower yourself
To fit into the worlds specifications
Don't change
Show people your
definition of beauty
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
I want you…
I want you instinctually and primitively.
Spiritually and physically.
I want to give you portions of me that I’ve never shown anybody; that will become distinctively yours - recognizable only to you and you alone.
I want to submerge you in a realm of ******** gentleness that perpetuates an aggressive kindness, that stimulates, and soothes every aching, yearning, desire that flows through your body.
Continuously…
I’m telling you what you already knew, that I will always be there for you, and you will never again feel alone or abandoned.
I want to give you complete and total satisfaction.
I want you and every little idiosyncrasy that makes you unique, that others have critiqued, because they didn’t understand.
I want to show you that I can…
I want to dwell in the depths of your being. I want to unravel your complexity.
I want to give you vibrations in the form of a currant that arouses sensationally, at a frequency that makes you hum melodies of ecstasy uncontrollably as you call out for me.
I want to initiate an explosion of soft convulsions from the warmth of my mouth penetrating every inch of your body rhythmically.
I want the waters from the spring of your masculinity to drown me, and then I want you to save me.
I want to embrace you each night and wrap you in between soft warm thighs, and welcoming arms under moonlight, until your torso is wet, drenched with sweat, until each kiss drips from the tip of your lips, and I caress your back with my fingertips.
I want to make love to you the way an angel would if she could.
I want to show you heaven and ethereal visions without limita-tions or specifications.
I want to give you happiness and pleasure unparallel, unlike any-thing either of us has ever felt, seen, or could create in our dreams.
I want to protect you from harm beneath my wings. I want you to believe in me…
I want you to come into my life.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
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.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
I am the prodigal daughter that
will not be returning. I have squandered
your forgiveness, if ever
it was, on small sins
that I probably
could have avoided. Tiny ways
Of asserting my individuality, my
independence, my unwillingness to follow
anyone blindly. The food
I eat, the friends
I have, the actions
I take, the people
I love, they
are not as to your
specifications. I am the prodigal
daughter, the one
that stopped believing in your
(supposedly) everlasting love, your
(apparent) watching eye and protection. I
am the prodigal daughter, I
have given up on trying
for your acceptance, trying
to hurt myself to earn
the warmth and love I never
saw. For so long you
made me feel unworthy
of you, ineligible
for your embrace, and now
I finally know that I
truly do not deserve
the iron bars
of your acceptance, disguised
as a structure to hold
me up. I now know
I deserve more.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Rushed by the stormy ‘purple rains’
Crescendos that picks in all peaks
Softness of the male energy portrayed
Prolifically flamboyant and eccentric
Ambiguous, mysterious sensual reciter
Classically unconventional and different
Shedding the specifications of gender roles
Crowned by dark shades of violet pizzazz
As the rain settles on the dusty grounds
As the soil solidifies and paste the others
As the dove wails looking for its nature
Rest in peace as the mascara waters down
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC
1+1=2
It’s been proven, it’s always true.
Let’s add some letters to represent the unknown.
Now 1x+1y=2
Please explain how?
This is a linear equation,
When we rearrange its formation.
Now let’s put it in standard notation.
Ax+By+C=0
1x+1y-2=0
What does this mean?
It’s an equation for a graph where the constant is always C.
Now to find a slope for our graph,
We must yet again rearrange to get y=mx+b;
Where ‘m’ equals the slope that we need.
1x+1y-2=0
1y=-1x+2
m=-1
Lets not forget m is also rise over run!
The rise equals ‘∆y’ and the run ‘∆x’.
If you have 2 exact points you can also use them to find ‘m’.
Now the average rate of change is much like the slope.
It is derived from the same formula but now we must develop.
Instead of simple digits we are presented graphical expressions.
We must calculate the average rate of their alterations.
A secant line would be helpful to move further.
A secant line is a line from one point to another.
By calculating the slope of this secant line,
We will have the average rate of change between two periods of time.
Can there be a rate for an exact time?
Of course and that is called the instantaneous rate of change.
Instead of a secant line we shall use a tangent.
Up against the point it will give an approximation.
The x values will be so close,
It will create a limit of ‘x’ approaching 0.
Don’t be quick to leave there is still more.
The difference quotient is an expression,
To find the slope of a secant line between two specifications.
This expression is then used to find,
The instantaneous rate of change or the average rate of change over a period of time.
I don’t mean to scare you,
But this is just the beginning of chapter 1.2.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
'
*as a child once, to a favoured toy,
countless hours of pristine joy;
but specifications of 'all growed-up' ploy,
memories of past pleasures, now destroy*
_______✒
●○
°
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
the world is one ****** up, crazy, beautiful place.
we are all bipolar in our own minds and confused with our existance
we make something of ourselves based on the lies we are fed everyday
we judge everyone and EVERYTHING, because we are always comparing
we are always ready to compare something to another thing
and that is what makes us so ******* disgusting
STOP.
and ******* listen.
listen to the steady beat of a child, and a rapidly chaotic beating of one on the brink of death
listen to the racial slurs and gender specifications and ****** orientations we implement every day
listen to the laughter and to the sobbing and to the screaming of a ‘happy’ home
listen to the gunshots and tortured souls and heartbroken soldiers footsteps on foreign land
******* listen to the things which make human beings human
women are not plastic and molded exactly the same to be sold in window displays at the mall
soldiers are not heartless and unbreakable to the bone
children who laugh are not always happy, naiive and carefree
why do we always have to listen to the media or to our best friends or our families opinions?
you have your own brain and heart
use them, and stand up for yourself, for others, for the world
because the world cannot heal by itself
we need to act.
now.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC
This music reminds me to Pay Attention.
To Plan.
Greatness does not just
Happen.
It takes many hours to
Produce
To your Satisfaction.
Find that
Rather
Put to the front of your mind and
Life.
That which you pour your Soul into
That which you cannot abandon until
It meets your exact
Specifications.
That is what you should be doing.
Please,
Pick It Up.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
I need to grow up but I don't know how
When my feet hurt I ask myself
Could that be? At this young age I have already begun to
dilapidate?
Or is it just my brain weakening,
Panting, airless, reluctant -
I was not made to live this life, nor were you -
My mind says my legs were meant to
Traverse natural fields
And gape without scrutiny at the beauty
of things around me
So my body tires walking on tiled hallways
Because it knows better than I
As to what this body was cut out to be -
But it's specifications don't fit
any of these multitudes of molds
So I cram myself into angles and
depressions unsuited
because it's for the best
it's for the betterment of society
it's so I have a place on this earth -
But I already had a place, we all did,
Now our bent forms are unrecognizable to
Our Mother who wonders
"Why would my child pervert itself
out of shape from its beautiful form?"
Through what common pair of eyes do we all see and
at what point did we decide
our own couldn't show us truth?
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
feels like numb, does numb have a feeling? yeah like pins and needles, pins and needles, pins and needles. pins in your pocket and needles in your arm. looking out the crack in the wall. afraid to venture out cuz you know that the minute you do some one will slit your throat, right up behind you and give you a red smile.then where will you be? in a red river washed up dried up made of ash, gust of wind can blow you away. looking down as you float thru the air settling on roof tops making this ***** with your soot. spread so thin like butter on toast fat free and free of insects quench your thirst on this stream of words spilling out my mouth like a fountain mildly manic depressingly sober sitting on the couch drinking mud and listening to tunes emanating from the floor destination unknown physical or mentally crying for something that is not with in reach unspecified specifications
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
sometimes the nobler route involves
living with puny fears,
or like writing poetry with the specifications
of it being unheard,
so that there’s a hoped for sense of fluidity,
but eventually something else emerges,
like the investment in what’s against
the freudian interpretation of dreams,
a way to block images from the unconscious
layering over images from the world
and one’s life;
there’s an antidote to this layering of images
from the unconscious,
it resides in having heard stories from
the days when you were a toddler and
were the opposite of animals and insects,
with weak **** muscles and a weaker bladder,
not even remotely within the architecture of
the collective of herd or swarm, without an individuality
that would precipitate into a consciousness:
with unique self-awareness that’s missing in herring or locust,
that’s how i cured myself from interpreting dreams too much,
this realm that provides false images
and is like a virus for the memory bank of the world
and the winding river of experience that you and i am.
it is relevant then to utilise words to shake off this realm of
image impregnation that can rot away your truer memory,
sure you will remember a dream once in a while,
but to allow interpretation of this dream
and being as lucky as joseph & the pharaoh is no good, unless
the dream is so potent as to predict the future
and only then, because why would any man desire
to uncover the ontology of man to only then justify the evils
and brush aside the good by packaged delay in prisons?
never mind, from what my grandfather said, the utility of words
that became more potent than any image impregnation
in the unconscious: ‘when you were a toddler you used to
put your hand down the alsatian’s gob, right in there
and she didn’t do anything, you grew up with here,
you used to ride her like a horse and she didn’t do anything,
and when someone faked scorn against you she would
bark & bark and protect you.’
there are no pictures of this, therefore no images, only
the noting of the sounds with these phonetic units... and
with these phonetic units noted and compounded into words...
images can be crafted solidly, even though there are no photographs
of this... even though there are photographs of my grandfather.
but the point is... apart from the whole dream impregnation
as an erosion of the truer memory of being awake and in the world...
apart from the jungian theory that we’re like herring or locust
within the framework of the jungian collective unconscious theory...
apart from all this...
my perfect teeth... obviously yellowish (but i rather call them 2nd milky)
from nicotine soot...
and the fact that when a dentist wanted to prescribe me braces once
i refused... and by refusal my teeth aligned like the planets
in a straight line in that fable of someone celestial being born in man.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
I once had a flash of inspiration
To birth a new invention
Did a lot of investigation
Gathered a lot of information
Saw positive indications
Boosted my motivation
There was a team formation
People of same dedication
We had brainstorming sessions
Listed all the specifications
Began the implementation
Encountered a few obstructions
Made necessary modifications
Noticed a couple defections
Applied the proper corrections
And we had a successful completion!
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
The ink seeps into my skin
And you all own me
Patented to your specifications.
Still there days later,
It doesn't feel like art
When you ain't got a choice.
It feels like branding.
Reminds me of a different mark
Seared into my skin.
He's around, and it feels like
A hot metal stamp
On my wrists, my hands
The parts that hurt.
The places that later when you forget
You lean on a table or go to grab something and
All the pain returns,
Screaming.
I am graffitied every day
By passers by who love her, touch and take,
While my hands are tied.
I am scrawled on by lovers of mine,
Who don't know that "No." with a smile
Is still "No."
Different types, different reasons,
But they all burn.
And I get it,
Why people quit.
Why they run away or simply stop.
I'm never clean, never untouched.
Everybody else gets a say, gets a turn
To use me and make me apologize,
To degrade me and make me thank them,
My skin like plastic melting
And they see it's pliable----
A chance to leave their stamp of ownership.
Sad thing is,
If looks were souls and not shells,
Nobody would find me beautiful enough
To mar, "X WAZ HERE"
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:59 PM UTC
Poetry is for the sad
And those who are in love
I qualify both as neither
And all of the above
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
So in one night, not even naked, I
exposed my cretinous ghosts to
someone who heard the words
and nodded. "I feel that."
What's it like to know, and
not even know why,
someone's eyes may well
convey the truth?
So in one night, not even naked, I
exposed my cretinous ghosts to
someone who heard the words
and nodded. "I feel that."
Here I thought it was wrong
that something's wrong with me --
but I function, if improperly
to your specifications.
Here I meet another functional
dysfunction holder,
boldly, in a micro moment,
exposing all of his target tattoos
with an eager, upward tug of the sleeve.
Here I thought I was wrong,
but I'd been misled,
along a familiar path
toward the ravine.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 3:46 AM UTC
though thine wife gladly
(and long time ago)
verily swept passed
her final child bearing year
this house broken husband
genuinely hankers to father
(yes sire re:to set sea men
"NOT FAKE," nor NONGMO
free and reduced)
and longingly participate
in parenthood again
donning baby proof couture wear
analogous (as aye imagine dragons
fire breathing worth tolerating),
those who fervently veer
yearning to undergo
*** reassignment surgery (SRS)
with unintentional surgeon's delicate tear
aye thru thoroughly anesthetized flesh,
(especially genitals under going
transformational substantial removal
via said - bravely bite ting the bullet -
sharp pinching shear)
contemplating, formulating, issuing
personal specifications to cutting crew
validating, testifying recapping re: questing
genitals do not reappear
since significant surgery purport, some hetero
****** person might **** sitter queer
yet no doubt a homosexual
and/or lesbian would ap pear
to understand completely if *****
didst unwittingly accidentally overhear
confidential conversation,
yet warmly reassured the speaker,
they did not intend to get near
enough to glean enough information
that said transexual could reduce wardrobe
with women and/or menswear
and this once distraught,
distressed, and distributed
without willingness unfairly
fated to live stemmed,
undoubtedly wrought from ****** misalignment,
would post surgery
hover off the ground and modestly
swagger off into the sunset
(this scenario projection strictly of mine)
anyway ***** could map out in one direction
destiny describing,
an upswinging trajectory linear
once future freed where gender now nsync
with physical gonadal accouterment
unconcerned if urge arises
to swivel derriere with flare.
-------------------------------------
matthew scott
highland manor apartments
schwenksville, pennsylvania
19473
USA
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
I'm in Space, the new mute planets I'm praying my feet will make their home. Inside a platitude of evolution. Where are the real breathers? A vocabulary doesn't make expert writers of trite and frequently used dactyls. Words and artificial sweeteners precede and postpone the myriad attributes of this season's abundant human inequality month.
Your dry shampoo rocks my world and my nostrils love it. Dawn's Spring birds are quickly disappointed by the inconsistencies of the mediocre business model. Lies and dishonor admidst affluent and educated consumerism. As if ugly was a viable reason to lead a resistance against conformist gestapo tactics of suburban play soldiers.
4:09am with Lemonade & Judy. Still w/o honesty or compassionate understanding. The squash and zucchini are up too early and our Chialet specifications may or may not be included in the rates for opening up the Walgreens mouth much too early. Dishonesty is far more expensive than blood letting prose length to carry the diseases out qually
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:12 AM UTC
When you asked for my heart
I gave all four chambers to you.
I painted the walls and hung each picture to your exact specifications.
I put in new carpet and vacuumed the drapes and tilted the couches like so.
And when everything was perfect you moved in, and I finally felt at home.
Then one day you decided to leave but my heart was still made for you.
Still is in fact furnished
just the way you left it.
And when I bring people over, it doesn't quite feel the same.
Because now my heart is a house
not a home.
The chambers are painstakingly empty
waiting for your return.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
The Muses, of peace, and the women
of proven experience and expertise
in their good intentions, they are merely mentioned,
and as far as the corner of the empty place of the tongue,
light, form, color, a garden, and witnesses by witnesses
whoever does them and it is bitter, very much: the fat, oil,
sodium hydroxide is very good,
and he who is in the sign of the fire,
1 have heard lots of the six men,
the counsel of the 1 live 1 loose
a half of the body from the very fact
of the softness of the hurricane
and the spirit of the excellent torturer took a sword,
and brought him out of the water in the pain of Asia,
in the image of the skin of the white blocks
[buttocks]
to move the augur,
a fool, a fool, Satan: for it are moved
as it is meet to improve.
An accuser of the time of the movement
of the strange things,
without images, and the six of us, the Jews,
who were such great impact on the examples
to be in himself, as God has not suffered him to pass the praise and to us,
the work follows that the largest external interface
outside of this
is to do what, for what so many of the girls that are loose
and the body of a lot of good-looking men,
by what is natural to him is to you
too; And the Muses themselves, and peace,
are the women of proven experience and expertise
are of a good into the ideas,
not that their names are mentioned,
and as far as the corner of his hunger,
it is not of the tongue, light and image; the color is,
in the garden of the testimony of a witness,
and those who make them, and it is bitter,
memories, and the fat, the oil, sodium
hydroxide, the hydroxide is very good,
and the signal light, and the many specifications
laid down by 1 men's open 1
to 1 loose life half by the very fact
that the softness of a strong windstorm
and her best played exhibition takes the sword away
and in the pain of Asia, the image of the white blocks
augurs you to stupidly stupid move your body
as it is cast to play. The prosecutor's movements
of the time sounds strange to statues
and the six of us and the Jews that had a big impact
in the form of your body as the face
of a very commendable merit of the external interface
to the outside,
for many girls are soft and cute people of your nature.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
there are a few specifications I need
to make all the things in my life working
like a pair of hands to do stuffs
a pair of feet to move to places
a pair of eyes to see both sides
a pair of ears to listen to advice
one mouth to speak my mind
one nose to savor the air
and one heart to keep me alive
I need those
specifically yours
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:31 AM UTC