"superimposed" poems
Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend
*tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...*
I can do better.
Why?
not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize
"there for the grace of God
go you and I"
have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
<human>
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
If I said my heart was a cyanide laced pomegranate,
would that make its expressions any less ******
If I said falling in love was like throwing yourself off a cliff on a winter night and drowning yourself tumbling through the air blind like a bag of kittens, but I was quoting Kierkegaard,
would that make it any less of an awkward melodrama?
If I told you the western blocks blind attacks on the other,
kinda resembled Freud's account of the mother
of a miscarriages melancholia,
is that a condoning or a condemnation?
if I translated every meta-narrative of class relation, oppression, wage slavery, state violence, suppression,
into anthropomorphic allegories for a myriad of psychological phenomena,
would I be an academic or a shinto miko?
[and would the world be any better?]
if I superimposed on the geographical topology,
the political and then the existential,
would I have a sandwich?
Or a lasagne?
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...
<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?
the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?
instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from
morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies
words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia
means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed
and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the
first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just
yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
**descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past*^
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
i desire for you, so badly, to fit into the fabric of my life. to let me into your deepest fears. to laugh with me when i need to be reminded that life is full of joy as much as sorrow.
even now, i wish you were sitting with me in this house by the sea. but the truth is that you’re not. you’re two thousand, three hundred miles away. even further is your heart from mine.
because the truth is that i tore you from the fabric of my heart. and i’m sorry. i know that no apology could ever bring you back. but i want you to know i am. i’m sorry i overstepped your boundaries. i’m sorry i broke your heart.
you knew it was best for you to leave. whether that is good for me, i still don’t know. but i want you to know that i want the best for you, and if the best thing for you is to not know me anymore, i accept that. i hope this distance is helping you heal.
what i do know is that right now, i am sitting in this house by the sea. watching the waves break over rocks. crashing into each other, too. my wave broke against your rock and retreated back into the ocean. and in the period when our waves superimposed, you reminded me that it’s okay to take a chance on love. that when i push people away with my vicious, vicious words, everyone gets hurt. including me. and maybe some people are not meant to love me forever. maybe some loves are just meant to pass by. but it doesn’t make them any less important.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 2:19 AM UTC
Half calf with a twist
As the line stands
Thinking she is a superimposed *****
Foregoing on
Barista
Waist like an elastic band
Hair waving hello in it’s pinkness
Homeless man coming in
Screaming
Obscenities
Something about Romans and Euripides
As if in a round about
Circle the store like a hovered cloud
Then out again
The rocker dude sipping his tea
The older man in the corner
Who constantly leaves
Wandering where one can’t see
Trailing behind his laptop and keys
Somewhere in this madness loop
Latte’s and Macchiato's brew
And I
With a child's flair
Take it all in, while I throw back my hair
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 11:28 PM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
I am color blind-
to reds greens and blues
curious of what colors
appear in your dreams or visions too
I question the
spectrums of
your perceptions
in the midst of the
differentiations in
our walks of life,
thoughts and insights
there are many shades
of black and white
so how can you
possibly see with
those eyes
shut tight
as if lids were pressed,
superimposed
with eyes blurred
or closed
when you say my blue
is not your blue,
I ask why they
cannot be both.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
I burn
beautifully
in the fires of vanity.
Got lost
in my own reflection
on the frozen food doors—
there I was,
lined up with the rest
of the products on ice:
three fifty-nine
for four egg rolls,
six twenty-nine
for frozen bread dough,
six ninety-nine
for wild blueberries.
Superimposed,
my long mug
trying its best
to blend in.
My forehead says
I’m three ninety-nine,
but my solar plexus
clearly marks me
at five fifty-nine.
However,
my **** is, apparently,
on clearance,
reduced by thirty percent,
and
going for a buck nineteen.
At the end of the aisle,
an old lady eyes my biscuits,
rattling her coin purse
like she’s about to
roll a Yahtzee.
I flick my gaze
back to the glass
and my own ghostly image.
What did I
come here for
again?
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC
Those words are now meaningless
compared to what you mean to me.
Where I thought that there was no way to feel deeper,
you prove me wrong.
I am ice
and you were the cool breeze
that keeps me from melting and evaporating away.
No four letter-word could ever measure against you.
I was eating cigarettes for breakfast;
now I subsist only on the health of you.
I was dreaming of the day
I was born,
strangling on an umbilical noose;
you have slid your pink life-giving cord into my navel.
I was writing my suicide note,
but you came and lit it aflame,
blew away the embers,
wrote a story with a happy ending.
I dangled, atrophied, off of an edge,
my chalk-outline superimposed over the gaping black.
Your hair, strands of raven steel,
snaked their way through my fingers,
held me long enough for you
to pull me back.
You held my hand,
guided the crayon it held.
Where I saw only a blank
page, you showed
where the lines were and created
a piece of art beyond
anything the world has ever seen.
You are my life-support system,
Holly,
and without you,
I wouldn't be writing this.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
Our lives are like ocean waves, born of a celestial entity among a diversified sea of possibilities. Direction and intensity set at birth with a future blurred by the endless horizon
Some waves wander alone, losing momentum as they are gradually ushered down by Earth’s gravitational pull before tragically coming to a rest among the blue abyss, destination never realized
Others are born of the unseen violence and upheaval between tectonic plates battling for dominion over the volatile landscape deep beneath the surface. Knowing no other way, they perpetuate the violence that created them, destroying and consuming everything in their path
Yet some join together, superimposed into a harmonious union that multiplies their strength and propels them forward until it’s waters gently meet the shore in an actualizing marriage of journey and destiny
Storms often boil up out of nowhere, dismantling adjacent waves. While a select few resist the onslaught, instead gaining strength and vitality. Like a conductor bringing a symphony to crescendo, the roil pushes these waves further than others in pursuit of their destination
This dynamic tapestry of new beginnings and violent ends blend together as one, eroding and shaping the land around them as they work out their daily squabbles. Heads barely above water, they continue onward towards the horizon blatantly disregarding a future for which they create
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
The Agèd Hands of Time have reached yet another
toll of the bell.
12 years have passed since I’ve last seen her in this life.
Distance and sickness in our being had robbed us both
of streams of time which passed like a long cold winter
into her death. These lost memories often create over-
exposed and superimposed photo negatives of imaginary
frames of time I desperately imprint to hold tightly in my
heart and mind.
But I still hold tightly in memory to her soft voice on the
phone and pictures of split second frames of physical
time my sister would send me. Many people don’t even
have that.
In this life she loved to mother her three grown children
and flower garden as near as
she could to the end. It was
in her nature to nurture us--
her perennial children--
and to help make the move easier for her literal annual foster children plants taken
from a confined potted existence to a deep soft warm bed of comfort.
Stamped on my mind is not the faded and worn, bruised
and torn image of her outward shell in the Trauma
Center at age 88, but the indelible inner and outward
image at age 38: a lovely young mama who tucked her
little boy in bed every night with a song and a prayer.
The little boy that is still alive in this man.
The Agèd Hands of Time have reached yet another
toll of the bell.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC
dreamingswanseyeaperturesboxboatsevergreenstarzenithgazing
~
while dreaming,
i became a swan's eye,
i was dreaming through both its apertures at once,
clicking separately, click, click shuttering
both sides from out a box, or from out a feathered,
living boat, or two, severed visions
superimposed:
evergreen under,
star over at a zenith
gazing twice over
paddling under
~
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 5:02 PM UTC
I am a Heart Breaker superimposed upon this soul a spiritless spec of a man a melody story written from me to thee a hopeless dream of what i mean A man, A legend, This legacy is simple lyricy and artistry My mind is gone my words remain I’d travel across all seven seas to see eyes that loved me yet some divine comedy has mocked me this lion of god has torn me her words stain my consciousness her devotion leaves me motionless & hopeless I stand here superimposed Circe is having her way with me my mind resembles Heisenberg's uncertainty its the cat in the box the apathetic emotion not progress but congress If it’s my state coup d'etat it this is a war against myself and everyone else
a broken boy with a bright mind a thousand familiars hold me down my eyes see something that doesn't drown alive & asleep the lion of god toys with me my love & sanity toils on the brinks of the blind a forgotten repression moves to take from me my essence a sweet blessing a devil that used to run me a god that only i can see or only i thought to believe a stupid soul that gives me immortality yet is stuck in the world of the ****** superimposed
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Perfection
Superimposed with self-perpetuating pollution
But being sustains all and won't mourn its loss
Clear as the sky
Untaintable
Delicious
Home
Forever
I am
The end is just the beginning
Shedding limitations
In spring reborn
A heart of immense power
Cares for all
No longer infected by the sick
For illness is a choiceless choice
That needs no cure
This is the good news
Rejoice
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted au wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadows
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
Lost in dreams and fantasy
I love it when real life becomes a reflection of me
To see myself in so many ways
I love the beginnings of permanent change
Like getting to the best part at the end of a chapter
The present keeps me from worrying what may come after
And it may be great, and amazing, and fine
Or it could be lame, and a complete waste of time
But I'll deal with this thing, and the rest as they come up
I feel stoic, heroic, ready, and tough
Bring on the challenge
I'll show you what I'm made of
It's times like these that I feel alive
Maybe it's because I've never been afraid to die
It's hello's that I struggle with
But I've never had trouble saying goodbye
It all reminds me of this one time
Where my whole family went along for a ride
And my dad ran a red light
And we all almost died
My mom had a mock heart-attack
And my sister, she cried
My brother got angry
And my father was silent
And I just laughed and laughed
Hysterically so
Because to die you first have to be alive
And it felt so good to know
I was probably twelve years old
But I can still recall the effect
It seems all of the times I remember most clearly
Are the times I came closest to death
But now I remember feeling so stuck in life
And letting emptiness take control
Going to work was an hour long drive
I spent it wishing for the credits to roll
Directed by the world
The setting was hell
Special thanks to my mother
Guest starring myself
I'd like to thank the academy
And the rest of the cast
"I look forward to the future"
And to leaving the past
I saw it all
Superimposed over the rest
A slow pan out from my car
As I drove into sunset
But it didn't end there
And it's not over yet
I'm still alive and kicking
Don't you forget
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
I can’t count the number of times I have read that little quote
Superimposed over black and white photos
Of those skinny girls
Sick girls
Stick-thin pictures of girls that my best friend tells me are impossible
Your words
Nothing
Tastes
As
Good
As
Skinny
Feels.
Oh no, my dear, nothing tastes as good as being whole
Feeling whole
Skinny doesn’t have a taste
But if I had to give it one, it would be
The taste you have in the back of your mouth when the alcohol’s washed down your throat
Sour and burning
Skinny tastes like it's pressing on my lungs
Skinny tastes like the inside of the mouth of someone who you know will never love you
I kissed ana long and hard in the dark but her bones
All
Snapped
When I pressed too hard.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
Investors need to stop treating stocks as a ‘beauty contest’ and follow the difficult investment style of Keynes, global pension expert Keith Ambachtsheer said.
Data produced in a working paper from the Harvard Business Schoolshowed that portfolios built on firms with a good material sustainability rating outperformed those that had a poor rating, an aspect not considered enough by investors who were caught up with quarterly returns, Ambachtsheer said at a Chartered Financial Analyst seminar in Sydney on Monday.
“What I see happening out there is largely speculation – what Keynes called ‘beauty contest investing’, where everybody tries to figure out what the most popular stocks are going to be in six months, buys them and when they become really popular sells them,” Ambachtsheer said.
He added the implications of this investment style as an aggregate was a zero sum game, whereas investing should be taking savings and turning them into wealth producing capital.
“The key thing is you need to look beyond the next quarter; you look at the long-term sustainability of the business model of the corporation, as well as the people behind it in terms of how it is being managed.”
The Harvard Business School (HBS) working paper superimposed the Sustainability Accounting Standards Board materiality map (which identifies likely material sustainability issues on an industry-by-industry basis) onto 400 common US stocks identified through sustainability metrics from Kinder, Lydenberg, Domini Research & Analytics.
They examined what effect materiality would have over the long-term (starting from the 1980s) and found the top 10 per cent of firms that scored strongly on material sustainability outperformed the bottom 10 per cent, by nine per cent over a rolling twenty-year period.
“The practical question is, can you actually manage money this way in the real world? And the answer is yes, but it’s very hard, because you are doing unconventional things,” Ambachtsheer said.
Real-world Keynesianism investors – such as Warren Buffett and the Ontario Teachers’ Pension Plan – are in a minority despite outperforming over the long-term. In chapter 12 of his seminal workThe General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Keynes explained the reason for this was the essence of long-term investors meant their behaviour would be eccentric, unconventional and rash in the eyes of average opinion.
“Most organisations can’t function like this,” Ambachtsheer said, as they were too focused on the present.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC
A sloppy connection made through dry sockets
Man-child trembles at his capabilities
Poor thing, my charge
A fifth of *** and a bit of battery acid
So true
A false wall that keeps the roaches in
Volunteer for a bit of community service
I serve, teach, and protect (frail ego systems)
I serve it up spiced and garnished
Cut up neatly with uniform premeditated precision
Little bite-sized baby food morsels for his mouth
So easy to chew
So true
So easy to swallow
The boy, lewd rude lust thrusting
(Drag in his line, correct its arc, and begin again, slower now)
Poor thing
The spotlight making his naked man-machine
Glow surreal satellite white, overexposed;
Pour viscous shadows into every exquisite crevice
In repose, underexposed
He begins to decipher my light projection
I put it to my lips…
My motive *****
Poor thing, always at a lack
Pretty vacant boy bomb
(Sigh…just lie still life)
Just one of the boys
Just one of the luscious little wind-up toys
Just another pound pounding of flesh
(Fact: humans are mostly dark meat)
He passes out before I can do any real damage
Superimposed, film the oily residue cell by cell
It is my body, oh yes
My doppelgänger dictates the disease
(White sound waves will wash my body
Clean to a distant, lonely shore)
Dip me in saliva
I come up gilded, salt streaks straps stinging
So true
I am sick of the flaming hoop trick
I am sick of his radiant Vegas platform
(Sick of trying tying a knot in this cherry stem)
Ambivalence a smeared lipstick stain from yesterday
My thoughts are exactly 21.5 miles away
Just once
I want something pure
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
I’m feeling right as rain on a window pane in a war of attrition,
And I love how the rain beats me into submission,
And I hate how I’m always in need of some reason for a division,
That riddle of forever being cut down and somehow risen up in the middle
Circumnavigate the delusional oceans of my mind,
And I love that place between being dead and alive,
And I hate how I’m there and yet still to arrive,
That riddle of being lost and found by being stuck in the middle
To be a fly on that flower on the wall,
And I love to see how it feels to be left out of it all,
And I hate to be unable to fall,
That riddle of asking “How?” and not “Why?” that comes with being trapped in the middle
I’ve written this part,
For what feels the millionth time,
I can only resign.
The scars upon my hands,
Connecting teeth-marks
The guilt within my heart,
That’s where the sickness starts,
That riddle of being sick and yet unable to survive without lingering in the middle
To be a Superman is so **** superficial,
Superb superstition feels so insuperable,
Juxtaposition in a definition of terms makes the Super seem just simple and little,
That riddle of being everything and nothing that is superimposed in the void of the middle
And I love how I’m here all alone in the middle,
And I hate how I’m here all alone in the middle
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:04 PM UTC
Poet daubed the corporal on the wings of carney
Wanderer dilettante soul lusted wild routes
Counted each the millimiles covered
Upside , unstrained , Unflaggingly.
Yon the valleys , epitome meadows and Hillsides
Beated around the alcoves amok
Ridges passed the marooned trails
Agape the flinged self flew spirited madrigals
Slowly rooted the tints into wilderness
True entity got superimposed to sylvan instincts
The obsolute shadow rigged the shooner
By dimension lengthier the time but shorter by grace
Grazed through and some toxic airs exhaled then pulled
Blinked all the roof to rugs
Remembrance of concrete boxes and intimate sidekicks
Cheap conflict wins to hit the ring
If body wins, wanderlust looses thereby path ends
Simultaneous call by consciousness and objection by eternal shadow
Only the body grazed the maps with pointers
Though insatiably leveed
Kept retention the coursing shadow
Yet remained damp , savaged the sylvan traits
Life was near but the abstainer failed
Wilderness abysm rejected the unfortunate physique
There appeared
Scorched canopies along wilted flora
Container flogged the shadow to a stultifying death
Physique deceived self the core truth
Existence thereafter without knowing the chance with eterna
Several followed the imperishable conflict trail
Roll of honour diminished by fourth dimension
Marked victories of featherbrains over pappus chambers
Only few sticked upto xanthic flowers
Raise up , were the victories thristled down?
Many knocked and still keep on knocking incarnations
Fine array of fossilized saturnine inhibitions
Callous attritions over altruism of succinct shadow
Flip sorties pariance spurts
"The stanchion to revet my sky" voiced the shadow
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC