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"structural" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.   As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
0
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
Glyph
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.   As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
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6
I have bruises like amethyst But the truth is I’m the catalyst When I see colours of bismuth I know you mean business Bruises like amethyst But you say you’re a pacifist An analyst an activist But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate Or rationalise a world inside That doesn't exist and insists That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed I've got a black heart like tourmaline But I'm the alkaline to your acid time Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue Crystalline Structural perfection Don’t need your affection or your ways Of objections did my bra strap give you an Erection? You could say I'm a feminist But I'm more of a scientist Busting body myths like biologist You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’ Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline Structural perfection I don’t need your objection Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a 1,000 years on my own.
0
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
The female scientist ****** crystal rap.
If (WO)men are the ones that suffer an exacerbated amount Of the violence, the **** the abuse, and everything that comes with and from struggle and alienation; it is because of their femininity that men at times have come to believe that their contributions soften institutions. That at times throughout history neither capitalism, neoliberalism nor revolutionary experiments like that of Cuba have placed femininity as compatible with progress or resolution. In which case femininity must be hidden, silenced, or displaced with no purpose or place to belong. Thus everyone closely associated with this femininity such as homosexuals, transgendered (WO)men, and "effeminate" males, (ignoring, subverting and negating the lesbian identity because of their gender) have come to be marginalized by a structural system of exclusion. (WO)men carrying the highest burden for originating the associative distinction Homosexuals battling to find love by constantly having to assert their masculinity Transgendered (Wo)men afraid of expressing their through identity. Lesbians fighting to legitimize their own identity separate from the directives ascribed onto them by virtue of being born women. Males who are labeled effeminate because of their sympathy toward those who struggle and are alienated. And every other individual who refuses to deliver to give a marker to their identity and a degree to their femininity. Hold fast in your femininity and embrace the rancor that society grants you As a homosexual I speak with you brother and sister, not for you Realize that our self-ascribed degrees of femininity and identity are as revolutionary and transformative, and thus necessary, as those of Che Guevara, Mohammed Ali, Harriet Tubman, or the Dali Lama. That because we have decided to embrace our degrees of femininity, problematic to any movement, at one point or another, we have inadvertently decided to align our selves with those who are alienated the most by the systems in which they live. So that in this way we must make our struggles deliberate and political. Let our degrees of femininity become legitimizing banners of solidarity for anyone who suffers in any corner of the world.
0
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
Revolutionary Solidarity (Embracing Our Femininity)
If (WO)men are the ones that suffer an exacerbated amount Of the violence, the **** the abuse, and everything that comes with and from struggle and alienation; it is because of their femininity that men at times have come to believe that their contributions soften institutions. That at times throughout history neither capitalism, neoliberalism nor revolutionary experiments like that of Cuba have placed femininity as compatible with progress or resolution. In which case femininity must be hidden, silenced, or displaced with no purpose or place to belong. Thus everyone closely associated with this femininity such as homosexuals, transgendered (WO)men, and "effeminate" males, (ignoring, subverting and negating the lesbian identity because of their gender) have come to be marginalized by a structural system of exclusion. (WO)men carrying the highest burden for originating the associative distinction Homosexuals battling to find love by constantly having to assert their masculinity Transgendered (Wo)men afraid of expressing their through identity. Lesbians fighting to legitimize their own identity separate from the directives ascribed onto them by virtue of being born women. Males who are labeled effeminate because of their sympathy toward those who struggle and are alienated. And every other individual who refuses to deliver to give a marker to their identity and a degree to their femininity. Hold fast in your femininity and embrace the rancor that society grants you As a homosexual I speak with you brother and sister, not for you Realize that our self-ascribed degrees of femininity and identity are as revolutionary and transformative, and thus necessary, as those of Che Guevara, Mohammed Ali, Harriet Tubman, or the Dali Lama. That because we have decided to embrace our degrees of femininity, problematic to any movement, at one point or another, we have inadvertently decided to align our selves with those who are alienated the most by the systems in which they live. So that in this way we must make our struggles deliberate and political. Let our degrees of femininity become legitimizing banners of solidarity for anyone who suffers in any corner of the world.
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20
Young people can you feel the suffering? roca wear, gucci, apple, facebook, mcdonalds, apple bee's, honda, lamborghini, harvard, Community College american express, pnc bank, walmart Wage Slaves, ceos, owners, lenders, renters, indebtedness Structural dehumanization, systematic mechanization Exploited labor feeding blood to your hungering consumerism Young people you are embracing MISANTHROPY! Embracing the hate of your own humanity! Why the hypocrisy? Wealthy children, poor children Trying for enlightenment through education Parents garnering wealth through the oppression of their victims Parents garnering debt through the oppression from economic inequality Still you invest and promote the only legitimization of your being: CAPITALIST UTILITY Capitalism engineering unrelenting misanthropy Vicious economic system discarding humanity Perfecting the concentration and accumulation of wealth With the expansion of human alienation and murderous competition Prostituting your body to labor exploitation and consumerism Where does your wealth end up? multinational companies? financial corporations? military arms contractors? Loyalty lies in their pockets, backstabbing everyday tactics Killing you through the exploitation of your body Because they know the birth of another proletariat or bourgeoisie can replace you   Entities, not human, how much have they bought you for so that you cannot see!!! Beware of these misanthropic missionaries granting your body power and agency When your body can no longer be plundered for profit you will taste tears and blood Young people will you deliver your forefathers and fathers From worshiping capitalist misanthropy?
0
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
Your Faith in Capitalist Misanthropy
Young people can you feel the suffering? roca wear, gucci, apple, facebook, mcdonalds, apple bee's, honda, lamborghini, harvard, Community College american express, pnc bank, walmart Wage Slaves, ceos, owners, lenders, renters, indebtedness Structural dehumanization, systematic mechanization Exploited labor feeding blood to your hungering consumerism Young people you are embracing MISANTHROPY! Embracing the hate of your own humanity! Why the hypocrisy? Wealthy children, poor children Trying for enlightenment through education Parents garnering wealth through the oppression of their victims Parents garnering debt through the oppression from economic inequality Still you invest and promote the only legitimization of your being: CAPITALIST UTILITY Capitalism engineering unrelenting misanthropy Vicious economic system discarding humanity Perfecting the concentration and accumulation of wealth With the expansion of human alienation and murderous competition Prostituting your body to labor exploitation and consumerism Where does your wealth end up? multinational companies? financial corporations? military arms contractors? Loyalty lies in their pockets, backstabbing everyday tactics Killing you through the exploitation of your body Because they know the birth of another proletariat or bourgeoisie can replace you   Entities, not human, how much have they bought you for so that you cannot see!!! Beware of these misanthropic missionaries granting your body power and agency When your body can no longer be plundered for profit you will taste tears and blood Young people will you deliver your forefathers and fathers From worshiping capitalist misanthropy?
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29
Food for thought Savor in flavor within structural tone A former Competitive Bodybuilder who could hold his own He exercised to gain and ate to maintain It was dignity and honor in appreciation of aim Being a Competitive Bodybuilder requires all intensity But it was about winning on the stage spotlight being a reality Yet beyond Bodybuilding, there was something about food and preparing a very exotic cuisine You will see down the line in what I mean The former Competitive Bodybuilder felt that being a Chef was always his dream Now it will be a reality like a running stream But to be a good Chef you need the right education and Mentor Yes a Chef for sure Bake until rise Savor the taste with the right ingredients being the surprise Being a competitive Bodybuilder, one accepts the challenges in being the best But when it comes to a Cuisine Chef, it will be the food critics who will contest Patrons that will eat a Chef’s dish will be the true confess So ovens over the world There is a Chef to make your taste buds swirl What will he prepare? That is something I won’t share You will have to experience for yourself Taste I am sure you will enjoy This is a true story of a Chef He has cooking to do with not much time left. Ship Ahoy!
0
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
COMPETITIVE BODYBUILDER TURNED CUISINE CHEF
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience . As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation .  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
0
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Glyph
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience . As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation .  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
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6
.                                                 what? between MC hammer... and men at work... there's a choice? come on... you could have given me an easier question, like... Debussy contra Satie... or, like...   egg yolk or egg white?! point being... i'd love to see christopher lambert play the role of raiden in that... mortal kombat game made into a motion picture... you know... if i owned a PS2... i'd still be a gamer... but i never owned a PS2.... or the metal gear solid 2 gaming experience... not the PS1 experience fighting ****** mantis*... you know that hack / cheat... when you switch controller slots... when ****** mantis* is giving his grandiose speech.. and you switch the controller ports, so that in in the game you're not predictable...    final fantasy 7?! completed it with a walk-through... sorry... homework... that being said: all of Friday night and all of Saturday morning... and some Tenchu.... wacky-Jacky...       cow later chow, enter mein...            choppers chop chop... these days? i game...            when i take a **** i figured... if there are people who take a book to the crapper... i'll take a game...     war robots....       you know what's fascinating? the interactive applicability of a game...                      team-work... mesmerizing...                 the whole gaming structure drifted from a narrative, to a congregational dynamism... solipsism unraveled... i dig the whole team work, while taking a **** love it... 5 stars review...      but am i a gamer... do i not think that a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio? no...      but metal gear solid? a ******* solid game on PS1...        you would be talking to a gamer if i was allowed to buy a PS2 console...          oh right...   i read books and listened to music, and ended up writing anti-routine / anti-technicality poetry / anti-rhyme poetics....                                       my bad; "we're" calling a revision of chess in play; yeah... sorry...    i was never into paragraphs, with dialogue interludes... for me...   poems were always above a structural stature of paragraphs; something to do with haiku or... whatever came out of Godzilla's mouth.
0
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
simple questions for simple people
.                                                 what? between MC hammer... and men at work... there's a choice? come on... you could have given me an easier question, like... Debussy contra Satie... or, like...   egg yolk or egg white?! point being... i'd love to see christopher lambert play the role of raiden in that... mortal kombat game made into a motion picture... you know... if i owned a PS2... i'd still be a gamer... but i never owned a PS2.... or the metal gear solid 2 gaming experience... not the PS1 experience fighting ****** mantis*... you know that hack / cheat... when you switch controller slots... when ****** mantis* is giving his grandiose speech.. and you switch the controller ports, so that in in the game you're not predictable...    final fantasy 7?! completed it with a walk-through... sorry... homework... that being said: all of Friday night and all of Saturday morning... and some Tenchu.... wacky-Jacky...       cow later chow, enter mein...            choppers chop chop... these days? i game...            when i take a **** i figured... if there are people who take a book to the crapper... i'll take a game...     war robots....       you know what's fascinating? the interactive applicability of a game...                      team-work... mesmerizing...                 the whole gaming structure drifted from a narrative, to a congregational dynamism... solipsism unraveled... i dig the whole team work, while taking a **** love it... 5 stars review...      but am i a gamer... do i not think that a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio? no...      but metal gear solid? a ******* solid game on PS1...        you would be talking to a gamer if i was allowed to buy a PS2 console...          oh right...   i read books and listened to music, and ended up writing anti-routine / anti-technicality poetry / anti-rhyme poetics....                                       my bad; "we're" calling a revision of chess in play; yeah... sorry...    i was never into paragraphs, with dialogue interludes... for me...   poems were always above a structural stature of paragraphs; something to do with haiku or... whatever came out of Godzilla's mouth.
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91
(20 minute poetry) And then we split torn apart, divide and then in a little bit. a piece of time we are fine again to smile again. It's all about the odds and ends and really, Yes really it's only time that bends the space we're in and as it passes we stand tall again. Time, the creeper, Time, the secret keeper, Time, the infiltrator, Time disguised and time the reaper. And then we split to form, to be reborn, to live and laugh and smile. I wait awhile and time goes on.
0
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
The structural engineer
Told my feelings were fake Laughed at for crying Brutalized for refusing Depicted as anomalous This is my "home" I exploded, caught a breath as I felt the silencing Crossed volatile environments Misunderstood ephemeral friends Bullied, ostracized Experienced injustice This is school I performed, in the illusion of shutting silencing Living my curiosity Knowledge is my strength Reflexivity makes me grow Embracing my difference This is my refuge I introspected, in the freedom of their paralyzed silencing Meet mind-like people Discovered my emotions Explored my preferences Dug my family history This is my travel I free-fell, as in my trust I hit structural silencing Communicating humbly Nourishing healthy relationships Trusting my positions Affirming my autonomy This is my womanhood Becoming a mother, I urge to gather the pieces for her freedom
0
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 6:13 PM UTC
Invalidated; a quest to freedom
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed. See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him.  I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.       As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.      Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.               They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.      His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he. And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
0
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
h i s h a n d s
He recently shared something with me about holding hands. Everything written in the piece was true. From the start, his hands have made me feel safe, nurtured, needed, adored, wanted, and healed. See, I rarely let anyone touch me before. Human touch was not something I craved until him.  I didn’t know how much I needed it until I wanted it, but he did.       As he reached for my hand yesterday , as he does countless times, I began to notice things on a deeper level. I saw the structural beauty and strength of his hands; his skin color, his beautiful fingers, the veins, the hair pattern. I reflected on how many keystrokes they typed and words they’ve written. I thought of how many times they played the sax and played video games with skill and passion.      Then, I remembered this past year. Those hands created a beautiful room for me in his home. Those hands literally moved ALL my physical belongings exclusively on their own. They held my hair as I was sick with my head over his toilet. They actually mopped up my cats’ ***** when it was overflowing at my old house.               They have painted, caulked, sawed, sanded, created, recreated, cooked amazing meals, chopped countless veggies, cut every piece of meat he served me, taught me to use his PS4 controller, dried my hair, colored my hair, massaged away my pain, and given me love I didn’t know existed and more.      His hands have been blistered, scraped, calloused, cut, pricked, sore and he doesn’t complain; they never stop giving nor does he. And I’m so grateful and honored to be the one whose hand he holds forever...
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7
You're a pale blue crystalline kissable atoms of structural perfection
0
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
10w
These Great Reviver’s wild reforms Now sound like all Hot Air, Narendra Modi’s new India Still bogged down in despair. Shinzo Abe’s revised Japan Still wallows to stagnate And China’s Xi Jinping’s grand scheme Continues to deflate. Collectively they stumble In their plans to stimulate Asia’s great economies….. But have failed to shut the gate On the Shadow Banking industry, Their vague structural reform And the fossilized grey politics Which resemble, now, the norm. Rhetoric is their keynote here Real action’s in decline With their mandate clearly squandered There’s A BIG CRASH DOWN THE LINE! M. Auckland 23 August 2014
0
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:24 PM UTC
All Hot Air in Asia
The structural spine of every mesmerizing art, Is to ***** what they say and follow your heart!!
0
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
FOR GOD'S SAKE IT'S ART !!
Designs and Equations Was it the ****** Void filling or Pandora's box opening? Was it Victoria's secret or was it the intellect of victors? Was it the prowess of Hector/Hercules was it? Was it the influence of Arthur or Har-Thor was it? What shapes this world? Ancient Egypt, Pyramids and the Sphinx? Stonhenge and oblelisks? Mystery Schools and occultism scrolls? Crystal technology shifting poles? Perhaps the hips and curves of a voluptuous African Queen Perhaps the fall of Atlantis or the secrets of the Bermuda Triangle Perhaps the enthralling dynamics of the Photon Belt Perhaps the mystery of Shamballa or maybe underground bases where vortex points are Perhaps the missing Eyepods Maybe ancient and present advanced civilizations Maybe it was the fall of Mars or the destruction of Maldek Maybe the hope of Terra par DOMA Or a design from distant super universes or the amphibian watchers of myths Maybe you, maybe me, maybe we The I I I I I's of this world however our eyes blind for we ruin this world If we looked long enough at the light would we burn out? If we truly listened could we hear the music of the verses unison - universes created by the Divine Creator? would we join it/him/ness? Would we hear then Sophia being played as a harp and worlds conceived Would we see a billion pictures as the cosmos are breathed? and Karma come to be... Would we learn of all life forms? Would we learn that there is more structural design than form? Would we learn that there are other mediums of activity apart from life? Would we learn that structure is part of a larger paradigm of concentrated design? Would we learn that universes are gardens and that there are worlds beyond the multiverse based on a hill and mountain orientation not dependant on planes? Who shapes the world? Our Souls from the ocean of love reincarnating? The keepers of sacred knowledge at the temples of Golden Wisdom? Walk-ins and starseeds? Cryptids and hybrids? Wars or the Sun? The Peoples of the Moon or the base in Venus? The underground bases of Mars or The Order of The Phoenix? Maybe royal and mob families? Maybe government with all its true lies Maybe the networks sustained by the simple minds of you and I Whoever or whatever is responsible, either through sonic beams and energy manipulation, it is not so much the power of the Empire but rather the power we surrender.
0
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Where is the Creation Station?
Designs and Equations Was it the ****** Void filling or Pandora's box opening? Was it Victoria's secret or was it the intellect of victors? Was it the prowess of Hector/Hercules was it? Was it the influence of Arthur or Har-Thor was it? What shapes this world? Ancient Egypt, Pyramids and the Sphinx? Stonhenge and oblelisks? Mystery Schools and occultism scrolls? Crystal technology shifting poles? Perhaps the hips and curves of a voluptuous African Queen Perhaps the fall of Atlantis or the secrets of the Bermuda Triangle Perhaps the enthralling dynamics of the Photon Belt Perhaps the mystery of Shamballa or maybe underground bases where vortex points are Perhaps the missing Eyepods Maybe ancient and present advanced civilizations Maybe it was the fall of Mars or the destruction of Maldek Maybe the hope of Terra par DOMA Or a design from distant super universes or the amphibian watchers of myths Maybe you, maybe me, maybe we The I I I I I's of this world however our eyes blind for we ruin this world If we looked long enough at the light would we burn out? If we truly listened could we hear the music of the verses unison - universes created by the Divine Creator? would we join it/him/ness? Would we hear then Sophia being played as a harp and worlds conceived Would we see a billion pictures as the cosmos are breathed? and Karma come to be... Would we learn of all life forms? Would we learn that there is more structural design than form? Would we learn that there are other mediums of activity apart from life? Would we learn that structure is part of a larger paradigm of concentrated design? Would we learn that universes are gardens and that there are worlds beyond the multiverse based on a hill and mountain orientation not dependant on planes? Who shapes the world? Our Souls from the ocean of love reincarnating? The keepers of sacred knowledge at the temples of Golden Wisdom? Walk-ins and starseeds? Cryptids and hybrids? Wars or the Sun? The Peoples of the Moon or the base in Venus? The underground bases of Mars or The Order of The Phoenix? Maybe royal and mob families? Maybe government with all its true lies Maybe the networks sustained by the simple minds of you and I Whoever or whatever is responsible, either through sonic beams and energy manipulation, it is not so much the power of the Empire but rather the power we surrender.
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44
You unwrapped my blind fold I could only see this mess of deconstructed bones The smog filled my bleeding nostrils I gasped to know the truth of a world rotating in circumvention Tangents of humiliation A crab crawls back into its used receptacle It does not have to face the uneven shadows Fairy wings brittle and break The ashes of frightened unicorns Paths off way far into the emasculated jungle Hidden silences wielded in your depth Machines and paper plates The trees of battered car horns and biohazard bags The stereotypical infantile jungle world Without the echoes of the children you never should have had Mary prostitutes herself on the corner The Holy Ghost burns unnoticed Please let us go back to a time When we could sit still without retrograding voices Telling us to progress and revolve We can no longer feel awesomed in the presence of a structural anomaly One that had never lived or breathed Or failed We were on the verge of a revolution Before they took our fairytales away The myths were replaced with shear and utter disgust For the entire human community Let us retreat to the forest of Incas and attack dogs For we can not have a revolution of one.
0
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
Pillow cases fill the tree tops
compulsive uncontrolled consumption. I'm just coasting. detrimental addictive dependence. For when life brings trouble. physical mental toxicity. Watch me float away. changes structural chemistry. I have no struggle. chronic abuses brain. Just relax.
0
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
alcoholic
I'm a brick layer by incarnation by aspiration by luminosity. I find unfinished buildings- toppled skyscrapers- imaging their foundations their structural intelligence. With a brick here and some love there; once demolished can be reassembled. I'll reconstruct your finest details, the youthful aspirations of an idyllic generation. Too naïve to understand that unforgiving weather can happen to even the kindest of buildings.
0
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 8:23 PM UTC
Passion Project
keep the window open i cant stand to smell your skin, you are shivering. youre cold (you tell me so (you want a response (i nod,))) (but you are still cold) *do you have any fantasies?* this halting voice heaves in my stomach pressing against the walls, making me sick, the snap of your blinking lids a pickaxe to my temple. *i think about fire a lot. i think about forest fires.* filling the tank in a dead town, dark night quiet town, the gas tank overflows (your nervous eyes in your sweating sticky face {your twitching gaze stroking the lighter in the glove compartment} dry dry lips {your wet tongue only makes them dryer}) breathing in her ear you say *tie me to the stake tight tight so rope burn sears my wrist, burn me with the dry kindling,* condensation drips down her neck, sliding down the arm. on the sidewalk in the pit of her shadow a puddle forms, wetting the wings of the unhappy wasps, joints twisted, the gaps in the exoskeleton show something bright, something bulbous, with forceps and needles it could be reached? its delicate skin pierced, oozing thick light (*do you have any fantasies?*) [*so there are two of me, right, clones, equivalent beings but individuals. some sort of sick government secret. human ex periments. its not important. i grab my clone by the neck or it grabs me, its not important, the dust billows when my feet skid, im choking, vision blurr ing, i claw at my hands, we f all, dust bursts into the air, m y fist makes sick thudding sou nds when it hits, bruising my knuckles on the structural bon es of my face, possibly breaki ng the more delicate ones. im straddling my chest and im s pitting out the teeth that i di dnt swallow. then the clones **** im not really sure.*]
0
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
L.U.S.T. LUCIFER USING ****** TEMPTATIONS
keep the window open i cant stand to smell your skin, you are shivering. youre cold (you tell me so (you want a response (i nod,))) (but you are still cold) *do you have any fantasies?* this halting voice heaves in my stomach pressing against the walls, making me sick, the snap of your blinking lids a pickaxe to my temple. *i think about fire a lot. i think about forest fires.* filling the tank in a dead town, dark night quiet town, the gas tank overflows (your nervous eyes in your sweating sticky face {your twitching gaze stroking the lighter in the glove compartment} dry dry lips {your wet tongue only makes them dryer}) breathing in her ear you say *tie me to the stake tight tight so rope burn sears my wrist, burn me with the dry kindling,* condensation drips down her neck, sliding down the arm. on the sidewalk in the pit of her shadow a puddle forms, wetting the wings of the unhappy wasps, joints twisted, the gaps in the exoskeleton show something bright, something bulbous, with forceps and needles it could be reached? its delicate skin pierced, oozing thick light (*do you have any fantasies?*) [*so there are two of me, right, clones, equivalent beings but individuals. some sort of sick government secret. human ex periments. its not important. i grab my clone by the neck or it grabs me, its not important, the dust billows when my feet skid, im choking, vision blurr ing, i claw at my hands, we f all, dust bursts into the air, m y fist makes sick thudding sou nds when it hits, bruising my knuckles on the structural bon es of my face, possibly breaki ng the more delicate ones. im straddling my chest and im s pitting out the teeth that i di dnt swallow. then the clones **** im not really sure.*]
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34
Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such. The thing about it is I don’t really give a **** The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know. And I get a kick out of pretending And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks Because sometimes I need something too / all the time And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks Including myself And that’s pure Thompson May the great decadent castle topple down! And I, like a noble captain, Will sink with her I stand with hunched broken back On the backs of millions Pondering lifelessly I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a son of a ***** because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but holy **** that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.
0
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Leisure and Willful Ignorance are the currencies of the Grand Finale
Sometimes I wonder if there is any line between poetry and prose, or prose and story. Where is this line? What is the difference? Is it some kind of structural difference? The problem with this is it becomes difficult to define where the structural lines are drawn. Is it some difference in the use of language? Anyone who has read Burroughs knows there is very little difference between his language in poem and prose. It all comes down to that old bald thought experiment. If we were to remove hairs from a man’s head, one by one, at what point would he be bald? It must be the context. This is a poem because it is presented as such. The thing about it is I don’t really give a **** The thing about it is that I’m just looking for something that I do not know. And I get a kick out of pretending And sometime something something I’m a little bit high now folks Because sometimes I need something too / all the time And Some might say that you can get a lot higher without drugs than with them But at this day and age that’s becoming less and less clear for most folks Including myself And that’s pure Thompson May the great decadent castle topple down! And I, like a noble captain, Will sink with her I stand with hunched broken back On the backs of millions Pondering lifelessly I smell something. I can’t really know what. It’s horrible. I do not know if it is me or someone around me. A woman in front of me has a dark line around the back of her neck. As if that crease her skin collected some errant dirt and she never washed it off. I don’t know but it may be her. Or I may be a son of a ***** because she is pretty fat. And that’s empirical. And I know it’s not her fault, but I may have some sick bias against fat women brought on by repeated social direction. I remember when I thought of myself as undesirable. I did not wash. And I didn’t shower yesterday. And really I don’t know if this line here on her neck is really dirt, but holy **** that smell. It’s killing me, and even distracting me from the gripping narrative of the American sedition laws during WW1. Honestly it is probably me, but why is it so persistent? Wouldn’t I fall victim to scent saturation blindness, or whatever that affect is called. The point is you can’t normally smell your own stink, and none of us even notice our own stink. I think there is something in that somewhere. I can’t smell my own stink, and so I blame this poor girl.
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19
Yesterday’s gravity Pulls threads in weaved cloth Blown and scattering waves Massive like black holes and small Like the wings of humming Birds of Planck length down feathers On a drifting radiowave While watching the television in a Padded Rooms inside Schrödinger’s box Contained by hypertension Like the hairs that grow in fibers of The cerebrum’s Neurons which inflate and warp His hands shook like the rabbit ears On his old television, wood paneled with Outdated Textbooks like his shelves And enigma is his cited source In his teleportation box, bedridden Things in There are superstrings on the walls Floating eyes on the atoms of loneliness Quark fizz, structural quanta on Yesterday’s gravity Pulls threads in weaved cloth
0
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
M-Theory
For as long as I can remember I have always been haunted by what I now refer to as "The Pressure". This hideous beast contains all that is wrong with the world - doubt, restlessness, greed, anger, love, hate. The Pressure is what makes me vibrate impatiently at the thought of standing in one place for another moment. The Pressure is cripples me with sly thoughts about rent and food. The titanic thick blackness waits just out of view at every turn - waiting to envelop me at any sign of vulnerability. The way your eyes vibrate within your skull and how your vision becomes nothing but a mess of colors and shapes in times of great rage - that's The Pressure. The Pressure is not a purely malignant force - in today's world of ceaseless gray one would be a fool to assume that anything can be described by such flimsy words as "good" or "evil". The Pressure made me who I am today and even as these words leave my fingertips it is still shaping me. Molding me. The Pressure allows us to see the true nature of our structural fortitude. Perhaps - like the countless others in this world - I am sedimentary and thus destined to be crushed into more and more smaller pieces until I resemble sand. But maybe, just maybe I am a piece of coal just waiting to turn into a dazzling, unbreakable, diamond.
0
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
The Pressure
in the right corner of your room, the white paint is peeling away, to pick at it & watch the entire thing collapse upon you. much like the empty things i feel: nothing but chipping little flakes; fragile little waste that might decorate the floor of your room, naked walls enclose this empty space, but confused excited atoms dance about , screaming at each other in a tongue that I’ve never known nor care to. cotton sheets, a sweet odor of skin, *** oranges & things i can’t get across cause the line is blocked, overloaded. i want to; bring down the roof upon us scratch, pick away, take parts from the whole thing until it gives way & submits to the overbearing weight of unseen structural weaknesses before being buried alive in this mess, i’ll evacuate & leave behind this expanse i’ve been squatting in since i first laid my eyes upon your deceivingly lazy face. (i’m not in the business of maintenance)
0
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
abandon