"technicality" poems
I'm not one for reality
Like so many humans with their mortality
My heads in the clouds
My brain is so loud
But really thats just a technicality
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.
Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.
Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.
Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.
Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
. what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis*...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis* is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
cow later chow,
enter mein...
choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
when i take a ****
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
war robots....
you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
team-work...
mesmerizing...
the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****
love it... 5 stars review...
but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
oh right...
i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
So I dream under the sun
I dream ultraviolet
But then to the human race, I seem to lose the keys
And the rabbits always lead me to gardens of lust
And they’re kidnapping angels on capitol hill
Thought me and the universe had an agreement
But still I’m building spaceships the size of a pill
If you let out your monkey, a butterfly gets framed
Where goes all those who have lost their graces
This tattoo of you is a curse-
a Borneo from the bottom of a bottle
And dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC
Though I'm not in jail it all just feels the same
Waking up depressed told just not to complain
A shotgun to my head i feel like Curt Cobain
Not a literal sense, but the context sustains
I don't want money, success, not even some fame
I just want to learn to play this game
Each day it gets hard i just keep breathing
Wondering how the **** this happened, it feels like treason
From a comical skeptic to a reliable source
I question the water that was gave to the horse
Viewed as a sinner but always in doubt
"Read from the scripture and figure it out"
Nightmares keeping me awake like a proxy
SO many bad thoughts I wish I could get off me
Do your 12 steps Bob, everything is kosher
Yet I wake every night screaming still sober
A stranger does the same, and everyone wants to know her
A technicality set, a glimpse for closure
Different from most but related to some
I feel alone but second to none
Shaking again always be the **** up
"drinkings a sin" Always press my luck up
Some things I will never understand
But if it doesn't change I will be ******
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 11:48 PM UTC
The passion infused plucking
like each note has a soul of its own
The high notes like pinpricks
Low notes like a loud heartbeat
The sound of content loneliness that taught me happiness
The tempo slows like water shying away from the shore
Peace born out of urgency
Love born out of technicality
The hours given to the tone, timing and tempo
The effort in perfectly letting go
Perfectly unique every time
just close enough to be the same
The beauty in form
The form in beauty
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
Paralyzed from the heart down,
Abandoned, lost and found,
The relinquishing of the crown,
Breathing, feeling my heart pound.
Haste takes my calm mind,
Enduring, hatred and pain,
The ropes caressing feel the bind,
The world submissive, barren and plain.
Sold for a cruel desire,
Abused, jaded and forgotten,
The burning of a torrid fire,
My soul defeated, life begotten.
Taken away from my morality,
Stolen, fought and lost,
The time considered a technicality,
The hours dragging, a heavy cost.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
And at the end of the day,
There's always more to see
In your life, through your eyes,
And in your dreams, through your mind;
So don't worry.
The world is in no hurry,
And in the flurry of scurrying that is a city street,
Remember to stop sometimes and take a seat
On the bright yellow-line next to the speed-limit sign
Because those who work overtime,
Always seem to turn into ***** of slime in the thrush of free-verse that is society;
And all the technicality as a result of liability issues is fine with me,
Providing they allow me to peak at the real reality to remind myself I'm free and more sightly than the tightly-knit and frightening father-figure CEO
Who can't go to sleep without affecting the lives of at least 1 million civilian bystanders,
Who forget to meander on the bright yellow-line next to the speed-limit sign from time to time.
Stop to make sure at least some of your words rhyme
When you write your hectic poetry through the overwhelming cries of 7 billion lives pushed into overdrive as a result of the 21st century.
Through all this I would like to pose a question:
Is it better to be happy than free?
Or greater to be free than happy?
And either way, if I'm working to hard,
I'll leave it to you to slap me back to reality,
Because honestly...
More than half of this was never real to begin with.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
I remember the memory so vividly,
without a moment lost
I'm silenced by some technicality~
I mostly keep a Private life.
Introverted by some inner notion that prefers my own world to the outside one,
when there strikes an opportunity to overlap the worlds together~
You bet I Grab it and Run!
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
973
’Twas awkward, but it fitted me—
An Ancient fashioned Heart—
Its only lore—its Steadfastness—
In Change—unerudite—
It only moved as do the Suns—
For merit of Return—
Or Birds—confirmed perpetual
By Alternating Zone—
I only have it not Tonight
In its established place—
For technicality of Death—
Omitted in the Lease—
1.5k
Dirt
Figment
Breeding flies
Sweet charity
Hot, stagnant breeze
Doves in a stale autumn wind
An entity so dense
Holding such little weight
Topicality
Technicality
Revelation and rendition
Something so malleable
Yet so rigid
Reformed
Thick like honey
but smoldering
Grey paste
Emotions breeding anxiety
Still getting by
Not saying, but just saying
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
King Kenny,
Like God on Earth upon mat...
Rising sun in his eyes for rainless morning,
And superkick party, catered and cleaned.
Technician of great finesse,
Not living off technicality,
We pay thanks to our savior
For handing out the wrath.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:37 PM UTC
Believe in what I am told or what I see
This war is bitter and I aspire to be free
Free from these shackles and discrimination
Free from selective elimination
We call our children mistakes so we can free ourselves of responsibility
And our babies are dying in the streets while we accept no liability
Governed by aggression it’s said that only the strong survive
But instead of showing strength we only know hostility
Creating a place where these demons thrive
A Child’s innocence is used for selfish gain
So mommy can get high and feel no pain
A child that knows no love has no true perception of reality
And the system has no love our children are lost on technicality
Now your babies will have babies searching for the love that they lack
They should have had love unconditional
But instead they turn to crack
Because their family has made it traditional
There is nothing like the cries of a neglected child
Mommy is too high to provide
Taught too young to hold it all inside
Poison their minds with ***** little secrets they are forced to hide
Teach them to look for nothing and that’s all you will find
Because that is all that’s left inside
Fill their minds with worldly possessions
Take what you can get despite the moral transgression
Take God out of our schools because money is the new respect
Craving only negative attention
Because of the love they now reject
First born to poverty and aware before their time
Unable to provide life’s necessities
They are pushed towards drug sales and crime
Society will blame this transgression on lack of affection
But really they are affected by lack of direction
No money to feed the hungry and poor
Our inspiration is music, TV, drugs, guns and war
Poor because they have been dominated and oppressed
Look away from those in distress
Push us too regress
Give to those who already have by taking from those who have less
The only way to survive is to ****** hustle and deceive
There is a better way of life
But not a better way to make them believe
A better way to teach us to accept this fate is what they crave
A better way to give us the mentality of a slave
Their methods of birth control created to control the minority
We are now the majority
They are scared to death we have become the priority
Our people born of whips and chains and still left unbroken
Fed our children’s sorrows from which we choke
there are still too many truths left unspoken
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 3:28 PM UTC
In the past 4 months I've built myself a life where I could survive in a world without you. On technicality you get to say I left you. Did you ever once think about what could've been, had you just fought for me? Instead you went straight to bed with as many girls as you could.
No, I shouldn't hold that against you. We were done. We were over. But God **** it you can't beg for me back now!?
I kiss you and I wonder how many girls have been here since the last time I was.
You hold me and tell me you love me and I can't help but accuse you of saying that to everyone else.
"I need you." Well **** where were you when I needed you!?
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
I used to write proses unbothered by rules,
Poems with no assurance of being read,
Words just written to be free.
Now am I one of fools?
Fearing what comes out of my head?
Afraid of what others see?
Is this the curse of technicality?
Of knowing more about reality?
Bluff is that age comes with clarity.
Here is my **** to hell I send,
Existing is tiring year by year,
Is there anything more to feel?
I am far from the end.
But I wish I am near.
I have nothing time can steal.
Jan 27, 2022
Jan 27, 2022 at 9:23 AM UTC
Teach me
lead me
which way do I go
highs lows show me what is necessary feed me your will
Let me taste your thoughts
caress your inner most desire
set my soul on fire
gasp as you enter my mentality never on a technicality
imagine we
make poetry in motion
drop down to my knees to give devotion
for you are god in human flesh
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
The day was perforated by a threshold
A distracted post and lintel technicality
All a part of this door I've been painting
It opens out
It opens up
Into joy
But while I was placing tiny brush strokes
In incremental positions
Adjusting for full light
You swung it wide open
Thankfully
You swung it wide open
Let's go!
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
I would not refuse to **** you.
not on a mere ethical technicality
a cursed dialectic sheared and far less pretty
than the contents of your *******
smooth as oysters lips from where your barraged ocean
falls on salty fingertips
you shall bathe in this warm artifice of my adoration
and be my play waif,
my relief from the wristed finesse
that I have become so used to
and I shall take you away from this place
where the chill of a boneless glass sustains
the shadows and fog of a self-financed ******
and Eurydice might still be expected to rise
from beneath a carpet of stone blossom
but in the sober morning a killer may raise
the bones of dead eyebrows and watch the moping steam
evanesce from the wet heart bed
bled full of drowning lungs,
the mangled target of perspective reduced
to something so blessed
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:25 PM UTC
Metal monsters move on mud churned medley
Looks for sacrificial popies relay.
Inch on inch creeps towards black orifice
Photo technicality! Artifice.
Pale sly men tarry in busy canal,
Into human knowledge, thats the carnal.
Men fall to Soho decks complexity
With wishes to die in, dark unity.
Stood before trenches all born creators
Armed with their staff true master debators
Menial movements touches the hot brick
Copious pleasure to make the plot stick.
War! Fought between those that want, de lux fun
By male armies in total! Reduction.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
*so there are fifty states and they’re joined by federation laws,
but talk of “the state” is not talked about in the same way as
talk of california
or new jersey or new england...
because these states... ah blah blah... why not change
it to the f.n.a.: federation of north america?
it’d sell you a few badges, t-shirts and balloons.*
so in america the federal laws are like ecclesiastical laws,
and state laws are like european state laws -
steal an onion from a merchant’s stand
and get your hand chopped off
in the translation of arabic, should it come to such
drastic action -
so while in europe the church-state of einstein’s
vocabulary went their separate ways
ensuring that time became definite and space became definite
and the space-time / church-state hyphenated coupling
was simply defined as indefinite...
and that coupling became sort of theoretically
stuck in bubblegum of inactivity and awe as truth.
in america there’s a purposive blocked toilet
of the federal (laws) never meeting the state (laws)...
but imagine if the federal met the state
like the church once met & clung to the state...
this purposive avoidance of the two never meeting
in america is already problematic
from what i have heard...
the two need to meet and then uncouple...
like in europe where the church & state met and then divorced...
this state / federal engagement can’t last...
there has to be a marriage... and subsequent divorce to just
see how the political engine works...
otherwise there’ll be a lawyers’ limbo to contend with,
i.e. when a lawyer doesn’t understand something
he tends to use his defence mechanism of making at least
one word ambiguous with the word’s secondary, tertiary meaning,
which doesn't ask for a serious argument
but a solipsistic technicality of not talking to the person
least informed but most ambitious to say something, anything.
i.e. you can’t really claim that california is federated
if the wealth of california is worth as much as iowa, nebraska,
north dakota, south dakota, wyoming... basically the whole of mid-west
scotland ireland bulgaria and romania and sicily;
but i’m sure thomas jefferson was looking for pretty geography
rather than equations to stamp out marxism.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
no, i'd love to meet up with
a "simple' afternoon gall...
shy of a bladder...
but... you see...
i have prior engagements with
your disney god
that i need to bite in his
*** of attempting to
stall wrath and...
whatever the hell it meant
of jurisprudence
when it came to
discovering the law
of gravity...
pretty sure as ****
no concern for man's "laws"
bore that ******* child;
you invest in a life
worth a post-scriptum...
and brgain against
this wordly affair...
came...
the candle, ushered
into a tornado to the blown out,
and man:
an appeasing instrument:
against himself...
technicality of
language...
i'd love to settle
the feud on said grievances...
but then again...
most women are the "simpleton"
******
i'd settle for, to mind
at eternity;
oops.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 11:15 PM UTC
Fascinating in technicality
Are the nuances of the human mind.
A field of strange flowers inviting
The observer to delve into its' fragile psyche.
The hungry audience retires for
The night, riveted by the days find.
Their sleep restful and undisturbed,
The field will wait for the morrows next pry.
The flowers roots run deep,
In search of another of its kind.
Not noticing the deadened leaves
Left in its path, as it hides from the airless sky.
The field sprouts its foliage,
Another being of comfort for which to bind.
The field so lonely,
Sheds a tear as its' flowers die.
Unable or unwilling to let
The spectators irrigate the dying mind.
The field resolves itself
To forever remain lonely and dry.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Pushed to the back of the fridge
Styrafoams full of predictions
Of life after your childish ambitions
played out.
Carried home from a family occasion
The ideas molded
Over the ages of a chilly
Adolescence.
Now each morning
hits like a punch in the mouth,
The sour taste of last nights
Forgetfulness
Heavy on your breath.
it's always too early
To stomach the sun.
Returning to lost love
With only poison in your gut;
It's getting easier to move on.
Continue along
Hanging from a precarious
Cable car of ambivalence
Wave at each opportunity missed
As it passes you by,
your eyes
Idly on the sky.
"Next time, next time"
You mutter
"Next time I'll give it a try."
C.e.M.
2.17.15
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
Autumn the struggle of orange in red flow with warmth before winter's might
I hit rock bottom once i hit the bottom of the bottle It's getting cold. And I'm just not alright.
Pursue me otherwise
till then I'll drink this bottle with numb regret
There's nothing I can do after your mind's made and your heart's set.
So in the end I enter fugue
And wonder if anything's real that I know to be true
Someone once told me the color of love is the color of Autumn leaves
But Regret's the only feeling I get when watching them blow in the breeze.
Disclaimer
I know not what I am
If only for a second I remember it would be you I would blame for my disorderly conduct
And just maybe, my thinking's corrupt.
I shouldn't blame you for my self inflicted pain, But it's a strain not to wonder If those love colored fallen leaves are missed by the trees they fell from. Or if you'll miss me when I'm done.
Now reaching my heart is harder than carving my chest open with a jagged knife while the Serrated edges my human away from my chest
And I scream ****** ****** from the mess
It wasn't supposed to be that way but I did my best.
That what hurts the most is knowing my best wasn't good enough. That I'm not as good as the wrest of the stuff that serve your escape. It hits nerve that when with me you had to close the drapes. Your ***** little secret, had to keep my voice hushed. But now your voice is shaking and the color from your face is flushed. But i doubt I'll ever know what it is you're afraid of
Leaf.
This wisdom I attained formed my common sense
Which is now a situational technicality
Faint laughs and dull quips
As i finish the last bottle in pathetic sips
I write this last sentence with the color of autumns blood
Maybe I wont fall for it like the leaf's every autumns season
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC