"surd" poems
i was watching batman (1989) and batman returns (1992)
today, and i couldn't stop layering over birdman (2015)
over both films, it was such a comedy, you knew
that it wasn't a serious engagement
in the role, i just kept picturing
the internal monologue -
the action scenes were already
a gimmick when in the birdman
the explosions start with the critique
of what people actually like to see -
and that critique that the joker
is no more a weird'o than batman
dressed in black leather / spandex -
i just wish heath ledger took a break
from acting, and they did the same
sort of film about the actor behind
the joker, but how would they internalise
the essence of the role: the laughter...
internalising a husky voice can be easily
done when the actor in a different role
can talk easily and speedily without that
haunting husky role of the original part...
but the laughter? it would never work,
which is why jack warned heath
about playing the role... 'son, beware
the laughter.' still, what an enjoyable re-watch,
putting over the birdman nostalgia
over the seriousness of the acting in the
originals, you can actually imagine him
going for a coffee break and taking a ****
when the original screening took place,
the whole: back to reality - it really amplified
the films in a quirky way;
and i still think the joker is the only
doppelgänger that can't be tamed: i'm guessing
because of coulrophobia -
and i could still see remnants of this mythical
doppelgänger on heath in the imaginarium
of dr. parnassus... the clowns are onto you,
you can't steal one of them from
the jammed mini or volkswagen beetle with 20 of them in it,
plus the crying clown, everyone's heard of that
one, they mime laughter, this vocalised doppelgänger
of a clown is cursed -
because unlike actual mimes they don't surd
bewilderment being stuck in a box, or touching
a brick wall obstacle... they surd laughter,
and they share it among themselves in a circus,
vocalising that surd is a curse,
since vocalising an actual mime leaves you
without the actual abstractions,
and from what i heard, brick walls are silent
like graves, unless of course you punch one
or smash a car into one.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
"BUG"
I saw a Bug Battle,
in the cracks of the street Blood and Struggle
Their plastic screams and cellophane curses were almost like yours and mine.
Until a brave one crawled to my ear,
and he told me of his trial in the street crack theater,
I grinned as if I cared, he smiled like he had the time
He said "in whose camp does your banner fly, and can I have you on my side?"
He loaded a Pistol while I replied:
I said: I'm anti-pro no shout catechist, so keep your pamphlets political activist,
You take your cause for lack of a purpose in life,
pursuit of happiness, "eudemonia" good spiritedness
you're living proof that ignorance aint bliss
Pray "Libira nos a malo!" and Free Tibet!
But you never prayed for the souls with affixed Bayonets;
so I wave like the man being shot from the cannon;
born on this chunk of warm rock hurling through nothing;
who only on the front of spirit can fight;
Storm the Bastille of desperate life;
and dance in the street every night till the day I die.
The Bug Replied:
Know All, Know all, in the dialog to win,
two grants are a Franklyn one Lincoln's just a fin?
Posit value for this bug since you're so well balanced,
gaining perspective from the outermost valence;
you never killed what you eat and confuse "labor with action,"
but you think you're to evolved to fight for my faction;
We're currency baby as we live and breed,
BASTILLE for you ATTICA for me!
better get in the frae my anti anti teacher
before it ***** you along with every other fighting creature;
I'm going back to me cell where I breathe a little freer;
but let me give a final though like I'm Jerry Springer:
If happiness is purpose than you can call my purpose love,
to survive I fight the Battle and to me you're the bug.
Thunderstruck, I sat on the curb,
realizing I could be a "social surd;"
then I saw my small confessor get killed in a raid;
I would have stomped out his assassin if I wasn't so afraid;
instead I rose to my feet, and walked straight home,
locked myself in, and wrote out this song,
I think of the bug while I'm dancing in the street,
every time my neighbor throughs a sneaker at me;
I feel his wrestles spirit longing to fight,
while I'm drinking and singing in the middle of the night,
than it hits me:
The bug was right
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
the view
stands beneath
the carousel efforts
to blast through
impregnancy aBLOOM!!!!
(w)ith feral legacies
aligned intimately ornately
posthumous adulterer
awakens in need
of
****** corrective agency
towards Fenitbow
and Glightrovee ab-surd as
qua as qua
asqua aqua qua
a^s is trite melody infer[no]
t a x i yellowing each pavement
by truth in yo ' fa ' ' lo ((lo))
i by horns and turns
in plyable waves arrest
what justice juices
freel_y
obligatory
antecedent
quai noyh thlume
ye
HEaVY
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC
i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons:
editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i.
into aerodynamic informatics
for a breeze and wavy hunches true:
i wondered - would this much assure
me to buy a mandolin?
i bought a mandolin once,
but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead
i was lodged into essays
and existential qualms relieved:
entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco
to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into ****
i thought of a flirt though,
played the mandolin in scotland,
beneath a window for a vine,
jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter,
and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe
excess sight with light through
spider's diadem kept, webbed;
landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides
to counter the "debility"
of elongation instead; took two windmills with me
into don quixote, and out popped
the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing,
aged cougar.
so? my one grand delusion is a robot
precisely spelling me wok twang wrong;
i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse
to equate soberness with sanity
and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone
above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
*whatever we speak, it's hardly going to
be spoken of.*
which means two kettles...
mind you: target practise
or as i mind
the 2.4
of said: superman
in Iowa...
do i care to mind?
well, **** me!
they verse in acronym
i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a.
akin to a billion...
i'm tongue tied and heaving,
das bōt...
this doesn't help the aesthetic...
with prolonging dies
the excess o...
kaiser schweizer min took!
whatever that means,
they say funny accents in ****
to **** a thought of a zeppelin...
yhwh: or the hollowing-out,
awaiting the god to lift us out...
Pythagorean umlaut
into a macron joinery...
depending on your aesthetic...
Kreisler schisser...
twins anti avid,
interchange s and z...
Charlotte
and sharpening, shearing and cheering,
and so many excuses...
the chard and the sh and the charcoal
and the shattering of, of the chatter:
cheap and sharp
or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap...
or what the first H represents:
an upper punctuation marking,
above the letter,
Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon)
in latter phrasing comma...
or what's pinpointed with Y
and what's later replicated in trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence...
excesses bound to later and latter...
how to differentiate? the lay'ter
from the latté of not mopping up the surd
h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating
within catching breath asthmatic?
people forgot punctuation
in the same way they forgot diacritical markings
but at least they got a pretty picture
and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and
modern illiteracy;
as said modern conspiracy theory:
far **** away from 1990s cartoon network...
everything you just said: doesn't
prop a need for me to buy things;
which is why, i guess, you need
a drugs trade that's the alternative
of consumerism.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
being the "sum of what the world 'thinks' I am"
is written, smeared in blood across the cave i've come to love
and leave behind but only in an understanding:
selfhood carries with it all we lack.
it carries on its seas the diatomic algae fruiting slowly back
it carries on each ladder-rung the selves that other's see,
the lovers' feelings felt,
the mailman's kindness kept--
a stranger's instant siblinghood in eye-flash recognition wept.
my heart is tattered there, and rebuilt here;
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
the pain and lonely misery, the mind-split cosmic surd of this
that Jenkins must have felt, before her captors left hir dead...
--a bullet in hir back, a simple heart-stop pellet placed--
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
without your words, your rich, kind thoughts of me
that others do not know they have,
that Kiesha could have known.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Under skies where umbrage is stitched with thoughts, I ponder, on the days, like copper, reticence is bent when voices, hushed, rise and take their place,
with colors sharp as blades, of stories then that crashed against the wall of silence.
Muted. Muted. Muted for so long.
This voice, a titan, bones crumpled in fetal position and slid into a box has been gagged for so long. The body now unfurls, a sapling having been denied of its spring for too long.
And I’m waiting for the day when I can keep my head up, when I can speak up and say my peace, say my piece.
And I’m waiting for the day, no longer I, a sunflower with shoulders hunched, head bowed, lips crimped, wilting under the star I’ve always loved, basking in the warmth and letting the shadow fall behind me, am afraid of parading the reflection the mirror holds for me. When rights are not hoisted as hopeful words scrawled on cardboard for no eyes to see.
No longer hidden, walk with neither shackles or shame, unapologetic without otherness and doubt, to stand tall, shedding the cloak of unseen, burst into darkness like new born light for everyone to see.
Under the crushing weight of novelty, head stuffed inside a crown for the surd, Humanity watered down until it turns into a pulp of flesh, no more. No more, I say.
Pay me no nods, nor embrace, nor tokens, but vows that we would dine at a table and see the beauty of existence in your eyes, take comfort in your smile, and speak my mind as you freely could, when you get out of line. If you don’t know, feel free to unbuckle my shoes, fill them, take root in them, walk miles in them, get spat in them, get persecuted without a reason in them, take a number, stand in line, keep your mouth shut in them, go home in them, if there are holes, feel the burn of friction, weep, weep, weep and be laughed at, be told what you feel is not real in them. Maybe yearn for a word or two and let somebody, anybody know you are crumbling into them, like a cinderblock too weak to cradle fire any further in them?
Maybe only then, that in them, you’ll take my callused hand to sand yours, and we'll find the stars that guide us home to peace, and in that space, our voices intertwine, the beating of hearts are in synch, with heads held high.
Let me, in confidence, be worthy of the space I claim and of equal measure know what it’s like to live free and not keep waiting for the day.
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 11:52 PM UTC
√1 x √ 1 = 1
Root one, never felt like a full piece, never one,
Root one, met another number so alike in style,
Their common interest multiplied and became one,
And that was when they both let out their first smile.
When other numbers counted the bees and the birds,
Root one and root one counted fractions and surds,
In hopes that no one ever knew or ever heard,
They spoke of words like how absurd was the word surd.
Root one who never felt more whole than anyone,
Finally found another soul to make him a whole one.
No need for imaginary numbers of root negative ones,
Because Root One found a positive match, Root One.
So as night approaches,
Root one and Root one now a real number
Surrounded by the petal of roses,
Fell into one another arms to slumber.
Night and day comes to an inevitable close,
Root one and Root one became a complete whole,
This simply goes to shows,
That you don't have to be without flaws to find another soul.
--------
√1 = 1
In another universe, root one was happy being root one,
Because root one found the one within himself, root one.
They say one is a lonely number, so a root one,
Must be the loneliest number with no need for anyone else to be one,
Living a sordid life of loneliness, no other numbers left to join,
And at the flip or toss of a coin,
He will remain a never used piece of conversation,
But this poem must come to a close, no point in elongation,
Root one is a lonely number with no one to root,
But his own self, what a lonely shoot....
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
. a month spent listening to (a) grandfather's medley of memories, an eroded imagination, an inversion of a figurative- something of other... a month spent with the breath of Shiva... dementia... no wonder my use, subsequently, does not represent the vitality of a springbok... less a torrent of a waterfall... and more... heavily reliant on: perpendicular and subserviently cryptic.
what came first:
the vowel,
or the consonant...
| standing ground...
figments
of the imagination -
vowels
and the rigid
arches of
huddling
consonants...
unkept lockets
of birches
woven
in pine forests...
dead to humor
English oak:
numbed
a'pathos
vater...
vague wounds
caressed
by the winds...
in beast: siamese -
no differential,
unto a blast from
a sputnik's
starry baron knead
of the knee
third letter:
surd...
what the eye
and the aye does
see...
but the: hushed
agreement bypasses...
to 'now
is no sentiment of
a nauw...
Cymry:
piquant,
the difference
between
(k)now
and n A w
no... 'now...
brigadier is
not (a) /
no trumpet-tier /
player...
-teer...
a vowel,
a consonant,
a surd...
and if...
VII were again,
and 7 far from F...
tickling e. e. cummings...
translation?
missing...
the obscurity
of the concept of flesh
when wearing
a pair of gloves,
the Sait Paul & Peters...
flesh disintegrates,
what remains is...
the mediating
numb between gloves
and the "abstract"
of skeleton...
what came first...
the "vowel", or "the" consonant?
past the moral "question":
the glaring contort...
a letter - L, 90°...
that gave birth to
the Girth of Delta?
360° and the "missing" 5...
Kant: negation = 0,
reply...
Λ = sanction.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC
you see my honourable
rabbi,
i have this problem,
Sauron just keeps
igniting me...
i either buckle and fall
over laughing
on the second h of
the gemini -
the ** the woman bit,
or i am struck with
a need to catch my breath
(my vowels) ah eh:
exasperated,
surd-surfing: f k p c s t -
gargantuan waves of
effort... in genetics
you can say xy -
but that still makes no coordinate
sense, given the z-antics.
Alice looking at the H -
and when i wasn't looking
at the YHWH i swear i could
see a sun, a sea, a mountain -
quantum physics **** right there,
a melissa mccarthy punchline
on the ready.
yep... crude trigonometry central:
starting with sharpened cosine -
and then pinpointing on the Y -
convergent exponential...
plus: so little calculations
were involved.
i swear to god... mingle the latin
phonetic encoding with
the hebraic key,
and you can attest to seeing
a million 'allah'u akbar'
cockerels shout in simultaneous
detonations and
in a Solomonic guise... barely flinch.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
it was announced, rolling stones and the beatles,
michael jackson verus prince,
while a classic song by prince was in an ****
of famishing spreading with direct contact with
google, i dare say english requires phonetic
pointers... like ħ... in exampled when,
ah and hatch... it's in need of deciphering
particularity.... it's a surd symbol...
it's not a clear methodological approach to
tonguing it... it's whimsical, very daring...
i too could hate phil collins...
but the 80s were defined by bankers
trading property values with no straitjacket required...
and that's the pop *** we all wanted:
loss of violins and cellos, gain of drum machines...
i'd pick prince any day, for the gems that can't be heard
on the major channels...
or like lao che's gusła or róże europy / roses of europe's
1989 blood of marilyn monroe song:
kości czerwone, kości czarne
(red bones, black bones), what remained of the
band was just a song: jedwab (silk):
she told him high society drank cognac with a slice
of lemon like the slavic way of drinking tea...
he preferred the beer and dried out russian sushi
that gave way to gurgling thirst...
no, i mean it... ħ should be introduced,
a strike of usage erased, like when, like
the excess trill of the r in slavic, and the excess
mitigating harking of the h in germanic.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
onomatopoeias proved to us the existence of actual realities with our inability to encode them given our phonetic vectoring of assertion and amiable frames to conduct the practice of farming (e.g.), onomatopoeias showed us the boundaries, we can hardly write the sound of rain with the 26 notables, so we turn from the practice of onomatopoeias and raise the flag of imagery with so so many comparative associations, like, like, like / akin to.
after i ate cat snacks
i realised two thing...
a. cats have a really coarse palette
in terms of taste-buds
b. i never intended my poetry
to be read, esp. by me,
so it seems i'm looking for
an orator; a bit like chopin
looking for a pianist
to play the silencer notes
of scores, written in the realm
of chaos of surd musical notation,
gangrene on the page;
readily amputated,
i never write to speak it,
i'm looking for a slave to do the fiasco
for me - sounds cruel,
but i guess kindness comes at a price.
he's just a pianist and gets to be called
an artist - let' just say he's a learned
decipherer of scores...
london was built on grime & grit...
liverpool was built on ore-land (northern eerie land),
my heart was left in scotland...
i never write for oration -
i left my heart in scotland, dancing on the roof
of the old college (of law).
honestly, the thinking of musical composers
always fascinated me, that schizoid-arena
of near-to-miss theological theory of
predestination working in them,
the ability to see the sound lag of a violin
or a cello, decipher it and note it down
in the universal language of music,
forget Esperanto... noting down the sound
of a raindrop, a hammer striking a nail,
i'm jealous of this enigma... i truly am
and i am unabashed by it...
my musical expression seems so dumb and quartered,
i've been given the rhythm section of the composition,
the parameters of punctuation...
i'm not jealous of prose writers,
they're the ones that say: an opera for an hour -
they define the longevity of the **** thing,
i possess power over yawns and impromptus
of the orchestral cowbell known as the silvery triangle.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
*heretical grammar: the finite article is defined by ego... the infinite article is defined by god... **** your Freudian trinity.*
when you first learn a language, you are taught the language
in order to synthesise it...
it takes about 20 years of having synthesised the language
to then analyse it, and analysis of an acquired tongue
is a comforting walk through the halls of
Shiva kissing Hades like Erich Honecker and Leonid Brezhnev;
you turn toward the way in which the language is
programmed, silenced, encoded, you check
the orthography, what's missing... i'm astounded to see
how no one spotted missing diacritical marks in english,
for fuck's sake... the greeks are even using them!
no wonder england became such a ******** after the reigning
power on a global scale... this is a Copernican gosh!
it'll reign for some time; well, we know that Cyrillic is
the evolved form of Greek, that paved the way for
Mendeleev - i guess straining the sound encryption will
make you see things differently, or as the English say
in Essex: the H might as well be a surd.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
*such that our world allows
only all that easily diffuses*;
our world governed by the
algebraic x the multiplier
(yet no anomalies given our
speedy venture to recuperate
the supposedly stolen number of
exhibits), where denial can't claim +
when unsolved mysteries linger
and are lost by the multiplying constant:
nothing can be added to this world
in a true sense, many have tried
by becoming famous, but still
the overbearing x, of multiplying rather than
adding to it, and truth be told, mathematics
has provided us the prime assertions of
the tetragrammaton with +, -, x and ÷
(obelus: the H gemini): whereby this tetrasymbolum,
like all symbols is an expression of
surd upon surd, wholly optic -
an intuitive deciphering kindred of feline
scents and vocative with a meow
should a cat wish for a door to be opened
by a higher power with mandible thumbs
and escape into the darkened garden.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
/ there's a difference
between sycophancy
and, being:
endearing...
like there's a difference
between
what psychiatrists
fear - empathy
and what the generic
(yes, that's a collectivist
term for society)
crave, in the form of sympathy...
why why, oh my...
words actually do possess
the fathomability of squares
and other forms
of ad abstractum;
so... can you make
my sudden surprise: generic?!
ginger ninja, ******* son of
a skivvying mom (um?)
'ere we go! 'ere we go!
rhyme and rhythm -
now watch me perform
a... mahler!
enough rhyme to encompass
a rhythm for you?
- ginger ninja... **** me:
good that i didn't think it up,
but merely passed it on.
(that seriously implies the genesis
of the concept of a paragraph,
in english,
utilißing the hyphen...
i'm foreign:
english isn't exactly to become
a serious concept...
i fiddle with it without playing
a violin...
i toy with it...
the mortus operandi
of the memoria of my great grandfather
(on my mother's side)
was that i was supposed to play
the piano...
sure as **** i'm playing one now...
but all my notes
are "surd"-encodings...
inorganic now...
organic later...
ha ha! that ******* i're celtic
ginger ninja! ha ha!
it's a love: that transcends
domesticatic a woman;
because there's an alternative
to keeping one?
really?!
mmm... just the thought of an alternative:
one word clue...
yummy:
mixed-race *******
jay-jay- jay-may-can oopsie far-vour
(that's québécois
for vow-oh-r
voo...
trump pursed lips...
far- -voo- -voolevie-
voo-va-voom...
and no... it's not a... favour...)
come to think of it,
i prefer organic canvases
of implementation,
since: no poet actually
convened to surprise the, "idea":
which was already a priori in
an ontological canvas;
this? this is just a posteriori!
am i the first person to actually
paint onto a psyche rather than
a blank canvas of wool?
what a ******* piss-head that i am
infuriating such ideas without
any actual implementation strategies!
/
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
i'll create monsters, should i be treated with fake affection, with false treatment, i'll endear monster more than those who refused to treat me; by god existent or non-existent i'll create monsters, should i be treated with false affection!
what we don't write
we feel,
what we write we cure
feeling to a prime
rather than a surd;
imagine me with violence,
forgiving a sadist
so we can pay off the mortgage
with a cousin eliminating him
from disclosure,
and when i think of it,
i wish for being homeless,
then there i might learn to trust people,
but no,
given the girl i gave multiple ******* to,
and a "friend", indeed a "friend",
death comes like a wheelchair idiot
endearing cannibalism ready to bite - oh so you're
ready with your minority report agents censoring
thinking? forsaken passion
left you with a crucifix to cling to?
wheel the cannibal in!
may i say, is that a coat-hanger you're hanging
on and that 700,000 dollars' worth of sainthood
accepted in bureaucracy to pass
an acceptance of the kneel through
like clown juggling might make you buy stale
lemonade where a goldfish ought to be?
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
*ich haben
nörd / nørd;
tat du vergessen mein schirm wenn es beginnen
zu regnen?
words in geometry,
words as geometric, shape-worthy when paired up
to grammatical slots of puncture befitting-... lost adjective;
best discovered during translation, and only thus.*
the diacritics change decisively,
we are both equal to say the
encoding of north; what it says:
i have north; it's 0 being attacked,
considering the umlaut ready...
the left can't be holy... unattached to
either Mao or Stalin.. noord...
surd english K and H... know...
or the finely attuned ear...
a billion crowns... fewer than
the number of kings usurped...
the "ß" of interchanging C and K
akin to original German S and Z...
sharpener a cheaper option worth the utility.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
there's a whatever
for each poem you write -
and it sounds like a
surd of each onomatopoeia
cashiered for a filter
queue of banked on
reminiscence of shackling
that waste of time
known as noontide;
grandpa hub'ah hub'ah hooray!
take a flaky make a tendril
quickening for a kite!
and so loose! the kite gave way to
a thought of full orbit -
while the noose was but a thread
waiting for a snapping to excavate
a freely gesticulating something or other.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
you can't learn intelligence,
you must be born with it,
you can learn from rhetoric
to imitate intelligence on the sly,
but eloquent speeches
are only orated once all the facts
happen, and such eloquence
ought to be used to predict calamities
ever happening, or if happening,
ousting a humbleness and immersion
in being anointed by them happening
for pride's self-worth as a welcome
emotional utilisation (for
a better accumulation of predictable
thought): better than a broom
to sweep old vacant apathetic dust i say;
god, this almost sounds like a self-help
book... got to surd it... gnome (g is a surd
in this e.g.), psychology (p is a surd in this e.g.):
so if other european languages used the latin
alphabet with stressors / diacritical marks,
there's an unspoken surd system in e'ng-galosh.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
тьича v. тича, softened consonant, the softening article ь, softening so much, as to acquire an inclusion of an ~я.
in the silence of an Essex night,
when the cars stop drooling sounds
and the foxes seize laughing,
you can hear the neo-Greek words:
тишина... тича тьичa... тишина...
тишина... тьича тьича... тиши'аh
тишина... тьича тича... тишина...
how you dislodge the acquisitive vowels
to the stability of consonants is up to you
and your aesthetic practice, i.e.
concerning the ч... of all human encodings
there's always a sound short, a vibrant
symbol turned into a surd kept for aesthetics
to tell the difference between the literate /
overtly self-assured, and the illiterate /
naive. Дельфин 's (dolphin 's) song, apropos;
some Canadian girls with roots in Russia were
bewildered i knew.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
listen --
the sonance of this heart
is the canta of its soul
surd but for its Aum, its
Maker’s mark
for, not every sound comes
from without
nor does every Sound, sound
yet beats as a drum, felt
sonant yet surd
heard yet unheard
created yet uncreated
the paradox
of ticks, of tocks,
of the opening of a box
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
the gloomy eye,
carved from
within the fog;
high-brow culture,
met with
stern-brow
concentration...
better the world
not know me,
and i,
not know the world...
for the lives worth
a tomorrow;
of today?
i am, standing still..
not, leisured,
to encompass
a copper craft
worth of a statue...
to take,
is not the same as
to grasp...
i pity
the muslims...
they have a library
with but one book...
the quran...
one book constitutes
a "library"...
and i am supposed
to fear, a man, with only
one book?!
i pity him...
because who wrote
the first surahs?!
Khadija!
surd the H, and twist the Jot
into a branching tree of Y -
kādíyā(h) -
i thought that muhammad was
illiterate?!
huh?!
was i wrong?
if ever shakespeare
were to be resurrected,
then came the play:
the merchant of mecca.
i am to fear a man with
a library containing but one book?!
**** should have learned
to throw dice or
play chess than
attempt to ever be pardoned with
an ability, to read.
but sure as ****
the illiterate prophet of islam
needed his first wife, khadija
to write the first surahs...
since she was literate
and he wasn't,
and he wasn't,
and he wasn't...
because the story tells us
that he wasn't...
believe the story of
"literacy" from an illiterate prophet...
only in arabia, with lawrence to boot...
i'm just gagging the laughter
in my grave, when the oil runs out.
look at my itchy fingers
pretending to wave:
itching a fizzling out
of vanity projects...
they built
the burj khalifa...
i grew a beard.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
poets see the vacuum: O P B R A D Q 4 6 8 9 0... musicians simply fill it: nihil tremo.
i'm simply trying
to recognise the surd that's
cognition of ♬
while the birds are singing;
poetry is such a beggar
among the arts...
who the hell would want
to capture the thought of
composition of a mozart with
such a b c e d symbols
easily corrupted by politicians...
actually... i wish politicians
could lie in ♬♩♪ la la ha ha ah ha.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
oh liberty,! oh freedom , let me be at your expense, I am dying to get to know you, I am only getting started, I am only getting comfortable, not even the age of the **** of the joke on friends, not even there yet, not even there, still young, still full of life, still full of whatever I need to be! still full of pos a bil a ty, separated out and its a hopscotch word, a bit up surd, lovers met around the chocolate fountain possessing their fate, and I possess my fate with a keyboard, keys and musical keys, working with the fingers, a knack for songs, good memory
God, I live in a palace! God, he is not dead, he is relocated, he's weaving through the music, satanitc verses are met with heavenly melodies and hes meant for it, cherish it, whose got the better of me?
no no no, you’re up for surrender to his power, you’ve fathomed it, talked about it, debated it in your silly little politics course, you’re meant for this discussion, it is what you were born for, out of the foul mouthed, out of the obscene, the gestures are hidden, their in between every phrase, uttered out at a key, uttered out over a particular suit and tie and way of being
Surge surge surge! its meant for it!!!
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Each new day that comes
Is a repetition of the day that’s gone
I wake up alone every morning
I open my sunken eyes hardly
Looking at the ceiling of my room sadly I sigh tiredly
Then I leave my bed after my daily battle with my worn body
I have no desire to prepare my breakfast
Oh, don’t you know that my kitchen is on strike?
Tired of seeing my ugly face every day
Drinking my bitter coffee in silence looking at my last year’s
newspaper without even reading a single word
Maybe you’re a fan of loneliness
You dream of having a kingdom all yours
Live for yourself
Sleep with yourself
Play and laugh with yourself
Perhaps you envy me for what I hate
And you are ready to give everything to get what I pray to throw away
‘Cause you never met my surd life
You never knew how it feels to be sick and no one knocks at your door
And confirms that you’re still alive
You never knew how it feels to be sad and nobody pats your back
and tells you it’s gonna be alright
Yes you never knew how it feels to be left out in the dark
and no soft arms around to hold you tight
No lips dry your salty tears
falling down like a river on your cheeks
No gentle voice whispers I love you in your deaf ear
You never knew how to breathe without love
‘Cause you never knew how it feels to lose who used to love you to
death
Ask me about what I’m dying for
And I’ll shout and run with my bare feet
I NEED LOVE… YES I DO
I need to find hope in each sun ray
I need to love the way I’m loved like a fool
I need to find the little girl in me
that everyone spoils
everyone wants to make her smile
I need love because love needs me from a long time ago
I need love… yes I do
Because my heart is a volcano of emotions
You just have to touch it
Then it will explode and warm up your soul with the flames of its
surplus affections…
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC