"tactility" poems
I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.
For that, there are things I would give up.
I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.
For change, there are things I would give up.
I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.
These are moments I would give up.
There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 11:54 PM UTC
If someone ever gets me a box of those little word magnets you can put on your fridge
I'll be gone for hours whenever I go to get a snack.
I love words.
I love the challenge of saying something meaningful
With a jumbled stack of them all scrambled up.
I love words.
Having them there to swirl around and make strings of
Like a child makes popcorn garlands for the Christmas tree
Comforts me
In a way that pulling them from thin air can't.
It marries my two soothing balms- expression and mindless motion.
If I see them in a friend's house or a store,
I disappear for... sometimes hours, to be frank.
My English teacher had them on the board.
I made myself late for the following class every day
Because I couldn't keep my fingers off those words.
Finding purchase, somehow,
Tactility,
It satisfies a wild craving in my heart
That mere thinking and typing just can't satiate.
It's really absurd.
Once I visited my friend,
And I wandered into her kitchen to get sodas for us both
And she found me there an hour later
Sliding little black and white type words
Along her stainless steal freezer compartment.
She said, "What are you doing?"
And I jumped, pulled back from some focused, faraway place,
And guiltily realized the sodas were warm.
I love words.
I love touching the things I love,
Feeling their existence.
I love limits on words,
I love figuring them out,
Because even with the tiniest amount of them
You CAN say what you need to say,
If only you distill the meaning to its essence.
I just... I really
Love
Words.
If I ever get my hands on those silly little magnets,
I honestly don't think I'll ever make it past the refrigerator door again.
That's why I don't buy them myself.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
It is hard to tell sugar and salt mixture apart by merely glancing or touching. I wish I could master the art of segregating them without any arduous chemical process.
According to wikiHow, one may assess the grain sizes of salt and sugar. But they too, acknowledge that table salt and granulated sugar do look very similar; the differences in these 2 is minute.
Option 2: Acquire a sieve sized in between the 2 grain sizes so as to let the salt through. However, this method is clearly not fool proof since not all salt and sugar grain is of the same size. A salt granule could mask itself.
The best way to separate salt and sugar is by adding absolute alcohol to the mixture as only the sugar will dissolve, salt is insoluble in alcohol. Then after, proceed to evaporate or boil off the sugar and alcohol solution and you will be left with salt.
Much like in life, it requires more than looking or tactility to tell between genuine and the pseudo. It takes time, takes processes and occurrences. I once more wish I could distinguish them easily.
Then again, as much as I am grateful for the sugars in my life, excessive amount of sugar isn't all that good for the health. Salt heightens the sweetness of sugar; it teaches me to appreciate sugar better. More importantly, salt, to a moderate amount, does good to the body too.
As such, I am grateful for both the sugar and salt in my life. Sugar provides a sense of joy, while salt is vital for personal growth.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 3:35 AM UTC
Here's where the line goes
for the show, maybe
Although I'm fairly sure it is
and I know that I'm first
Here's where the worlds collide
and the lies in their songs unfold
Forest of feast and tactility
Do I love you and need you?
Well, false to both, though
I admit you're my favorite
A veil of secrets
keeping you bleak and
numb, vacuous, and dumb
Are you in deep with the rhythm or open and bald
of your original skin and placement?
A different life, or would you say paradigm?
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
I could not tell you of where, when or how
Or why or whence or with whom
It began.
All I can speak of is what I perceive
My neurons oblivious of floor plan.
Gray matter confabulates my wisdom,
Muddles synaptic impulse.
Confused nerves,
Travel unsheathed in an unpatterned grid
Relay scrambled message with undue verve.
Concerto fifth, notes ripple through the air
I hear not this music rich
But I see
Colours of infinite depth ebb and flow
Sounds live in my eyes, lines swirl and flurry.
Waning sun kissing the horizon deep
I see not this beauty pure
But I smell
Warm scent of sweet cinnamon and jasmine
Pictures translated to redolent swell.
Olfactory bliss of soft infant kiss
I smell not this fragrance warm
But I feel
Velvet satin touch caressing my skin
Scents flow as mercury on fingers sealed.
Hypnotic pressure of pebbles underfoot
I feel not this kneading joy
But I taste
Caramelised coat cut by bold sour storm
Tactility morphs into scrumptious paste.
Palate aglow under five course repast
I taste not this saucy feast
But I hear
Melodious blend of pitch and cadence
Flavour unwrapped in acoustics of my ear.
My topsy-turvy world
Created
By my poor flummoxed nerves.
Never a listless moment
Dished up by
Crossing neurons as they swerve.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
held up legitimate excuses
fully executing unfocused choices
returning, backspacing this type
same sentences, of looking back
from rough drafts, rewriting
keeping words behind images
spoken actions restricted glances
still looking to find my essence
as repeated waves came tides
contrived to dissolve so to solve
all secured within tiers of a castle,
granulations formed from memory
write so to form, a type of sand
tangible untangled tactility
measured through these hands
we can only grasp these times
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 6:18 PM UTC
In the Beginning, God touched the world;
not Logos but the embrace of tactility.
God pressed himself into creation, every
animal, vegetable, and mineral imbued with
the exalted power of consecrated touch,
leaving marks that remain for us to discover
like marvelous pieces of a sacred crossword puzzle.
A celestial charter, holy Magick, necessary theology.
But seeing is difficult and knowledge is demanding.
We are shattered, splintered, fractured lenses,
mirror fragments of broken insight.
Rational and credulous, we see only what we want.
To read God's fingerprints we must first of all burn,
burn away the human barriers of debate and common sense.
To meet the transcendent requires clear-headed madness.
Unshackle yourself from argument and logic,
the Magick focuses into a massive corona of power.
Dross and gold separate when touched by that flame
and only the purest, precious metal remains.
You must connect directly to the mystical
to access such bold, terrifying, inhuman force:
only stolen fire or knowledge contains this power
and that theft demands sacrifice of great pain.
But with them you can meet angels personally,
discover the Soul's hidden treasure horde,
speak with corpses, become animals and plants.
No longer chained by causality, you fly free,
in danger of igniting and dying of gladness.
Only walk through the fire and reclaim your birthright:
to see God's imprimatur on every earthly object
and to know that fingerprint is set upon you too.
~mce
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
He played in her lushness all night long
She had a comely garden of pleasure
Within it he could place his stem's treasure
His tactility twas earnestly strong
Her ******* were so delectable of taste
She became excited by his action
The feel of it made quite an impaction
Their love instruments were most hot of baste
Her inner petals did hold him spellbound
Beads of sweat flowed so very profusely
Together they explored feverishness
Upon their bed nest twas a sighing sound
She and he were getting it on nicely
As they did discover deliriousness
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
Vagrant man- father
perpetual tactility
of a spiraling reality
a mothers tears
unintentional
such sorrow
in her blooming blue eyes
emanation
blemished being
brown eyes
the baby cries
tainted throb of the heart
now molded into jasper
rapture
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
How to forget someone
whose eyes met
for a concise moment
with so much emotion
How to forget someone
with the hand that recognise
the tactility made a moment
of owning each other
How to forget someone
who ensnared my soul
with a succinct kiss
making a forever
How to forget someone,
someone with so many remembrances
though it befell in a jiff.
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
"Ardor yet torment are so abutting in tactility of amass,
Yet the latter is so very arduous,
Love can be like the flower that will not bloom,
Yet carries the love you had to others hidden in the dark,
We must thank the love we had may shed the aroma,
May the love once had may survive dimly within our souls,
The incandescent that rises from ground to your cilium,
Your alluring artistry protoplasm your prose your aroma,
That of a love that once cared yet left your palate in torment,
When your love and beauty gave exigent to my heart and soul,
As does the sea give oxygen to its living things to live,
Of my heart to my noumenon maybe I can live without you,
One day a new love I shall affix a diadem in my lonesome dynasty,
What sorrow did I not express to you was my sorrow immersed,
From crest to surge I still canticle your name as I wonder,
You were the long stem floret that comminuted my soul,"
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
Tactility is nearly lost, exploring this wall
this plain white wall, where hangers once pierced.
Like a mime, almost, but hands have little feeling,
each white indent a symbol of a time - hopeful smiles.
Contact, is hesitant adherence to regularity
below the threshold of social living.
Heaviness diversifies through the vein maze,
like a bulkier fluid with no vitality, purposeless;
Except to disseminate the morose sense to the brain
filling like in a tub - bathing in burning tar,
burning - only temporarily relieved by peeled skin
burying all self worth and nostalgia.
Existence becomes consumed by waves of neurotic death
the plague wins the inner feud against movement;
cry or yell - what will it serve when light is dimming.
Mother did suggest therapy, thought she would,
how can a mind degree diminish the weight of these boulders
placed on each nerve, rolling back and forth;
on my heart.
Options for relief? Pressures release
may come in a silvery sharp form,
Just one, surely just one would last long enough
to drift this being from the sorrow and shame.
Dribbles at first, then the flowing burgundy waterfall
trickling hands, onto the hardwood floor.
It takes me away
I drift with the ripples, streaming
a wry smile arises and finally: sleep.
Hospitals are all to familiar
that disinfectant odor
and that beep - that constant beep monitoring pulse and life.
Now all to aware of: burgundy falls.
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 5:47 AM UTC
Darkness succumbs to the light of the day,
Purging all the nightly monsters away.
The day continues with peace and tranquility,
Until the night flies back with great tactility.
The monsters return to terrorize the town,
Scaring the citizens like a circus clown,
Nobody knows why the monsters don't stay,
When the darkness succumbs to the light of the day.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
The birds are singing
Welcoming me home
Greeted with sincerity
In a smile
With truth
I missed tactility
Craved authenticity
Mutual connections
Gentle reciprocation
Excitement wears rapidly
Grasses are not luscious all year
Lessons are not always learned
Ego seeks worth
In the wrong place
At the right time
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC