"transcription" poems
On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought
From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter
Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment
since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth
Exhibiting the myth of danger
alongside
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...
—————————————————-
“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
or
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 11:09 PM UTC
RNA or DNA polymerase, an enzyme, protein, attracted to
promoter molecules in the polypeptide chain causing a zipper
motion and transcription of the code, a duplication of codons,
introns and exons, and so it goes, sharing and unsharing electrons.
These attractions and repulsions, coming near and going far
in nanounits or light years, fail to explain things permanently
but make possible the technology to live long and well, with
personality.
It is a form of governance, the governance of elements, elements are
now
apparently our gods. Learn all you can about their laws, their names,
their needs, read their poems. Only the mentally unusually sound
would,
given this knowledge, agree to the process of mitosis and fertilization.
However,
organisms go round then senseless via involuntary respiration.
Therefore, Pilot Oh Pilot Me.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
**the ****** heart
(if ownership of a poem makes you proud, considered it to be...trending)**
~~~
~for PoetryJournal~
~~~
*the afterglow of the aftermath,
the chest pounding demanding,
tolerating-no-delay apprehension
of the transcription
of what is
the ****** heart soaring,
the lean-back exhalation,
wet eyes that only you
have secret knowledge thereof
this is why we write,
why we beings believe,
because we ask,
why
by the asking,
we grade ourselves,
both by
our words and deeds
step back and
accept the notion
that feels not wholly right,
for inherently tinged,
streaked with human pride,
that all possess,
and possessive of
our all
you are value,
by the words you have chosen,
by the only human
that can give truth to its essential
value
***you poet,
are trending**
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
give me a call when you can:
when you get the chance
or when you wake up, when you have the time--
any one of those three.
9 o'clock,
channel number 57 on your T.V.,
don't call me back.
hey babe,
i just had a question.
no rush to answer it.
i need six letters...
gimme a call.
i want you to remember...
i figured out what i was going to ask you.
i know you're available,
i know you're available.
sorry.
the phones working again--
i'd like to throw it through the window
but i can't afford a new window.
i wish you'd pick up your phone,
if it's thunder and lightning,
stay out of the cellar.
please call me back.
call me when you get home--
i know you're available.
could you give me a call back?
bye bye.
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Bellicose angels chanter,"Never
Was and never more," upon
The totian breeze with clarity of peace;
A peregrine requitement of
Effulgent obsequies, tempered
With melancholy tortuously
Fetching lost codices whilst
Careening stars-of-Bethlehem
Nonchalantly whithersoever,
A parable of presence
A dirge paramount; perdurable
To the transcription of the
Orderliness Of Orcus'- unabridged,
The final heavenly sonnet.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
i’ve been sad since
the end of snowfall
since i decided i didn’t
want you to love me
anymore
today my lab
instructor
told me
that my transcription
was rough
so are the waters lately
if only pickled mushrooms
and self reflection solved
everything
i would be on an island
in greece right now
not thinking about the
money
the future
or you not choosing to
love me until i asked
you to stop
May 10, 2023
May 10, 2023 at 5:40 PM UTC
don't mention the pain
what service would that gain?
a simple cheesecake to share
to see if this goes anywhere
over the mountain, over the hill
back to the animals on the window sill
which leads me to here
in which she's sitting there
and she's fully aware, without a care
and this table top seems so vastly beyond compare
to any I've seen before through mind's open door
be it fiction or folklore
that delivers these visions of her form
and ****** contour, direct to my head
now beside her in bed, where days I have rested
a change in the weather, in flocks and in feathers
high tide in the seminal waters of the heart
subsiding with tall tales of false starts
but the rise rolls on again as it has
through thick & through thin, a quivering theremin
and so we begin, the song, the story, the count in
to counterfeit original sin
(you know what happened last time)
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
Boiling fury, unattainable power, white eruptions,
Pushing then it pulls, striking then it steals.
The silence of the oceans anger, power with no corruption,
A strength and passion causing all within to kneel.
I stand at the crash point at night and feel its aching,
Whispers the sand silently speak, shifting it's patterns on my feet.
The silence on the surface tiptoes across the breaking,
God's metaphor for power, silence and where they meet.
I leave the water, my feet again meeting harsh road,
The warmth of the day almost gone.
the last heat remains yet its release is slowed,
the moons heart is heard and will be felt again at dawn.
The power of the sun found in the power of the moon,
the power of the waves, oh Lord, speak enough to me.
How one thing's power seems gone but returns so soon,
you transpose yourself, and through the ocean I see.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
She turns her head from it;
I turn my back to it;
It faces them in their deflection, they who are ruled by planetary alignment, they who spill rogue waves from calm mouths, just as the lace crashes and pools around bare legs and lips -
Any enigma free from transcription lies within the chasm, who sleeps buried deeply between two bodies, too deeply, it has been said, though perhaps for the best, as the truths who precede intent rest there as well.
We, the sea, urge in ad hominem, convinced of indelibility, consistent in breakage and dispersment of that which is built from and upon determined chaos.
Her, I, the sea.
Our madness.
I turn towards it; she turns to face it;
The sea has drawn it's long breath
We reach for the exhale with open palms, never closed, for the retreat is inevitable.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Your lips are a permanent marker.
Inscribing your love for me over every inch of my body.
They have written your name on my collar bones.
Covered my hands in your fantasies.
Left adjectives of affection on my stomach and thighs,
and turned my back into a portrait of your lungs.
Promising to spend every breath you have left with me.
You laid out our someday's, and sealed them with a kiss.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
Thoughts
Even when wrapped
And tightly capped
Between those eyes
I can obliterate
That crystal disguise
The method of prescription
Is not medicine
I see within.
The mental transcription
I’m sure it’s disabled .
Synapses relabeled
Never to slip into the dogmatic
I must speak to power.
I return to the Socratic.
I must encounter today.
In many moments
In many ways
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
I could be controlling all my relationships,
Just like any mature cell can be induced,
To behave as pluripotent stem cells...
Just adding few transcription factor genes,
Oct4, Sox2, cMyc, and Klf4 genes be all,
To induce older cells as stem cells...
But alas, life is not as simple as science!!!
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
I'm rappin' over old school beats like Eminem
I'll even make sure I sound like him
cause I'm rippin' him off
I'll even use one of his lines under my cough
cough cough chicka slim shady
come on, sue me man, come hate me
I don't have lawyers, but I'll fight you on the street, daily
and afterwards I'll hurt myself on your property and sue you so you
have to pay me.
That's right, I'm the new slim shady cause you lost that side
he straight up died and got reborn inside my mind
now whose shaking and quaking like they don't want their spine cracked
you want your sick mind back?
Then listen to my raps...
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Their souls had spoken. Rushed off into adventure fueled by mania without first breaking the ice. These talks were between new friends. Altogether anchored by deathless subjects, they deliberated naively over a shared *** of bone apple tea. The glass was broken, but this was no emergency - just heavy words minced by chattering teeth.
Hesitating only slightly, they took a death pledge. “I’m bad and it’s not worth it,” she said. “You’ll be disappointed by me too, and I’ll bet my life on it,” he returned. They chuckled sheepishly. “You’re going to miss this too”, sang the younger sibling.
Of course, their conversation was purely conjecture, subject matter the victor of a game of happenstance, mutilated in transcription, like notes copied over the shoulder from someone else’s lecture.
Still, he hoped it didn’t matter, and without hope, it didn’t matter. Perhaps this was merely thinkful wishing. “I was a single digit, a gorilla in a concrete jungle,” his words seemed to suggest. “A flightless bird makes good food for thought. Fight or flight, fight the good fight. Always choose your battles wisely, and never speak in absolutes.” she recommended.
“It’s got to be somewhere; everything’s somewhere, but, everywhere else is not here.” he wondered. She could read between the lines; and left to write. “Stop being ungrateful and just close your eyes.” She closed the door, and he opened a window. Then, like some thinly sliced avocado that didn’t quite make the cut, he fell asleep.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
Life's colors exist in red, yellow, and blue, an unaffordable simplicity existing only on the gray wax paper taped to my pallet. My hands are sweaty underneath my gloves, slick with linseed and paint. Leaves fall and stick to the surface of artificial canvas smeared with the tracks of pigment on my brush.
There I dance, grass caressing my bare feet, hair guided by the gentle breath of wind. An improvisation of ultramarine and alizarin crimson and titanium white, time transcends, though the shadows move. In this moment, nothing else matters except for the performance of light, color, motion.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
Leave this haunted house
Leave this haunted heart
Take the light from my eyes
To guide you in the dark
Ease the words from my lips
And carve them into your bones
Interpolate into the blanks,
For these thoughts are useless alone
Carry me to the southern front
Where the crossfire raises hell
And let me lie with you on the ****** beach,
Among the silent shells
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
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Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
[Young Male Voice....inebriated, perhaps]
Slit of the tongue Frush guppy !
I sped to you today
So-nah
To treat you to a working meal and...
You’re not there !
You remained a way yonder
Sense-able to my.... me
but too.... mirage n’ fragrant for any talk
this side of miz..mizcomunication
Stay thus sway !
I’ve decided
Is decried
Please...and I’ll love you
as just what I can imagine you to be
...uh..so, yeah...see you tomorrow maybe
Agunda! AGUNGDA !
- voice out man
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
Taco Bell was the only thing I ate today
thought it was going to be a good day but it turned out not so great,
I've already got a lot of **** on my plate and now I got big fat weight
to stomach
and I'm just a skinny dude, my plates heavy enough, **** it
I can barely eat half a meal when I try
I'm at my limits, and I don't know if you can see it in my eye
but I'm pretty close and it's just a feeling like
I'll never be the same again
I'll never be on top, I'll never be a president or anything important
I just feel like a piece of **** and figured I'd record it
in this empty house, just my ****
and I'm kinda gunna miss it, but it's business
to get my own mission
I find myself wishing
that I was more than a white kid at a sandwich shop
with no schemes, or ideas, or dreams
no revolutions on how to get my ****
on the right track
Feel's like I'm falling right back
to the same conundrum, my old problems man I thought I stumped 'ummmm,
thought moving out would solve 'em but it didn't really
it even brought new problems like bills and money
and I don't know if I can get it done cause
I'm a dumby....
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
his sweet breath
a siren song
what can I say?
see, I breath only in prose
so broken that it takes transcription
just to utter a word
when the floodgates of my mind are open
my tongue knows no boundaries
the flower of my words
sweet on my lips
candied roses
I sigh in sonnets
only later to realize that
the song had been rewritten
as
the
words
tumbled
out
the candy are now cough drops
a hint of what they appear to be
his breath is a siren song
and mine is a stanza so delicate
that it doesn't know where to start
or
stop.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
Music is the incunabula
-the first traces- of poetry
an attempt to put the sound into word,
not in the lyrical sense: some set rhythm and
rhyme and words, no,
in a biblical sense
in the shape and form:
in a transcription of
minor and major lifts
and dips
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
A timeless dimension
Unmitigated clarity
I focus on the page
And surrender to
The pointed direction
Of the transcription
Of my unconsciousness
There is writing
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Poems themselves are not directly Poetry yet a written, cognitive transcription of It. A beauteous Poet doesn’t need to speak or write
to be one;
It resonates through their either tender or pondering glances,
acts,
demeanour
and kisses peppered on the universe’s matters
with eyes,
finger tips,
soles,
breath
and thoughts of Heart too complex for the Mind.
If Heart Thoughts are even greater, they turn gibberish
and may seem silent or even non-existent to seekers of the verbal.
Poetry can be every thing,
a newspaper,
understatement,
laboured breathing,
reflective walk among the trash bins, apprehension hidden behind a lonely phrase
or honourable existing
as a sole, proud activity.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
~an artwork beneath our feet, yet invisible to
our eyes, constantly changing ,interlocking
interlinking~
this poem has asked for composition
everytime, I walk upon and past the sculputure
beneath my feet on the Esplanade by The River
(Diatom Lace on the East River - Stacy Levy
www.stacylevy.com › projects › diatom-lace-on-the-east-river) (1)
but as I daily hurry past (for years) and over this pattern form lifted from the
river's flowing,
a daily delaying,
for the words good enough to honor it, the invisible floating floral tentacles,
attaching each water molecule to the next,
do not arise of sufficient quality of wordsmithy,
the Whitman words do not float up from the waters rushing past,
and come to rest in my multi-tasking poetry conceptuals
many months, even years,
have gone by and after every water walk,
the sculpture stabs me guilty,
of procastination,
and an unwillingness to tackle it,
like the other tough stuff that haunts me
so this morning, when I drown in the file laughingly called
100 & One Drafts
a J'accuse (1) finger stabs my eyes and repeats the caveat of the sage
Hillel the Elder: (1)
If not now, when?
and even as I sit and compose,
the words refuse to surrender unto me
for easy transcription
and the chest tight with guilt, from all the
promises I've made and remain
unkempt & unkept,
that stunt and stun my spirit,
with inconsolable sadness
So
I distract myself,
check the sleeping woman<
take my morning meds,<
reheat my "The Gamblers Mug" (Cezanne)(1) of morning coffee,<
and alas, at last, once more surrender to my worst,
and issue an invitation to >you<
come visit me, come walk with me,
perhaps together, a greater good will emerge,
and we will feed each others tongues
with syllables and sounds,
that will trigger,
go figure!
a suitable poem
worthy of a great art work,
the lace of diatoms
in the water,
that our eyes cannot see,
but our hearts
can feel
and with better words,
be so honored,
*by a poem
truly worthy
of this*
miraculous
conception
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 8:31 AM UTC