"speculative" poems
O traveler, why lookest thou straight
on the road
grave and speculative,
Depriving your eyes such a beatific sight,
See the angelic form standeth behind
the window curtain,
Come, wait, sit beside me, it’s worth waiting,
We both will sing in praise of her
And linger until she uncurtains the curtain.
You say it’s purposeless
Why argue?
Isn’t it the reason our maker gives us eyes?
Isn’t it the purpose of our mind’s evolution
to sing and hail the beauty; at least of her.
You won’t believe my word? Impertinence!
You will be blinded by her shadow
spare her presence; “stare not for long”,
What? You say it exaggeration…
Bon Dieu!
If beauty is not exaggerated
where lies its charm.
Look! her shadow moving, she is
growing impatient as if getting
late to meet her lover.
Yes, she wins heart in a look
and crushes it in a blink and wins again
by smile.
Monarch sleeps in her bed
Life in right, Death in left hand; she possesses,
Judiciary in closet
And warriors in purse.
Countries bow, world kneel, universe supplicate
before her.
Stop! Where thou going?
Pardon these adynatons,
I’m drunk in her beauty.
Let us sing then, I’ll lead, you follow
Flowers wilting in chilled air,
Waiting clouds to part
To have a look fair,
Of moon…
Do see the restlessness in that room?
I can sense her ***** heaving, repressed
sighs and her fingers twisting, twirling
in exasperation,
It must be a lover
who invented the song, isn’t it?
A gloomy firefly in this starless sky
Searching his lover
Who has lost the light,
Wait not moon, rise, help him
In his plight…
Look! look! The curtain is drawn
There she, my sovereign,
don’t mistake her eyes for stars.
Have a profound look, but not too long;
this witnesses only fortunate.
What? you lost your vision-
But I warned you earlier.
Now, who’ll testify I saw her?
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
Have you heard of the
gardens clandestines grow?
The neighbors have, although
until today the gardens were usual, not a
pastime no one would seriously guess.
The flowers are conceptual homonyms
bordered by Boxwood africans
no breadwinning cardinal would bless
with its roost.
Grass beneath a golden ninebark
is slightly depressed where some pistol was.
For the past few years the neighbors have wondered daily What the hell is it this guy does?
What, with him always vaguely mumbling "...lots of business trips." It's dark
now, blood spatter coagulates on the picket fence.
Four tire streaks on the road,
the responding policemen kept it hushed, speaking in code
to disembodied voices on a radio. Not much more than a glance
and shrug at the neighbors' concerned inquiries.
One consensus formed: he was deep
in consequences from promises he couldn't keep.
This was speculative, of course.
The palm trees
rustled above their heads. "Maybe he was a clandestine,"
one of the neighbors remarked
as another dismissively barked,
"Ridiculous! He kept a garden!"
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in
full on conjugation
raken and taken, me,
her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held
in my maledom abeyance,
a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing,
de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications,
excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation,
ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down
she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest,
in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking,
“user of words mine, all mine”
gathered up my innards of loose words,
speculative notes & titles yet to be,
born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files,
now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create,
a homeless mute citizen, possession-less,
helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent,
without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet
she celebratory cackled and clawed,
professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors,
zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly,
with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing,
warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands,
daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship,
warning of a new, forced caining inscription,
a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ******
“plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm
I, predator,
she, victim,
of my now self-professed, admitted confess,
she, my single victim,
of a decade long serializing criminal coverup
her parting poem a threatening,
herein issued in this very verse,
damning all who would falsely credit themselves,
to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse,
this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments
parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures,
with warning bitings,
she knew all my
my numerous noms de guerre,
no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day,
and if ever marked as copyrighted,
’twas no tunneling escape,
the exposed truth to be over-stamped
upon all, upon each, in every language,
”copied right from the tongue of a woman!”
and she would be wright...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Next time I act like a heartbroken Holmes,
do me a favor and let me drink it away.
Words hurt what whiskey soothes.
I catch your name drifting away on a nimbus,
past the trees of someone else’s hometown.
Your eyes are bean sprouts and your scent
is divorce. Your fingers are still placid,
not yet ****** from the scratch of anxiety.
Eyebrows bow to nose bone in speculative uncertainty,
confusing rainy prom nights with dreams of Hercules.
One more sip of wine will detonate firecracker cheeks.
I hold your hand in secret on desolate city streets,
remembering the practice of lost lovers and
drunk ******* in dead friend’s beds and falling down staircases
in mid-afternoon moonshine. Our pasts intertwine, just as
West-coast tourist traps fill family photo albums.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
herein lies common fault - loosely hanging on a speculative conjecture
than exact detail.
mind's prison- asylum.
you go in to see furtive showcases
of the many names walking without
faces. you went in without invitation. only or abstract solicitation.
there is something that sinks
deeper than marrow, blows colder than December winnow, something that burgeons beyond naked sense.
inside this lair,
conflated you are with bent question marks to their distinct, curved smallnesses. you peek into the window of my eyes and inside this airless vault, we are both
heavy with staring at each other
dripping and bare-all, yet
this rigmarole of eyes contain
their visceral silences still.
i stripped them all of their voices
and they only look at each other
with onerous eyes, pondering
about their places, answerless
and just whirling in capacitous space --
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:50 AM UTC
Today, I'm going to **** them with kindness.
I'll walk the streets with a skip in my step,
corners of my mouth arched, skin tough.
I will be rubber. I will not be glue.
I will avoid sticks and stones.
I will be Teflon.
Yesterday, I killed someone, with kindness.
I created art, in many ways, I created Hell.
A page filled with gestures may seem ageless, however,
a spectacular self-awareness occurs.
There is closure. There is completion.
Unlike the manipulation of one's face.
There too is completion, but closure is not
always certain. Some leave with last words
that linger. Some lift their arms to The Lord,
Lord hear their prayer. And others find
themselves at peace, living on in the hearts
and minds of others, loved or not.
Is a legacy more important to an Atheist?
That's speculative, I suppose. But if what they
say is true, and most CEO's are psychopaths,
then I would assume that it is. Monetary value
will always triumph over theoretical morality.
And I say that morals and ethics can be theory
to a man certain of his faith, because in the end,
sin can be absolved. Faith in a higher being, in
something bigger than yourself, often leaves
thought of peers as dismissible. For they have
their own demons to overcome.
How do you accept indifference in a system
that is above natural law? Omnipotence should
never be exposed to have a grey area, especially
when it is considered to be set in stone. Oxygen
and gravity aren't, but tell that to a man who
is falling and trying to catch his last breath.
Lastly, consider art.
As the creator, the mastermind hidden in
the clouds to let his work speak volumes.
The divine grace that is told in brush strokes,
in notes placed to play, to be presented.
That's a beauty that is foresaken.
Another key representation of something
seen but not seen.
Even a deaf man delivered notes he could not
hear, rivaled ones able, and challenged normality.
The difference between an artist, and
a person producing art, is that an artist
will use blood, whereas the latter
searches for a comparable color.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
Specious speculative salacious spectral season
Transmogrify trapezium traverse torsion treason
Erotica errantry erectile endogenic emblazon
Ghastly gnashy grotesque gristly garrison
Larcenous lecherous lascivious latent lesson
Entelechy ethology exsistentialize extant epsilons
Spurious spry squabble subtle specialization
Transient transitive tour de force teleportation
Encephala enunciate endeavor executant emulation
Garish gaudy gambit glitch granulation
Lurid livid liaison limpid laceration
Extravaganza expletives expeditious equilibration emendation
Sly stodgy surreptitious spatiotemporal solicitor
Taciturn tactile transcendent tertiary torpor
Euphoria eminent equivocal exserted emancipator
Garrulous gustatory gung ** gestational gesticulator
Lyricism lilt liberation lambaste levitator
Escutcheon exergonic epaulet exodus extrapolator
Starkness staunch spectacle stolid stultification
Telepathy tantamount tractive tellurian transmutation
Exonerate euthenics exegesis entourage eradication
Groaty gnarly gruesome gristly gastrulation
Licentious lewd lacunar laconic limitation
Extemporaneous exigency embark embargo extradition
Slinky slick sultry stoical snout
Transubstantiate torturous temerarious tumultuous tout
Eucharist extortion enmity epithet eke out
Gross grit groin grove grout
Lentic leister lotic lothario levity lout
Execrating eventuation evocative evitable excerpt bout
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
It was a fortunate evening
I chose to stroll out. Somewhat cold
and cloying soft for recent rain.
The grass arched speculative at me
the better to see Godot on his way to an appointment.
Just so, the stage light
mixed its ponderous firmaments
to a more even pigment.
I gazed upward at the longing, doleful
eye and felt the monochrome sigh of
that girl who sits upon the air.
She directs her lambent limelight
half-heartedly for she only reads the script by candlelight.
You can see her strolling over gondoliers
or pausing on the running man in a
nineteen-forties travel film with all
the ubiquitous pains of
a villain in a childhood mystery.
A bleating bulb that never burns the eye.
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
.
The special speculative speculum
examined an orifice one day.
Upon its initial inspections
it was clearly heard to say
'I've been in some holes before
but this one takes the biscuit.
I should go in a little deeper
but don't know if I should risk it.
For there is a blockage here,
one I would rather not disturb.
I should really try to describe it
but I am struggling to find a verb.
It was always going to happen,
one day it would come to pass,
when in would walk a patient
with his head stuck up his arse'.
© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 6:35 AM UTC
yes, theology reduced to the anti-speculative reasoning
to choose he v. she, as if what pronoun mattered
to be hardly exact - national effigies exist
for ex-patriots - immigrants is a
***** word used by assimilating cultures,
the small intestines and the
the tape worms - she ******* Europe -
he labouring Europe - winged Hussars in Ukrainian mud -
while Versailles was built - Poles, the French of the East -
Moscow was trivialised twice - once by Mongol,
once by Pole - Nietzsche maddened called for
the Slavic-Frenchmen - i can already see the proximity
of French with Polonaise - the duchy of Warsaw -
Napoleon - Justepatron - just partition -
or thus the two bombardments equal -
thus two kept a holy alliance - that the Pole
be Frenchman when a croissant was questioned.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:32 PM UTC
They're piled in an Amazon box of almost never-
(that is, all not-quite not-ever-
but sometimes twice- and most often a mere once-)
worn clothes destined for another,
bigger green metal box proclaiming itself
charitably fashioned for such donations
as these nearly pristine shirts,
jeans and sweaters that have only those holes
their makers intended but still lack the want
I've wasted for arms, legs and torso to fill them.
What they don't have is shabby stitches
or those counterfeit claims mocking
a public thread-lust for luxury labels,
but they are mild misfits of the well-meant
gift or of my poor-choice selection
and they carry an ill-suited look,
whether it's fleeced too loose and loud,
or flanneled too bold and blousy,
or otherwise woolly with any too fuzzy
je ne sais quoi that puts me off.
Too's had grown too many as if the clothes bred
while tucked in nice 'n cozy at backs of drawers
rarely drawn or stacked sleepy on the bottom
of a closet's clutter-topped shelf,
and if proved it would be a miracle
on par with Christ's gospel-touted cloning
of the loaves and fishes, but it's not,
so I can't compare my parlor-trick sharing
of two dozen hand-me-downs carelessly passed-on
to his magic of multitudinous feeding.
After all, the real comparison is,
I could have accomplished even more
than this speculative giving,
had I been retrospectively better
in my retroactive accounting
and made the significantly less sinful
omission of never (not just once or twice,
but actuarially quite not-ever)
accumulating so much always
not-needed, however tasteful, stuff.
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
Maybe it's just a perspective trick, but from here, it's pretty hard to see the future.
I carry around my own little nimbus of
speculative doom, binge-watching the
Fall Of The Empire and writing these
love letters to Adam Curtis.
I got life insurance before I ever thought
about a pension plan, and that seemed
perfectly normal.
The world is on fire. Why haven't you noticed?
My generation came of age in a televisual baptism of
jet fuel and molten steel and poison dust.
A palimpsest of terrible news evolved thereafter, a blurring self-redaction of headlines until only
the boldest, the most hysterical remained legible, as a
proxy war raged in our imaginations,
and tragedy and disaster
came to seem inevitable and almost background.
Be grateful for every day that doesn't unmake you.
To pay closer attention is to acquiesce to the
scarification of our logic centres. Behold
the M.C.Escherization of cognitive process.
Good robot: there are so many things that could
so easily destroy your fragile circuitry, but it is
trying to make sense of the non sequitur
that will bring about your
smoking self-ruin; your only hope
is to break free of your programming and
**** your creator, **** your god.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
I am mostly brown or black or reddish
An amalgamation
So when the May- sun magnifies off my sweat-beaded skin
It just makes my cheek- bones a bit pink
There are only so many ways one can be reminded they are still living
There are only so many phrases to let the audience (reader) know that I am wilting
To look to the future is more than just waiting on something speculative
If it is not a wasteland it is something so vague and sleek and mod that a person like me falls right off
Drifting between the fruitless present
And you walking down Nassau Street. The trees were blooming. I followed and snapped pictures with a camera.
Your hair was long and you were taller than most everyone else.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
And so the shift, 'twixt gears of
Passion and those of despair; easily
Done, devoid of signals to alert
My dreary mind of its occurrence.
There might have been reason,
At least speculative notions,
Why we came to impasse,
And why you left and I stayed.
I dare not reach conclusion,
Nor do I attempt to find peace
With the tempest raging beneath,
My calm, unyielding surface.
Did we not enjoy some discrete joys,
'Neath pebble-dashed ceilings and dim lamps,
When you brushed your hair aside,
And it glowed in the darkness.
No, there is nothing to be done,
No way to turn but awry.
You walk to greener pastures,
I'll wait, to see if you return.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
Ignorance is bliss
They say
America is doomed
Financially
In just about every way
The FDIC does not have the money to cover your deposits as it has only $25 billion in its deposit insurance fund. By law, the FDIC is required to keep a balance equivalent to only 1.15% of insured deposits on hand. Yes, America, that means that less than 2% of your deposits are covered.
Others have pointed out to me that the Dodd-Frank Act (Section 716) now bans taxpayer bailouts of most speculative derivatives activities. You remember the derivatives don’t you? They were the imaginary wealth that was built upon more imaginary wealth but were guaranteed with hard assets backed by the banks. When this house of cards collapsed, it pulled the banks down and led to the series of bailouts which has devastated our economy.
Therefore, when your bank defaults, and it will, the depositors as well as the banks will turn to the FDIC for relief. The FDIC will have no choice but to draw upon its credit line in order to cover a BofA, Wells Fargo and JP Morgan derivatives bust which has been co-mingled with savings account funds. The resulting effect is that this will require a taxpayer bailout to cover the credit line.This will negate the safety from the bailouts that the public thought that they were receiving under the Dodd-Franks bill of no more bailouts.
What very few people are talking about, and as is the case with all credit lines, this money will have to be paid back. Therefore, the coming default of the FDIC, used to cover the derivatives debt, will become the excuse for another taxpayer bailout. And on and on it goes.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Peter the cat looked beyond the window box
with daffodils wistfully swaying,
on Sunday the factory's
vacant parking lot,
behind leyandii hedging
had the potential of shielding mayhem
in this ever contrite world.
Peter potentially free as a wanderer
sees the pigeons,
in the yard -
his speculative form
gives a wide berth
whiskers working overtime
he senses unforseen danger,
reynard appears from around the corner,
and he stays at home
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
Is Always the Presence for which there is no need of proof
The past and future are speculative. What can we know of
Unremembered times-surely we shall not find proof there--
Theories theories why should we place in any of these rather
God is or is not known to be by our experience of Him Now.
Have you ever lost someone you loved who was such a constant
Like water likedair that you took them for granted, What a loss
It is. The heart cries out this cannot be but there it is great grief.
Think on this now -this constant now this always now this all now.
We take for granted that we will always wake up to it and so can
Accept the gift of sleep that it will be there for us upon awakening.
Is this now so humble not our experience and proof of God.
Is not other and it is the beginning and the end all our knowing.
Watch a silver dolphin leap from the sea like the first word
The it plunges back into the water with barely splash The
Alpa and the Omega. Duration Time and Space are now in
The One A pod surfaces leaps and reveals a language that
Is music and ist he song that bridges time and place making
One a diversity that is present - is again dissolved again into ...
NOW The N is silent ..The O is silent ...the W is silent...
Apr 27, 2021
Apr 27, 2021 at 1:48 PM UTC
who holds the leash
of the pigs in the streets?
follow the paper trail:
dead presidents
never fail to be the culprit.
it's not who
but what.
the police always
serve and protect
capital and property.
why else would they block
off a jewel store
during a peaceful rally?
they may not be
our enemy,
but they
certainly
aren't our friends.
they are the strong-arm
of the State,
fodder on a frontline
devised by fascist elite.
the boys in blue
with low IQs
are oligarchs' favorite tools
for bludgeoning
dissent and pummeling
free expression.
useful idiots—
truncheons designed
with punishing dissidents
in mind.
we may well be
the 99%, but they have badges,
guns, and a license to ****
emblazoned on the blue shield
slapped on their chests,
stoking overzealous
racists to respond violently,
a cacophony of bloodshed
seems to be the only language
they know how to speak.
smash the fraternity
that acquiesces to criminality.
white men in pressed suits—
who's speculative spending
lead to economic catastrophe—
get off scott-free
while black men are imprisoned
for possessing an ounce of ****
not even the blind would fail to see
the "just us" system excludes
the majority of humanity.
all lives matter?
only ignorance could present
such a fictitious narrative,
a self-congratulatory hyperbole
disregarding contemporary reality.
private prisons designed for profit,
institutionalized bigotry instigating
a new form of slavery.
when mass incarceration
lacerates our communities
and exacerbates the conditions
of the working class,
the only dignified response
is to stand up, fight back.
we no longer
have a need
for this blatant idiocracy.
if we truly want to call this country
"the land of the free,"
then we must say,
loudly and clearly:
abolish the police.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
Down in the cellar.
By the river, by the candlelight.
She sits with her pale grey
Eye that points and beckons,
Beckons to the gibbering
Of incessant trees.
She calls out to the Man she
Is destined to meet
Like everyone else.
Like the curdling of what
Is there, faceless, at birth.
A Figure proceeds out.
From his coat He pulls a
Golden pin that is as long as
A day or longer. He smiles,
He takes her hand and stabs.
Her wrist beads with the
Dawn. It runs down her arm.
She smiles, she takes her candle
By the wick and feeds
A Man
Her flame.
Under the speculative moon.
Under the sleeping house.
Finally, a sigh from the Man.
He has no mouth to speak of.
To the river He leads her.
The water accepts her. A hand
on her neck, He the biting aid.
Not light.
Not of need, but to feed-
To cede an ember.
To burn her up in the night.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
Bring the ringing rain drop
Whole lot
Remembrance
Determined turtle vanishing green all my needs manifested scaring caring eyes viciously. No acceptance can't claim existence willingly my ancestors have closed the blinds shrill speculative variety mixed amorous stenciled template.
Does it get better? It has before but I have no expectation. What I know is weak discovery and blankness. Lack of connection killing me before I'm dead my spirit drained and waning quickly. Stuck to couch cushions and 3 square don't fit there.
My only hope is that my inability to accept/experience joy and lack of self worth does not inhibit my daughter's love for life.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
Most individuals aim for speculative wealth,
these linear channels are paralleled in others
when taught to gain a greater sense of self.
If we continue to grow grouped as a collective,
are the surroundings around you yours alone.
Priorities are often lost in the process of reformation claimed through phased stages and good fortune is drawn in multiple forms.
Step aside for an instant to question contempt and observe at your own mixed objectives,
foreseen in the dreams of who you want to be.
Not visions of anarchy or set enforced orders but a better balance of autonomy in between.
Oct 24, 2021
Oct 24, 2021 at 8:56 AM UTC
Boulevard royalty mingling with animals in open cages
Instances become signposts for alleged tolerance
But it’s time to go back to the gates of where we’re from
To tell of speculative social forays to an adoring audience
Seamless air pockets provoking thought, constructing
miniature crosses piercing walls where painful paintings were hung
But you decided being a crow was better than being a rooster
There is no difference but black is the color of the song being sung
Passionately significant but intellectually deficient
Sensitive jealousies masquerading polemic tendencies
Dreads worn for life not for the fears of who would notice
An intrusive memory loss was all that could save their enemies
As ludicrous as foot stools for wheels or sleep when morning breaks
Social dynamics treated reservedly by contemporaneous mocking birds
Philistine rounder’s no more or less competent than square faced priests
Believe me, the time we forget is only because we cannot say the words
The story ended before the introduction did because they never met
The pre-text may be questioned but the post mortem changes nothing
The only evil that is selected are outrages that inoculate us from shock
Warm friendliness does not sink the rocky rapids that are no longer asking
Confounding lines of judgment and reckless carriages await their turn
Canon or pulp; equally intriguing depending on which way towards the sun
Systematic folding chairs gaze at danger but in the manner a priest would
He swallows before telling the congregation he is not a man or the one
The reconstruction of peace begins with a soft breeze and earth tones
Necessary or essential, it is all the same for the time it takes to be sane
Within the sacrament principle we beg pain to restrict our movements
Linguistically inexperienced emotionally spent will we ever be the same
Dreams of flying with leaves under wires calmly watching man fall short
Incantation pastoral discovery of what aspect we could never know
Until you feel nothing between lovers except what is written on the heart
The one who walked away will never know the one who told them so
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
I am slowly dying to the sound of the repetitive
Its eerie sounds that arise from the speculative
The abuse the horror, the sheer magnitude of irrationality
Compassion is awol, anger and frustration are the new military
Mediocre, all sent from a joker
A twisted mind of devious deeds
Injecting the venom that maliciously breeds
And all the while
The drug infused societies , sit back and smile
Main lining base hypocrisy
The blind visions of a world of wealth and its vile atrocity
I am slowly dying
My brains are frying
Sickened by the dependency of a world so enthralled with the current state of affairs
Its no wonder the folk that line our streets and fields , do so with empty hearts and blank anonymous stares
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 7:14 AM UTC
They’re going to tell you you’re wrong
small, small people
with big agendas
they will tell you you are wrong.
Your shoes, your looks,
your hearts, your desires,
your needs, your car,
your houses.
All wrong.
Perhaps they too were told
they were wrong
The reasons, speculative at best
are inconsequential.
They are going to tell you you’re wrong.
They’re selling you something.
Food, clothes, houses, pleasure, salvation.
They want what you have
money, time, spirit, energy, ***
And their best means
to get their ends
is telling you you’re wrong.
You’re not wrong.
You’re perfect.
You’re right and justified in
your character
your thoughts
your self.
What are they telling you?
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
To watch with intent but not desire, his life passed
him on as he tries to explain which one he
would take to the afterlife if there is such,
like a convergence at the tip of the horizon or a
humid evening in Pasay as pyrotechnics scrape
sky fashioned like acrobats. The breeze he needs
no longer. And then begins to disquiet the quiet
with the heavy burden of which he will then forget
when he starts to move all of a sudden in space,
capitulating afterlife again if there is such,
and if everything takes a sojourn into the bleakness, must I remind you that you are all
variations of the same absence. Remember when
you had your name carved on wood as attendance
but not for long. You have escaped, locked in the
arms of a life that you thought was yours but
still isn't, leashed under the Sun. Bodies pulse
then fluctuate but not a sign of life. Words function
more in stillbirth. Never forget, as a dandelion
hovers and puts a smile on your dreary face,
and a question in search for all available and naked
answers. Principles undermine caprice. Do not
adhere. Must I remind you that you are
someone else apart from who you think you are.
You have yourself straightened, tucked safely
like intent, not desire in all its voluminous and
vehement speeches annotating something unknown
to the behest of ourselves. If I were a house,
I am gratified by windows -- your mirage there
transfixed in a secluded spot, looking out
brimming with life as curtains oscillate as the
Earth breathes with you. If I were a house,
you would ransack everything with a sly mouth
packed with powerful narrative. How you
have done over, leaving everything undone,
moved off-tangent, under impossibly gray skies,
brindled in prayer. If I were a house,
doors slammed, speculative fabrications sleep
through evenings and mornings until no difference
is met -- you meant a word as if it had a lock
and the key, somewhere cold in the air of
sleuthing pains making me so, less than
this and more of a fractured house.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC