"substantiate" poems
autonomous memetic devices
mewling absurdism after absurdism
incognito the non-sequiturs substantiate
administrative staff of the regaling suppositories
for all the good they will do you
you might as well shove them up your ****
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Ophelia...smote egress, you are Rimbaud's:
"Drunken Boat".
The river you fell asleep upon found you a sea.
Your bones knew no seabed--poppies, marigolds,
orchids, black roses fill your eye sockets, mouth and rib cage.
You substantiate what color the sea may give your lay.
Its foamy waddle has signaled you to one too many
climes...an orison broke open.
What strain of tragedy now holds you, spine on depth,
eye sockets on sky?
You dove headlong into the Shakespearean maelstrom--
where mortal coil confounds, chin-up darling.
Great winds fish-scale your waters, only to invert their maw.
There are lines daily of sea's breadth, whereupon its
creatures come single file to kiss your bone.
Ophelia...wrested from river to sanguine sea, shedding trails
of flesh.
If bones were the eye of a needle...you've pulled through,
heir to tragedy--circumnavigating your infamy.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
~~~
*dedicated to the three, who read this first
(S.B, J.A., & T.M.R.)
and know it all too well*
~~~
more than ever presumed,
more than ever thought realizable,
indescribable attainable,
a modernizing magic powder,
synthesizing my intemperate body
~
at last, all ego falls away,
now but corn husk mulch,
detritus, non-toxic nuclear waste,
for growing better visions,
fruits undiscovered
~
write for me,
my recordings, my blog,
not to differentiate,
to substantiate,
to integrate
your gasps imagined,
mine realized,
exhalations upon lips grazing,
the soil of our rainforest
wetted by
living smiling,
eye droplets,
forming a singular stream
~
write for you,
sharing too close,
are you my first or second skin,
for there are no spaces
~
satisfaction discovered that is insatiable,
this pleasured seeing,
this pleasured sharing,
this poetic reason,
to exist
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
The foundation of selfishness
Has much to do with wanting and desiring
And places a heavy focus on
Thoughts of obtaining and acquiring.
The instinctive ego takes control
And motivations become self-centered.
We're often heedless and unaware
Of the shadowy place that we have entered.
Naturally, self-centeredness
Colors what we think and do;
But NOT wanting and NOT desiring,
On the other hand, can be selfish, too.
Wanting: selfish? Not wanting: selfish?
How--we might ask--does that make sense?
NOT wanting may substantiate
Our way of life at others' expense:
Not wanting others to share the same freedoms;
Not wanting others to have the same rights;
Being silent when seeing injustice;
Ignoring people's struggles and plights;
Not acknowledging the efforts of others;
Not desiring to work toward peace;
Not wanting to know oneself;
Not caring if hatreds cease;
Being indifferent to the happiness of others;
Not allowing others to progress;
Not wanting to know how to fix
Our planet once we've made a huge mess.
NOT wanting in many ways
Speaks as loudly as word or deed,
And we become helpless victims
Of our sad and varying levels of greed.
What motivates us really?
Do we know, or do we care?
Is it safer NOT to know?
It might seem so, but beware.
- by Bob B
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
I sat on Balzac’s lap, Betula said.
The psychiatrist twitched his nose,
Scribbled notes. Where was this?
Outside a Paris cafe. He looked up
At her and stared. Were you alone?
No Balzac was there. He scribbled
More notes, his pen moved quickly
Across the page. Anyone else?
My grandmother. Can she substantiate
You sitting on Balzac’s lap? Yes, she
Was there. Where about does your
Grandmother live? She doesn’t.
Doesn’t what? He asked. Live. She
Died some years back, but she does
Visit. The psychiatrist frowned, scribbled
More notes. Do you see anyone else?
Yes, my sister, Alice. Is she dead, too?
Oh, no, she lives at home with Mother.
He sat back in his chair that squeaked.
Betula put her hands on the arms of
Her chair and moved them backward
And forward, studying the psychiatrist,
His deep set eyes, his thick brows, his
Thin lips. Why did you sit on Balzac’s lap?
He asked. Because he said I could, she
Replied, feeling the warmth from rubbing
Her hands on the arms of the chair. Do you
Know who Balzac was? He asked. He said
He was a writer, Betula said, putting
Her hands in her lap. He died in 1850,
The psychiatrist said. Yes, I know,
Betula muttered, he said. He scribbled
More notes. He gazed at her. It’s all in
Your mind, he said, these things you say
You see and do. Balzac said you’d say that,
She replied, said no one would believe what
I said about him and sitting on his lap.
The psychiatrist took out a peppermint,
Put it in his mouth and ****** Betula
Looked over his head and said, Grandmother
Says I’m done for, Balzac says, I’m ******
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
1528
The Moon upon her fluent Route
Defiant of a Road—
The Star’s Etruscan Argument
Substantiate a God—
If Aims impel these Astral Ones
The ones allowed to know
Know that which makes them as forgot
As Dawn forgets them—now—
1.7k
These are the angels of bread
They fill my guts like cotton just thick enough
To hide the rumble of my hunger
They find their ways into the empty spots that you made when you
Stopped talking to me
They soften the longing
Their crusts just crunchy enough to substantiate
The desire for the texture that’s somehow gone missing
They get stuck in my throat so that it sounds like smoke
When I speak
Soft enough to remind me not to place so much anger in my words
Speak softly
So the world listens carefully
So when it finally speaks back
It is soft too
Like the angels of bread
They rise slowly from pools of fungus and warm water
They give life from things as simple as flour and heat
And patience
It takes patience to bake bread
It takes that same kind of patience to want to be around me
Catch me at the wrong temperature and I don’t mold so easily
So go ahead and give up on me
These are the angels of bread
Who tease our hunger
With the smell of something good
And always manage to come through
When I was little
I slathered them in peanut butter and jelly
They satiate my soul
Like the idea of Georgia
It’s a place I’ve never been
But it always sounds like home
These are the angels of bread
Kind enough to silence the earth so
All I hear is the click of my jaw when they hold me
Working out the memories you left behind
Couldn’t pack up everything when you left
You had to leave me those
And this recipe leaving my home smellin’ like a bakery
Only now it smells like Georgia
A place I’ve never been
A place that reminds me of you
Home
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 11:23 PM UTC
If looks could **** there would be no need to search any further
you would then surely be accused of that first degree ******
But since you have such a deceptive and changing illusory face
it would be very hard indeed to substantiate and prove the case.
Many would be those who would even defend and plead for you
giving all manner of testimony in saying the evidence isn’t true.
They would also state that in support of their own ignorant belief
nobody could really tell the difference to avail of any other relief.
The allegations against you though would have to be disproved
for all of the suspicions and charges to be thoroughly removed.
There would also need to be absolutely no shadow of a doubt
in respect of your presence which was at the scene thereabout.
It seems that by the evidence available you've had a good run
what some observers would thereby call a ****** lot of fun;
for such a long time now you have been getting away with it all
but you have undermined the circumstances leading to your fall.
Sooner or later it may also happen that the table is turned around
and a suspect is apprehended with the accusations that are found.
The term of 'being innocent until proven guilty' then comes into play
a sure reminder that the system of justice is gradually making its way.
___________________________________________
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 5:44 PM UTC
(3 hours. 3 years. A lifetime.)
1. 'and the Doctor said, "are you saying you feel guilty unless you are hungry?"
Discuss, with reference to the roles of female c haracters in the American moderns, particularly to Plath's representation of Esther in The Bell Jar , the relevance of this quote to your adolescent development.
(10 marks)
2. Should a poet's work invariably utilise enjambment or read in sequence, allowing the poet freedom to let the poetry find it's own form?
(Candidates are encouraged to explore the source to which the question above alludes, and to formulate an original argument with an effective use of rhetorical devices to communicate it,)
(8 marks)
3. Elucidate your role as a daughter, then compare and contrast it with your role as a student. Use quotes directly taken from personal experiences and your own examples to clairfy your explanation.
(5 marks)
4. They are all looking at you and laughing at you. You are a joke. You are hallucinating and haven't slept in days. How does this make you/the reader feel and do you think this was a part of your plotline intended to elicit a particular response?
(5 marks)
5. Love is not unconditional. Discuss.
(10 marks.)
6. "To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering."
This famous quote by Nietzsche presents him as a nihilistic and misanthropic individual. Do you see him in this light or can you find hope in his hopeless stance? Use examples of your own suffering to corroborate your viewpoint.
(8 marks)
7. Is morality a prerequisite for appreciation of art? Are you? Are you appreciating/appreciated? Discuss.
(10 marks)
8. Calculate the 369th digit of pi as the fractal proxy to represent the infinite worlds contained witin each human being, and in doing so determine the contribution that you and the offspring you will most probably never have cannot contribute to the world shared between the infinite number of individuals posessing their own words, continuing on to deduct your own value from that of the mean value of the population considered in this infinite data set and draw up a graph to visually demonstrate the extent to which the world doesn't need you.
(15 marks)
9. Using the individual calculations formulated in question 8, derive the meaning of Y.
(5 marks)
10. Draw the shape of your sadness
(20 marks)
11. Don't you think you should have learnt by now?
(25 marks)
12. Explain what you are hoping for, and substantiate your hopes with empirical support.
(5 marks)
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
I would that I could clasp hands, at once, with every diasporic man
And our hands could merge and rise up as a single fist
And all the subjective shades of our own colors and the
Daze of our own druthers would be shed in the process
Yes, I find that I absorb the pain around me like a fine osmosis
That unifies the minds forged in our generation’s social suffering
And I wish my skin would grow akin and reflect a synthesis
Because there is no bliss when men bisect people into “us” and “them”
I would that I could turn my insides out and transform my ***
Organs, as a moth does surge inside a closeted cocoon
Only to emerge with wings and the power of new found flight
And I wonder if I too could sing the perspective of new heights
Because there is only ******* in a world where those who
Share the same ****** shape cannot share the same heart
Are condemned to be kept apart by taboos viewed through institution
Started by confused men, afraid to admit that making love is a free art
I would that I could push my hand into the ground and grow
Roots that drive deep, past the sand, beyond the rending flesh
Of our loved ones’ bodies and mesh with the immortal earth
As if I could bolster, with my chemical composite, the site of true birth
Because when the mightiest of the world’s glories can be
Bought and sold for the price of arbitrary ******* figures
Written in the blood of forests, in the torn face of mountains
Then we can stop ignoring the forlorn thought of dark days before us
I would that I could bring back all those lost before their time
That a rhyme could sting the cold cheeks of slaves who never
Saw a western sunrise comprised of multicolor, of many brothers
That I could brush softly the minds of couples buried not together
And scream to them that time left some bereft of victories
Yet to shape their scene, yet to substantiate their dreams
Then I would quickly reseal the doors of slumber that guard
The restless dreamers of the past before revealing the
Horrors of societies stepping once forward, then twice back
Yes, before the haunting words of hateful choruses should
Ever shape their reposeful, moral-less, and peaceful sleep
For the hopeful eyes of soulful passing activists should never weep.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
Here's a temper tantrum I'd like to write down:
There are not enough words to describe,
Not enough words that could help me articulate,
Not enough words that can possibly substantiate,
The insane amount of perturbed I feel,
If I was capable of doing so,
I'd take this time to apologize for being a brat,
Unfortunately, at this time, I don't believe I can do that,
Considering I feel my soul being ****** out by endless stupidity,
I'm not good enough,
I'm not young enough,
I'm not tiny enough,
I'm not enough,
This may not be my time,
And maybe the next shot won't be it too,
But I guess I'll just have to decide to make do,
Besides, I hear that good things come to those who wait,
Or something like that,
**** who cares?
I'm still too ****** to concentrate.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
then why is that which is so blatant to thee
so inexplicably illogical to one's own eyes
for never before have eyes pondered to see
what had never been sought
what value, what worth
is placed upon a singular soul
out of such great breadth
that one's own may be deemed as
insignificant or
inexplicably illogical
to so many eyes
for never before have any eyes
had such a perspective
as to see
this soul
with any sense of hope
for hope is insignificant and
inexplicably illogical and
invisible
for what proof lay awakened as to substantiate such substantial existence
as to declare this soul
to have any worth, any value
if so unseen
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
It's 3.56a.m. and I've got something to confess.
You've once asked me if anything's wrong and if I'm alright. I replied with a "yeah, I'm fine."
I lied.
You see,
0000h marks the start of my torture
As 0100h sees my tears.
0200h hears my secrets while
0300h watches me bleed.
0400h tries to comfort me, and get me to sleep before 0500h.
0600h I wake, questioning my existence all over again.
It's a vicious cycle,
One that I can never step out of.
My smiles in daylight are lies,
Deceiving enough to let people think I'm alright.
But truth is I never was, and perhaps never will be.
I love too much and fall too hard.
Words that pierced my heart resonates in me as I lashed myself with pain and anguish.
Taking pills akin to M&Ms; while downing coffee like water to substantiate my status as a human – I need water, air and love to survive.
Every personal question people ever threw to me,
I answered them all
despite them not getting any answers from me.
The answers and thoughts in my head
doesn't leave their sanctuary that easily;
They murdered me with their constant bickering.
Perhaps, at the next 4.07a.m. when you're awake,
try asking me those questions again.
i might spill it all out to you
(c.c)
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Influence having a name
But can Motivation and Aggravation be beat at their own game?
Motivation had a plan to assimilate
Now Aggravation certainly didn’t appreciate
But the terms were substantiate
It’s was valuing what was important between Motivation and Aggravation
But there seemed to be some suppression
Perhaps even some suspicion
Yet neither one wanted to answer with any suggestion
Motivation was determined to win over Aggravation
However, Motivation was more presentation
Aggravation was more condemnation
But they both might need a referee
But let me see
The best thing would be for Motivation and Aggravation to work as a team
Applying their own cognitive into one element
But would that be possible?
They would if Motivation wouldn’t be annoyed
Yet Aggravation wouldn’t think the idea being a ploy
So Motivation and Aggravation decided team up with two voices forming one concept
“Being Effective and Controlling Emotions”
It was a theme constructed by both
They simply called a truce, and agreed one on one in an oath.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
#D Vanlandingham
*Boundless..
In its ability to extend beyond all forms of containment;
the big circle contains within it, the little one
And if it is true relationship through genuine volition of the beloved
that is to be desired most of all,
then spirit, wrapped in flesh is the autonomy most needed
in order for the dream to become true.
Spirit is being.
Spirit cloaked in flesh is being--
feeling its relationship with its own self.
Spirit, mastering its own flesh by reigning in its emotions along
with the synaptic-firing of every one of its nerve endings into full
submission of the spirit's own core nature, is the root-basis of all true volition.
Spirit, in its raw form is perfect-- wholly unable to undergo
corruption, or decay..
but the flesh..
the flesh,
Always needing to substantiate itself through its never-ending layers
of self-promotion apart from the realities of its own spirit's core.
Yet, pure Love--
wholly unable to see itself as that which is to be rejected,
enters in to the very act of the rejection, itself;
..that autonomy may continue to contain
the uncorrupted core--
and the smaller circle becomes established:
smaller.. yes.. but in truth,
its parameters self stretch all the way out
to those of the bigger one
And so, with the necessary advent of autonomy
into the relational equation, comes also
The necessary advent of God's wholly-volitional
self-depletion of God.. entering, in to it all
so that, in time, God(Love) alone might take the full brunt
of rejection's unjust hit--
in its autonomous movement away
from its own incorruptible core..
away, from its own true self.
So, follow the smaller circle, if you will, my beautiful--
either way, you are still following God.*
#
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 8:57 PM UTC
Rare metal doesn't substantiate
The substance within
Just as the height of a skyscraper is not the sky
But instead
Be just as you say you are
And am
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
I'm the reclusive wreck-loose
Who's about to let loose
And instigate and substantiate the fact that society's narrow mindedness is there for us to instantiate that we ourselves have to promote understanding and antiquate hate
Accidents happened and mistakes were made
They take a sardonic look at the schematics of a systematic syncopated symmetry
They say we dare not deviate from the Fibonacci Sequence
But to matriculate
And be quick on the uptake
Then add ourselves to the division of labour
I make empirical claims to disarm ephemeral things
Fashion
Technology
Music
Life as a whole
But then I'm the *******
They salt the songbird's tail
Clipping the properties of personality
"Bide your time so you don't do anything foolish and bite your tongue so you don't say anything you may regret"
But this is this part of the cocoon effect
Waiting to see all the failed racists
After this metaphysical metamorphosis
So modern
So contemporary
It's classic
Soon to be ancient
The adages and aesthetic aphrodisiacs
'Who do you want to be when you grow up?"
"What do you want to be when you grow up"
"I want to be civilization as you know it..or as you like it"
Peradam- Something that shows itself to those who truly seek it.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 12:33 AM UTC
I am a little curve
caught caressing the big bend
in awe of the something bigger I am a part of
a little fossil reawakened by a warm hand
searching to substantiate ideas of an ancient grace
a little boy giving his all to pitch a tent
yearning to feel the enigmatic wisdom of the stars
a little bowl given purpose by its emptiness
craving the sensation of being filled
I am a little seed
and the sun and the rain and the great love engrained in every little thing understands
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
The Cold Dust Woman,
Crying on her Broken Porch,
Screaming for something to come and save her reckless soul
Trying to find something else besides the day to day,
A break from society, A break that will substantiate the differences between experience,
And an alternative motive.
Something alike using a product,
To gain, and better yourself.
Individual.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
I can hear the whispers
That echo from the
Crevices of your broken heart
And I hope you hear mine too.
I can see you're crippled
From the bludgeon of treachery
So am I
Only my crippledness engenders from
The emptiness of my soul
That has relinquished its everything
To someone who didn't return it.
I can sense your breath
That still reeks
With the smell of the abyss you've seen
But can you discern
The wrinkles on my skin too
Which conceal the tales of the depths
That I also had drowned in once.
I can decipher the fear
That emanates from the tremble in your touch
Somehow I can overhear the cacophony of your thoughts
That run wild inside your mind,
And I can also discern the silence
That lingers on your lips.
But do you see the swellings
Beneath my eyes
Which bulge from the accumulation of unpoured tears.
No need to vocalise your grief
Or substantiate your pain.
For I too have had the misfortune
To know these maligns
And I know how much they can deprive us
Of happiness and joy.
When we stumbled into each other
On the same path
That we both were trudging
In this forest of lost souls.
It seemed like I finally
Felt the warmth of the fire
When your eyes clashed with mine.
It seemed like a tempest
Had pierced
The layers of loneliness and desolation
That were bedaubed over my skin
With time.
I wondered at the sorcery of your smile
That occupies such a little space
On your countenance
But still outshines the elegance of the moon.
Let's be the hands that eternally hold each other
Let's be the legs that walk all the miles together
Let yourself be the shelter of a boat
And let me be the lighthouse that exudes a ray of hope.
Let's adjoin our firmaments that is filled with myriad of stars,
Let's sit beneath it and deduce constellations out of our erratic thoughts.
Let's help each other in gathering the pieces of our shattered hearts
Let's build a heart filled with love and care and begin from the start.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 4:30 AM UTC
never in a thousand lifetimes
could i scrape the well of reason
and fill my bucket with enough fragments of will
to testify to you
all of the things that have happened inside of me
since ive heard you speak my name
since ive felt your embrace on my identity
since ive crawled across you depth and vibrations
the same vibration that rattled the marrow free from my bones
and my soul free from the candle's wick
the night has been torn into paragraphs
that we utter like a million vows
that substantiate sanction
and quarrel with the absence of everything i've known
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
After reading many a poem recently, here are some of my
doubts:
Has poetry become a mere compilation of wild, out-of-the-life,
out-of-the-box imagery just to substantiate a single-faceted idea statement.
Has poetry become an orphan, without a language of its own? Or
with the same craft pattern such as the one used in some ultra-left campaign
material?
Is modern poetry like fast food? Or is it something
that is created to fit in to the tiny coffin spaces of modern media?
Cinema, music, dance, theatre – all have distinct languages,
but not poetry.
Agree, there are brilliant glimpses of excellence in some of
the new-gen creations – mere lines as I would like to call them - but they lack
in totality. Fast and furious they are, but at the same time weak and resigned
they are.
What is modern day poetry? Only time will tell..
Yes, we are missing the woods for the trees.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
The difference between
what is real and is false,
is that the Irish genocide
truly occurred, but there
is n,ooo,ooo,ooo evidence
to substantiate the figures
for plagiarised versions.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 3:12 AM UTC