"sublimate" poems
how easy it is to write a poem
of unrequited love
an ode to that insatiable hunger
that lives unwelcome in the pit of
my stomach
and slowly eats away at me
gnawing a black hole into that space
an emptiness i couldn't look at
its darkness burned brighter than
the eclipsed sun
who always called with the most
beautiful voice and promised that
if i simply stopped averting my eyes
i would most certainly become one with you
and i forsake my sight
to have your heat
your radiation from all parts of the spectrum
to burn my traitorous eyes right out of their sockets.
how different it is to write
of contentment and perhaps even
a love that i can reach out and touch
without having it sublimate each atom of my being
and reduce me to a radioactive ash
scattered to the wind.
it's a love that i can submerge myself in
it presses in all around and the
mega-Pascals of pressure simply reach
a placid equilibrium with my porous skin
i breathe it in and my lungs
somehow learn to pull the oxygen from
the molecules of liquid desire and vitreous joy
and it fuels my body
infiltrating and inhabiting every cell
feeding my muscles as i
sensuously move my body
fluid as the frigid water around me.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
If it only were to be a lie,
Watching my dreams end I smile, there's no more to them but a dead end,
Unable to protect this fragile heart, unable to reopen my eyes I was killed,
Brilliance, turning to ash in a firestorm of escaping emotions,
If my birthed sins cannot be atoned in this hour, or at least forgiven,
My shred blood drenched heart will never find it's ease or sublimate, Scattered like the flower petals after falling,
To death, blinded by the love I put my trust and courage in,
Just end it all, what is left for me here is destruction,
My heart is dead, I cannot embrace, love it all as I always wished for,
Everything is far too late, for never I will be able to return again,
Give it back, please give it back, this emotion what makes me go ablaze,
Burnt to the ground with no light to see I remember your smile,
Now, as I am unable to breathe, I hoped if it only wasn't true,
There are no words left to speak.
~Umi
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
Fury,
Raging on for the forgetfulness of others, whom have ruined a deed which was to be noble, now erased and never to be fulfilled again,
Know my hatred, I wispered, alike a young child whilst getting lost in a mist, clouding my sight, my thoughts and my hopes to be ever good
For, if I can't be good because of others ruining my precious deeds,
I shall bring darkness myself, so evil, devilish shadows take over,
Unable to protect my heart, once filled with love from the heavens
Unable to open my eyes again which were trapped in misery,
I was killed, then forgotten since a long past,
Worried about what would be then, I laughed, because there was no way I could escape now, the pleasure of the unknown overcame me,
If the sins I had birthed at least could be forgiven, for all that has been done, my heart would sublimate, then finally rest for good,
But my dreams end, here where your brilliant smile begins to rot,
I am but trapped, within layers upon layers of darkness
~ Umi
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
Blow smoke rings the size of my neck and make me feel just as insignificant. My collarbones don't dissipate into the air when you touch them but I wish that I could sublimate when your fingers are barely touching my skin and gliding up. I shouldn't trust you as far as I can throw you, but I just want to throw myself against you and collide your mouth against mine as though our lips were two raindrops on the window crashing towards each other with no stopping, both thinking "oh my god oh my god oh my god" before we morph into one.
I am so used to feeling like garbage, so for once, pretend like the beads of sweat on my neck are diamonds and tell me I'm your precious stone and don't let this sapphire night escape us without drawing ruby drops of blood from my tongue.
There are some things my mother never told me, like "always make sure that the boy you meet is actually alive, and not just an empty puppet being pulled by the heart strings" and "never trust a boy with sleepy eyes", but it's always good to know these things ahead of time because one day he will have your heart in his hands and won't have anything for you and one day you will realize that he's always tired because he spends all of his time thinking about someone that isn't you. And knowing what I know now compared to what I knew then makes me wish I never ached to squirm under your hands and makes me regret every moment I spent longing to fill very space between your fingers because now I can't stop writing about it.
Do you know about the garden of dead boys? It can be found in the place where the roses die. There is a "keep out" sign designed to not seem so until it's too late. Until then, it appears to say "I love you" and you will wander in. But if you find yourself asking him "where have you been all my life", that's the time to run while you can because maybe he never actually existed.
-b.b.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
I know some deep pain saddens you now
It has been nesting in your heart for long
Breeding in the silence of your soul
It leaves your body n' mind awfully sick
It intensifies with every deepening night
Leaving the wound in your heart severely bleeding
Something that you haven’t fully divulged
Robbing you off all your cheer and ebullience,
I can feel the smoldering of your heart
How I wish I could fan away those aches
Wipe off all the pain from your body n' mind
Or at least share a bit of it, dear sweet Kim!
Even when you wear a mask impenetrable
Or sublimate your feelings through lovely verse
I can gauge the depth of despair you feel inside
And sense the rising palpitations of your heart.
When your eyes strain to read what is on the screen
You feel, you are deprived of the only pleasure you have
Though you hoped things would improve in course of time
When your eyesight got badly impaired, you sank in despair
Even when distanced, please know I am near
Somewhere so close, as an unseen presence
Staying by your side, to wipe your tears away
Praying for you ever and wishing you all good
You were the darling of this great poetry site
Your presence is sorely missed by all
We wish you to be back with your balmy words
Eager to read your lovely verse, proclaiming love
Life is strange with sudden twists and turns
But never ever give up, nor lose hope
Believe, at any time there can be a turn around
After the bleary night, comes the bright morn
Again the sun shall show up in the East
Darkness will recede and light shall descend
The meadows with dew drops shall shine
And the woods with the song of birds will ring
Look up to God in issues you cannot handle
Call Him again to your aid when you battle with life
He cannot but yield to the voice of your calling
And instantly heal your heart, now deeply bleeding
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are like an anti-gravity wave -
the farther I go, the more I pine for you.
Some kind of growing exponent:
yes, you are the solution I ignore in my
quotidian root-finding mission;
Ah, the annihilation, those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes.
Your uv, to my uw, you are IR to my ivy.
Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:
You are elegance. Ripple-play at pebbles,
those dimpled cheeks.
Deliciously symmetric. Alpha 180, no Beta
at all - well not Cartesian.
Guess it's subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.
Magicienne, let me make an Ansatz about you:
You are the particle for Love waves. A lovelet.
Dressed in that kaftan when you walk in,
I will sublimate. Ether-maker, you solve
the Hamiltonian, I see now how matter's made.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Create
and sublimate
invite all the fears
it's a party
screaming and weeping
raging and splashing
nervous trembling
lonesome breathing
let them stay
fuel their party
then kick them out
all out
for they might start defeating
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
And some days
I don't want to die
But rather
Dissolve
Sublimate
Melt
Until I am one with the air
That which you breathe
That which sustains
All that is life giving
All that is pure
In it,
Through me;
A wish.
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 11:45 PM UTC
I paid homage to Beauty’s altar
Not conscious that is only skating-rink or…
“Downhill ecstasy.”
And still ignorant: how is possible,
Than good God leaving us at pray of Beauty,
Which paralyze those, who sacrifice own fate.
And I fell astonishment and grief
That life is a line of renunciation
Steady expose on suffering our tender senses.
Finally, punish that way: showing others suffering
Whereas ours are just sentimental tears…
Where is the Beauty
Which affect and same time sublimate ones?
Where is the place for
What fills our self
And leave deep inside emptiness …
Who’s going to judge this?
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
I've been lost at the gates ever since conception,
middle of a 4-stop intersection with a mouth full of questions,
muffled moans and groans sublimate my message,
diluting the essence, fragmented and pinned down
to the dissection tray, with blurred vowels and words
contrived to a sentence.
The surgeon contains the lesson beneath his
shivering hands, carried across his stuttering voice
high strung shattered memoirs, depicting conflicting
moments of clarity and calamity, shaking and swerving
amongst the wavelengths, searching for an ear to rest in.
Blind and burned from the giving hands of deception,
greeted by synthetic smiles and idle eyes,
confronting and critiquing confidential trials,
spoken words in tongue, gasping dry air and stale smoke
with hacks and coughs, collapsing a lung.
Solved the puzzle, 10 down and 10 across,
pervading and staining blank white cubes,
with lines and dots invading, crude man made
brain-teasing tubes, revealing the question through
the only answer: Relentless reflection.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC
[]
ballerina on the subway
sublimate that cigarette sunset
if you don’t know, now you know
pop art
for the modern world
(she’s not that kind of girl)
normality is a paved road,
where is all the time
we were promised
it asks
give up the **** that
weighs you down
it writes
on a yellow
post-it
.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Castigate Sublimate
Sanctify Indoctrinate
Expatriate Disseminate
Proselytize Reiterate
Reject, Deny, and Obfuscate
Incarcerate Dehumanize
Desensitize Decimate
Incinerate Rejuvenate
Simplify and Permeate
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
patient waiting, time to
allow an ease from cacophonic
pupil dilation into a more
constrict perception of the
world around. rain falls
gentle, facilitating the
transfer, as low-fi ambiance
jams on. some thunder in
distance, paling in comparison
to the vocal sparks in the night.
flittering and wisp-like, urging
ever forward. urging:
'Come out of this a mess,
or not at all.'
manifestations, much as Red-Eye,
enticing to come up and dance with
death. to keep the measure through
turn for turn and twist for twist.
know the hooded Death missed
time again, giving the
'. . or not at all'
another chance
to strike true. another chance to
set the eyes out in feast, when
morality shall be felled and the
vocal sparks sublimate to ever
only being rare thunder in the
distance. with flash of luminescence,
storm never given chance to weather.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
My World!
Welcome to my world.
My heart.
My brain.
'Tis a house of fun.
Where sunshine reigns.
Wind bubbles.
Grown children play.
So what do I do with my gift of life.
Have one lovely lover.
My heart him adores.
He too writes poems.
Scores and scores
Won't be his wife.
Never at least till the twelfth of never.
My precious time.
Hours upon hours spent at work.
Gee **** mind numbing.
Probably makes me a ****
When In my land of sanctuary.
My pen comes out to play.
Have an imagination.
Somewhat sublime.
Sublimate perhaps.
Very surreal.
Subsumed as poet.
Sometimes drift down Dante's way.
Poeish at times.
'Fraid God doesn't feature in my life.
Am spiritual, bit of a hippie chick.
The queen of love's emotions.
Enters my world as dozy notions.
Nothing else would I choose.
I paint pictures in oils and words.
The words are a little better.
Insular is my real world.
At work I'm so exuberant.
Indoors tranquil.
Give me pen.
Feed an me idea.
I will present.
As varied as the weather.
I am indeed.
Like my writings.
Feel free to read.
Now I open my world to you.
Come and seek my strange point of view.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
I am an incredibly wealthy man
I value each second, each thought and breath and beat
Well beyond any man-made measures
My brief years outweigh all currency of current economies
Interpretations can at times make me sublimate and evaporate
Occupy any two spaces as I see fit
Falling up and making fool of constant ‘c’ in practice
My sorrow has created a vast void
Which when reversed
Is towering
I am a pillar, an obelisk
Altitudinous shrine to my own embryonic ego
Somehow I will save the world
Yes, I am that naïve
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 7:02 PM UTC
I know you think about it
Every day
I wish that I could chase your
Demons away
But who would I be
Enamored of?
Your shadow is
The one I love
The things you try to
Sublimate
I find very easy
To relate
Your shadow self
Has such a hold
Over your heart
And both our souls
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC
cannot live by living
sublimate
intractable life the way
a poet of mangled hands burns away
incessant blankness
to a hot glowing moment wherein
his excision, sought after,
lives.
Whatever way is taken
a fire therein will burn
to majestically disfigure
the unfigurable in your life
the way a drinking straw made of
plastic transforms
in lips of flame
to curlicued ribbons and
blazing involutions, coiled springs and
brightly curled
imaginings of crimson.
Choose to run
and so too will the fibers in your hamstrings
curl, glow crimson
as under fire.
Sit quiet on the marble steps
of a dried fountain in Union Square
watching the looming arch through
the crisp distance of night
and so too will your eyes become
incendiary orbs
heating the air around
to transient veritable sharpness
as if suddenly, every piece of
stone or root of tree
has been released from
a hold
and could at any moment
flinch for you. For
just your witness
and nothing more.
Attempt to find the dream of death
hidden within the taste of
your one beauty’s lips
and so upon the kiss will she
burn, explode!
in quick high flame
to a pile of
shrunk dust and scintillating
strands of hair.
Whichever way, all can burn
to release its true form—hardly sweet
seeming unbearable
before curling
just barely sweet, just bearably, always just
necessarily so.
And slowly, you are already
curling in the flames.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
Primordial chants
YAH VEH
YAH VEH
YAH VEH
meditating in the soul of the black onyx beads.
Frozen drops of bliss nestling in the sinews,
soaking me in its sublime stillness,
leading me to its philharmonic depth,
yoking me to its cosmic vibes.
I sublimate
to become the chants
that pulsate in the soul
of the black onyx beads...
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC
He will suckle
and spit
drinking blood
from your ****
He will spread your legs
and leave
an unprotected present
deposited
past your ****
once he climaxes.
He will claim your womanhood
and demand that you submit
to his weakness,
calling his faults
dominance and confidence.
He will prey upon
ancient insecurities,
that subconscious programming
because you do not know
your own binary coding.
He will trick you into
drinking your resistance away,
plant his pin *****
in your fertile crescent,
and if you try to erase
that lifelong mistake
he will claim
that you are a sinner.
Subdued you will
sublimate your will
and fulfill
fifties sitcoms
housewife fantasies
for a family,
sacrificing all your dream
for the man who schemes
to enslave you.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
My virginal shoulders could only support so much thought,
Before they succumbed to that virulent, green Iblis.
Sons will be what they are, and what they are taught:
A morality drawn to the image of Darwinian fitness.
Casted in His image, but then caught in the net,
Stretching chained hands towards freedom, just to see it sublimate.
Never a seat at the table, but always a back for the Debt.
And to be born of this blood is enough to incriminate.
Shoulder blades tremble, just at the sight,
Of the burden born from that first gasp.
Left with no map, friend, or eyes in the dead of the night,
But have no worries, He loves the first to the last.
Goddamnit! My knees have collapsed and split,
You sit unattached, removed, indifferent on my chest,
But it was you! You are the one who started all of it.
And when names were called, and the cards were down, you just up and left.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
Did you know that life had teeth?
Did you think you'd be devoured?
Do you really think you'll see it coming
in that fateful hour?
Have you ever blamed the future for things
that haven't happened yet?
Have you ever tried to get your god
to take a sucker bet?
Have you ever been in a moment
that you knew was very Rare?
Did you share it with excitement and no one
really cared?
Can moments last forever, or are they all doomed
to vanish into thin air?
Has wisdom ever rained upon you
and messed your pretty hair.
Do you often feel confined and forced
to sublimate your needs?
Have you given up your lust
for a down payment on some fools greed?
Dec 31, 2009
Dec 31, 2009 at 9:42 PM UTC
Nobody reads this **** so I'm just gonna start typing. Why not? Freudian automatic writing is an old psychological gold standard, though I guess we can't really be sure how useful it is to analysis these days. Oh well, perhaps some illuminating nugget of insight into the complex inner workings of the human psyche will emerge from a later re-visitation of the text laid down here. Probably not... yeah, Freud was a strange one anyhow, he wanted to bone his mom, you know. He also loved ******* He once botched a neurological operation because he was too high, and then the patient came to him in a dream and blamed him. Of course, being the smelly old narcissistic cokehead that he was, he read some sort of esoteric meaning into the dream sequence and ignored his subconscious attempt at intervention. In light of this, it's probably worth asking if Freud is the type of person we really want interpreting our dreams... I always liked Jung better, anyway. That collective unconscious is some heavy **** man. The thought that there are disembodied essences of character traits called archetypes, living in a panpsychic mental manifold, of which your mind is a small adumbration makes some pretty awesome dinner table conversations... until your dad hijacks the conversation and directs it back to sports.
On that note... why are sports so popular? Baseball is boring as **** and boxing and football are barbaric. I always figured it had something to do with the human desire to act out our violent impulses, and the social constraints restricting us from doing so. Seems that with contact sports, people get to sublimate those urges by living them vicariously through the athletes. I wonder if revolution would come if we abolished sports. Lord knows, the people would need another hobby in light of that void in their leisure time. Maybe it would be political science, and we would finally realize how backward our government has become... nah, probably not. If sports were abolished, we would just go back to reality TV. **** there's another rant... **** this, I'm leaving.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:51 AM UTC
Believe in your self, young gun,
you are built to survive.
You have the skills to get through
the guts to take the dive.
Questions have been present,
from day one 'them thrown.
your mind is your arsenal,
and body is the dome.
Trust your instincts my friend
though history is a dark world,
fluxes you can seek
Fear is for the weak.
You are a warrior of your own
Never surrender your faith.
Enemies are just lurking
Blend, sublimate.
Time heals and build,
sharpens your knife;
Fill your cup of wisdom
as tomorrow ticks another life.
As bullets have been dodged,
as you heal your worst wounds,
come you shy sunrise
and let thy fruits bloom.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:43 AM UTC
Shadow is not Bad;
Respect it and Express it,
it will reward you.
Shadow is not Bad;
it is a Torrent that can
push forward, **** down.
It's your choice.
Shadow is not Bad;
heed it and give it the Space
that Shadow deserves.
Shadow is not Bad;
sublimate it into Art-
the **** out of Mind
It's your choice
before it's too late.
Shadow can be Bad
if it's ignored and repressed;
fed instead of led.
Shadow can be Bad
it can consume your Being
from the inside, out.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:00 PM UTC