"subsidiary" poems
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
If, as they say, the cells
of the body are replaced every seven
years, then I'm a new being
since my sons were newborn.
I have died and been reborn
neither better nor worse yet remembering
feeding them while dancing to Moment's
Notice, as they attended with new minds.
Having died, as such, I find I do not mind
quiet living with the purpose of a cell
unbound by minutes or moments
as men know them. There are seven
deadly sins, seven ways of remembering,
seven stages in which to have been or continue being.
None of them recur after one's reborn
and none are known to us from before we're born.
Of the two young people to whom I was born,
one has lately died. I do not so much mind.
Although I do not, he believed he'd be reborn
and who can say what happened to his soul or cells?
Perhaps in Christ we continue being,
or with some other deity, as the churches claim monotonously,
momentously,
demonically and deviously. It seems about as relevant that
seven
rhymes with heaven and rhyming's a mnemonic device (for
remembering).
But remembering
what? To go to the daily discipline to which you were born?
I fought seven forest fires, took seven
lovers, my sons are seven, and my mind
is the sole owner and subsidiary of these memories and
moments.
Unless I am to be reborn
they disappear with me. Masefield's poem continues to be
the most honest and chilling assessment of our souls' and cells'
disbursement. I can imagine stem cell
research may lead to a cure for dementia, loss of memory
about who you are and where you've been.
If one's not been born
this doesn't matter. But if you're being reborn,
in the sense of "he not busy being born is busy being reborn"
(Dylan),
then it is best and most correct to consider your last moment
of a continuum with moments endless and entirely in your
mind.
The mind is made of cells and moments, seven billion of them.
Remember to be born and reborn, early and often.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Furry brown monkey
strapped tight to back,
harnessing freedom
from the child;
tan strap wrapped
around mother’s wrist,
a maternal yoke,
circling each other
like earth and moon.
Don’t go too far, dear child,
you are mother’s prized subsidiary;
she does not run well
with heels and cell;
go lay with the dogs
or crawl on all-fours
on polished mall floor.
Are they training to be tethered
tight to authority’s rock?
Restless boats un-docked
during the storm of release which comes
once free of the leash;
no wonder they tend to run.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 5:18 AM UTC
why would ever thought become a therefore of being, a parallel pairing, well, i can imagine why, uncertain thinking gave birth and girth of uncertain being, but uncouple thinking from being and couple it to knowledge, how sooner the reminders encountered whereby expressing thinking with being as equal is lost, and thinking after the divorce from being finds a second partner, namely knowledge: and the men who stare at goats? sooner thinking and knowledge coupled than thinking and being, i do know that the former example eradicates thinking per se, but it also leaves us with pure intuition / knowledge / automation, which means less concern for a subsidiary of broken bones and unaffected brains to be worth a coupling - the former attempt eradicates this shadowy narcissism that the latter invigorates with how the outside is already defaulting the inside with c.c.t.v.
you will not eat the fruit
of the tree of knowing good from evil,
since upon eating the fruit
you will not think -
you will know but will not think -
and this will be a demise
you will claim to be supreme
as the foremost expression adequate -
thus upon eating the fruit
the wages of your labour
you will know more than you desired,
and will too think less than
could be inspired - not a question
of writing a pillar-like autobiography
but a question of writing a biography at all..
to eat from a tree of knowledge:
whether dual or by mono inspired -
serves no bearing -
hence the modern fable akin to brothers
Aesop and Grimm,
that he who eats the fruit of the tree of knowledge
will not eat the fruit of the tree of thought,
hence the dichotomy rather than a duality,
hence the monism rather than the monasticism -
and he who eats of the tree of knowledge
will look upon a pauper in a scene of
agricultural foreboding with much insolence -
for he who eats from the tree of knowledge
whatever the vector, whether into zenith
of good, or whether into the zenith
of evil, will know neither being reached,
for thought will become the orient conjunction
of or being accumulative:
that good (thought) will be as puzzle-muddled
with evil (knowledge) as may be allow -
or as the Libra testifies - that knowledge is
evil and thought via continuum narratio is good;
but still gladly i too fabricating celestial bodies
with a lifespan of cats aged prior to 30 (if pedigree).
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
We live in a time of minimalist art, self-expression absent of heart
What ever happened to consciousness expansion-
Peace, love, and direct action?
-
Focus your attention to your smart phone
Plead for virtual affection so you don’t feel alone
What ever happened to just getting ******
Smiling, laughing, contemplating a universe unknown?
-
Your closed-minded conception condemns you to your head
Your solution to conflict consist of a mechanism that spouts lead
What ever will you do when there is no more blood left to shed?
“I don’t know,” he replies, “but the bad guy’s dead.”
-
Burn all the books, discard all the knowledge
Submit to manual labor, don’t go to college
Accept ignorance and we’ll treat you well:
A house, a car, and guaranteed freedom from hell
-
Your God is fake, and my God is real-
And the Devil, he’s looking for souls to steal
Digest all of my words with fear and absolute acceptance
You’re the sheep, he’s the Shepard, and I’m a virtuous point of reference!
-
Big brother is watching, don’t you dare act out
I see your fire inside and I demand that it be put out
Individualism is dead, all hail the corporate agenda
You need to fear the terrorists because they’re out to get ya’
-
I see you’re hurting inside, take an antidepressant
Provided that you have a prescription at the Candyman’s discretion
Buy my product, I guarantee it will fill the void
You’re a cog in a self-mutilating machine, your existence- devoid
-
Now, I’m not a prophet, I don’t claim to be right
But you must know that you will lose your humanity if you don’t put up a fight
Fear not the creatures that go bump in the night
They’re subsidiary threats to the men behind the curtain, demanding subjugation with a smile
Controlling the switch to the light
-
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
If you steal my poetry
In part or in whole
You sir or madam
Are a ******* *******
Steal from me once
And I am the dunce
But steal from me twice
And you’ll pay the price
WIZDUMBs BY JA 623 27-08-2015
Besides
WIZDUMBs BY JA is a wholly owned subsidiary of JA-STA MINUTE INC. The WIZDUMBs BY JA logo and made-marks are the property of his wife who wholly owns him and everything else.
WIZDUMBs BY JA 236 copyright 20-09-2013
MAY PEACE BE WITH YOU
and your wife
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
Time,
as it is a thing born
not existent
since the eternity being,
has beginning and ending
->
there is only the Now
that has no end nor beginning,
stretches itself infinitely
in the eyes of the current beholder
->
The energy cannot be destroyed nor created
->
Life is energy
->
and We are Life,
ergo neither we
will die,
end,
be subsidiary to Time
that on the contrary to us
does
have
borders.
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 5:49 PM UTC
Heartbreak tastes like
A bitter root, grown from
Lonely nights spent building
Airy sky castles made of
Imitation crystals or golden clouds
Lined with silver.
Dreams, hopes, stacked to
The stars and back
And yet afraid to be felt
Content with staying hidden in atmosphere.
Atmospheric empowerment, it's all
Just one of those subsidiary
Illusions, a lost line of
Endless pushing to be real.
I cannot create something that
Was never meant to exist
Not even the sheets of feeling that try
To choke the wasted, flowered beds.
Watch the fresh spring dirt until
Something happens, maybe it
Grows or moves, perhaps the ground
Talks, just wait, you'll see
Someday the sky and all its
Seemingly hopeless objections of freedom
One of these days, in perseverance
The sky will find a way
To touch the earth, to befriend soil
And reconcile the trees, to forgive, but
Will the heavens ever
Run to the ends of themselves?
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
Max than 100: He who keeps the herbs they grow up in the cold,
and it must be in the shadow of the sky, German, rising from the spinal cord; Noise is set before thee, and that which was taken in which my knee on the ground, a warm heart. I have read that the outcome of the raving rabbi is to choose the right dog collar around the neck, his friend, a friend of a friend of a friend's anger; Saving for a change in memory, not too much in the dark,
so as to teach young girls lying is bad; for a small amount of mulberry, the beach, shopping, and dining room; unknown to ad-a-go-go can be molded with the fantasy of the treatment depends on a lot of various intertwines the city of kissing, touching; Who calls, and that it may be like the ****** of hits; that which is of love to lay claim to a protest to the lovers of their own, cupid, they saw his glory, and the friends of a friend, of things and of men, the insignia of the Mermilitary in a dark room, and at once, lying on a staff,
and 2, there are three things the middle of the balloon, obtains the order to start; A cup of vitamins and vitamins, the child died, read a hymn to life,
to love, it is a good song, and persecuted and individuals; R & 500 will not be together in a heartbeat cords, swiftness and system independence autumn window is enough for shoes, boots ® separate movements of a hot, refrigeration, social diet sticking to the peacock green cases of valentine coins operated by imps; petite love's rumblings region net flight night to day, at 3 in passing water, in the 1 out of heaven, and an unhappy I beg you to calm down, in this world to stop the flow of the injured is "the history is the subsidiary of the one of the most common eud-free downloads and freedom, and wisdom", in this case it is the focal point, that is to say, it does not mean those of the world of men, who are angst in form but the folio of the child out of love. ||
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
You may own my water
but you can't drink my distance
I brew my coffee
far too bitter
Makes mornings
Mellows the litter
blowing along a curb
in the shadows
of houses
worn
by winter
I see you off--
in some warm cottage
Watching
plantations grow the beans
for all the world it seems
has been a subsidiary of
some agglomeration
Little brown people busy
owning nothing
work the soil
while I die without
moving the earth
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC