"statistician" poems
Charlie and D sitting in a tree, Henry VIII comes along, chops down the tree.
part of me constantly and perversely anticipates
what Islam holds dear, the cult of the moon
rather than the sun - sleeping nudges of inquiry
and reminiscence of Freud rather than this constant
pulverisation of scientific safety-nets -
the sun and the scam of diet - Narcissus myth
all too apparent, too self-conscious to feed
the beauty, laboratory type beauty,
statistician's paradise - sun and skin cancer collective,
i'm not an Arab, and i never will be,
but this sort of weather and jet-stream excess isn't
exactly helping either - Einstein might have
saved you from exacting the thought process
(never experiment with it, never)
behind Newtonian cause & effect, but this ****
isn't going away, and you won't be exactly barnacle
jumping mad with Jack & Jill if you voice your
concerns; for all that urbanity the village life
is having a comeback - hello brick, hello tree,
hello tomorrow: the day of never-be -
the Spaniards had a second try at an inquisition
via Gibraltar - the Scots sailed to Brussels -
the village life is having a comeback -
the Americans are hoarding guns prior to enacting
scenes from Bastille Sq. with the guillotine -
they don't know it yet, but they're hoarding guns
to topple the government over - elsewhere
a bunch of Palestinians were throwing stones
at bullseyes for a fluffy toy in a theme park.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
There was once a juxtaposition of a silent mathematician,
hand in hand with a melody called fiction.
Fighting to be free, yet fleeing from fruition.
Unure in his conditionm, he is guided by her transition.
This was never going to work.
Fiction's as ignorant as his judgement was missing.
She was vexed by his logic, and his rate of attrition.
Suddenly she see's him far from volition,
Whilst he hears something new - designing definition.
The record plays softly
Finally he understands to feel free from inquizition,
is about more than just logic. It's about his ambition
He returns from his audition
Dressed well with suspicion
Blood on his hands - the endeavour of reason.
Now filled with guilt, this once honourable statistician,
is dynamic and pretentious, it's impossible to miss him.
Because through a bad combination of radio emission,
sounds a shriek from the crowd's world's worst composition.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
Left Brain
I am not a scientific test or analysis, a mathematician
or an algorithm. I am not a linear graph or a statistician.
I am the reason that you can colour inside the lines,
why you don't fall off your bicycle anymore and never forgot
how to ride it. I am the force behind your smiles-
eighteen different smiles. The reason you can hold a book
or ball and learn what to do when it's in your hands.
I take credit when you remember the name of your childhood
babysitter. Thanks to me, you can play with jigsaw puzzles
or cards or checkers or dominoes. And thank me too
for your vocabulary. You don't necessarily remember
just how it is you came to remember sequences like getting dressed
or driving, decoding or analysing. I am the reason
you can probably look at someone and learn their name.
I suppose you could complain about how I dictate your days.
How you get up, go to sleep, lend you the seconds and minutes
and hours and months and years. I am the one who taught you
time. I'm also there for you to know that it runs out.
Right side
I am no dancer or artist made for television. Instead,
I'm the vibration you feel in the tips of your fingers
when you make a toast and ***** your wineglasses.
Those eighteen smiles you can smile? I gave you the gift
of being able to count your crayons while you are smiling.
But it's more than box sets of crayons and toasts.
I am the reason you want to be. Everything you yearn for-
every penny you ever tossed into a fountain, every star
you have wished on, and every eyelash. I am the reason
why you prefer wearing blue to green, and why you may
fill a blank page with words for what you want, how you feel.
I am the excitement that waits for you at Christmas
or reunions. When you saw the sky full of stars, felt snow
or went in the sea for the first time, I gave you that gasp.
I am your eyes on the world. Blame me for your wanderlust.
I am not time. I am how you know sometimes
that there is no way you'll ever have enough of it.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
So I got caught up in life like so many other stiffs.
So I work two jobs. So I'm
twenty-three. Halfway dead, quarter-way dead -
Percentages and figures surmised by a
fictional statistician in some far off laboratory
wearing a handsome tweed sweater
despite the heat, helping to contain his
paunch.
So doctors have told me beer will **** me.
So they advise that I not indulge in any illegal
substances. We do not debate the validity of law. The
role of fear in today's culture. Hysteria. So I'm on antidepressants.
So I'm a candidate for pharmaceuticals. So I drink when
I can, which is just about every day. So I had a problem in
the past, so I spent a month locked away. So I'm not taking
a class. So I'm just about white. So I share a room with Phil
and a house with five other young men. So I had *** with
a girl I pretty much just met. So my drugs are right next to my bed.
So my urine's ***** So I'm a brother and a son.
So I'm my own man.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
a first
family has
never ending
wilt this
statistician's score
and old
yeller on
top of
the scene
there with
his bullhorn
only there
to shout
as his
tweets mount
across the
inteenet dial
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
She's a scientist
She don't look back
She's really a 🍕 gourmand,
but genetically,
Gourmet is where she's at
She loves being a statistician,
Calories count per pizza slice
(scientifically, toppings atoms don't matter)
A-good theorem excites,
Especially epically, when she
disproves it in tour face
Knows a lot of big words,
That nobody else understood
(but flaunting feels good)
She's an artist,
And a poet, always looking forward
(chasing sunrises)
She gets overloaded with advice,
So knows how, to give it back
(but only tidbit sized)
She knows the world is flat,
When running, she really likes that!
unlike me,
i'll quit when
out of stuff,
but a woman,
well. that's-he, be,
something else
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 4:43 PM UTC
*i'll give you a defiled rabbit's head and a mummified ******** and ten quid if you can find humour in horror movies. ah never mind... poetry versus fiction? well philosophy was attacked by music... poetry said to the bulging paragraphs: i’ll be the one to deconstruct and fake the masculine ****** known as cliché.*
it’s almost like people want to teach me a lesson,
a lesson in familiar reality,
enjoying the television and the family,
it’s like they’re trying to teach me something...
i don’t know what, exactly...
but they’re trying... using this game that’s expressed
in really **** graphics...
i think there’re trying to teach me something...
i think it’s something to do with taxes,
and delivering divorce rates from the statistician’s rubric...
but i’m hopeful, i think it’s something else...
when people tend to teach one individual
they get a gnome... and a lost eden;
in the end they only want one lesson to be learned:
‘join us! join us! you’re one of us!’
‘me tarzan... you oh no!’
what’s the equivalent of ruining mathematics with money
given words? ah **** i’m blind! i’m blind!
i cannot touch what i cannot throw!
so the sequence ran: 1 £ 2 £ 3 £
and seqeunce ran: a hmm b hmm c humming d hunchback e helter skelter...
f... sardine fudged packing of doughnuts... well you get
infinity / jesus at the end of it...
down girl down... balloons don’t get blown up with prickly helium dialogues
all on ‘em own.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
It does not take a statistician
To find evidence of an apparition
It merely takes a blind man
Willing to dream.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 7:51 AM UTC
He is to the Father
As sunlight is to the sun
The Light
Which enlightens everyone
He is the risen Son
With unlimited candle power
So be ready, He comes
At we know not what hour
Of books He wrote none
He wrote in the dirt, but we know not what of
But He hasn’t left us invictus
He has illumined the convicted
God will save with few or many
Through the narrow gate
Some will be granted entry
To the estate
Now few or many are not enumerated
He’s not a mathematician (not here)
Love and grace are not gradated
He’s not a statistician (not here)
From the first Adam to the penultimate Adam
We’re all stained with sin
But because of The Last Adam
We get to win
Copyright 2022
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 4:39 PM UTC