"treatise" poems
V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon,
Washes, shaves and very soon
Is at the lab; he reads his mail,
Swings a tadpole by the tail,
Undoes his coat, removes his hat,
Dips a spider in a vat
Of alkaline, phones the press,
Tells them he is F.R.S.,
Subdivides six protocells,
Kills a rat by ringing bells,
Writes a treatise, edits two
Symposia on "Will man do?,"
Gives a lecture, audits three,
Has the ***** club in for tea,
Pensions off an ageing spore,
Cracks a test tube, takes some pure
Science and applies it, finds,
His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds,
Instructs the jellyfish to spawn,
And, by one o'clock, is gone.
8.5k
this swifter's grift -
lifting loosely
fitted accoutrement
lourden fruit
carelessly held
silkened, gimlet lit
shamelessly rivened
to a paler shade
of need.
solitude's
enchanting seed
may confer
a grander banquet’s call
but, this tug of
grandiloquent oblige
and politesse . . .
master and slave consort
black and scarlet
swift of tongue and fingertip
unbound so neatly
and leather blind
tell me muse of the anger flesh on fire
is there really dignity in defeat
that eludes the victor
tell me muse of the truth in nature
ill-graced tail-lamp broken
is destiny all ways ordained in contradiction
tell me muse do hearts all times submit
to the beacon call
shyness long forgotten
narrative so harshly written
as ne'er before
with an insistence
ageless yearnings bellow
as but glazened shadow
if reason sleeps
there will be no learning
no refuge
only to each
for their crimes
a four-chambered riddle
All Rights Reserved
James R. Morse, NYC 2013.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC
a treatise on compatibility this is theoretically
presented
by a linguist with limited trigonometry sense
and since the heart beats and is 360 degrees
I sought out a tangent to measure her with
or sine to figure out logically
whether we were compatible
like functionally
on a straight line or tangentially
perpendicularly
in degree and cosines or measurement mathematically
similar
then found no co-efficient to portray
her smile
fell out of my array
with nothing else
to equal
her.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Belonging to no masters
Bowing to no shiny idol
Formed as crashing waves
Tsunami and the tidal
Freeing enslaved minds
Requiring no police
From simplistic limerick
To powerful treatise
Capable to be inclusive
of every type of mind
From hideously critical
To the wise and kind
Between sanity - insanity
The line delightfully blurs
A home for loony writers
Saboteurs and connoisseurs
Ignore at poetry's peril
This most mediocre rhyme
The more that verse is policed
The less that it will chime
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 7:30 AM UTC
the world is a wild and weary place,
fully sunk in spiral ******
fully strummed in skin water waves.
bound by death from the very first verse:
first love.
first this.
go forth my machines, be fruitful and jettison.
color says hang at the edge of our lips.
smell the books.
remind us; books.
& before the big blue vast takes it all, that
sunstruck lomographia light,
transposed no-makeup california girl, she
walks before me along the boulders of the wharf.
real summer breathing.
our bodies, piled
and starbleached ripe. [like heap of buffalo skulls]
maybe then a futuristic dinner, where everyone gathers in floating space pods
singing hymns beneath,
above,
between
the lights and music.
reality is: blacktop shards against my knees,
something burning as it trickles to my chin, man of me
living the city glisten, city green
& pink.
city midnight and barely breathing.
destroyers, we are.
and what? what am i, father? man of industry?
man of workwelded science? secure as the armadillo,
armadillo picket fence.
am i of halfbreed phosphorus?
americana?
built on love and hate and television.
nat geo channel: [a gecko licks dew from its eyes
on the coastal sand dunes of namibia]
money. women. go west young man.
be a hand tightening ribs.
be a quaking echo of mammalian design.
a paradigm of seed my fire.
quest for fire.
for uncut diamond; like foggy strawberry rock in the africa-boy's fingers.
or cut steel; phallus of toyish death between a brazil-boy’s fingers.
pulled teeth; bits of wet fruit in the young afghani’s hand.
& icecream trolley; pedestal etched iron; denim and *** and
microwaves ::::::
white man: what I got ? what I got ?
manifest destiny: gold bricks and beer.
blood soaked socks.
cyprus burnt umbers.
tribes decomposing at the bottoms of styrofoam cups.
like coin-op wormies.
& eighteen inch circumference blades make round rolling high pitched songs deep in the skin of old mother earth.
old baby cakes.
old life in slow motion, all motion, all
of particle cannon treatise.
40 ounce bounce.
watery us
below.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 2:17 AM UTC
The Breakfast Fairies (a humorous treatise)
Summoned for to break the fast
of sleep-and-dreams that can no longer last,
As the clock to noon draws nigh,
I happily paddle off to the cabinet
Where the cereals that I CHOSE,
Since I am now a grownup,
faithfully await, calm and in repose.
The refrigerator, in nearby proximity,
sources a Stony-field yogurt,,
A yogurt that I CHOSE,
light and sweet with processed fruit,
due to the miracle of Aspartame.
Distracted, back to the kitchen for
Some multi-grain slices to hail and toast,
Which I prefer dry (no butter)
and ready for anointing with oils of
Strawberry jelly.
To the table return ready to sound
The horn of plenty,
When I see the ****
Breakfast Fairies have struck yet again!
Cousins first to those that reside in nearby dishwasher*
The nefarious fairies guard my health
tho nobody asked them too!
My Crispix, with its malty sweetness,
And the ***** aftertaste of sprayed-on "enriched vitamins,"
has been smothered neath layers of
Granola, with cranberries and nuts,
Contaminated with a hint of cinnamon.
My processed yogurt,
vanished, without a trace,
replaced by their bacterial cousins from Thrace,
which is in Greece,
who, tho white, taste like plain yogurt sourpusses,
Even when littered with blueberries,
Nothing can replace the taste of my
Artificial Sweetener!
Dry toast has been sheeted and shined neath
A tribute of fattening butter,
rationalized by a commonality,
"Everything is better with butter..."
The last indignity is that my coffee,
Not the light brown I cherish
When kissed by whole milk,
Now muddled and muddied by skim milk, so named,
Cause they skim off all the taste.
Because they are fairies,
With fluttering wings,
Hasty retreat they beat,
But I know where they hide.
The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
shapeshifter, son drunk
& changing skins.
he digs up skeletons of a spanish battalion
buried
by tigers on the garden key.
suncresent
spray of blood & oranges.
new-fangled sailors once soaked
in madness.
now just starvation.
the viking speaks:
in limericks of new world poise.
his antler woven mask,
set nicely upon the shore.
seod, turtle lord
of space & time, appears only once
every lunar eclipse. bound by treatise
to the jellyfish triumvirate.
his acolyte,
bolivar t. shagnasty,
wanders the mainland in search of water
or meat of trees.
kindness
of men turns to dust & belly worms.
forgotten, the plants mutate
into root-rich empires
of fish & figurine.
million year armistice.
dr. samuel mudd,
shackled years to tide-slab &
fort jefferson. he
purifies the island of its yellow
shivering death.
hospital key.
fastforward hundred plus years
through mudd lifeline:
battle weary sneakers,
spokes sung by strum of card, the bmx
stridden boy & his
teenage mutant ninja turtle mask.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
not a treatise on isosceles
plain square rooted in geometry
is my theorem stating an argument
of x variable is nothing
without y
+1 equals the cosine
the hypotenuse approaches mathematical infinitesimal
precision logarithmic progression
360 degreeed
determines the variable
by feeling.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
Fake love, true love, red love, blue love,
***** love with cherries on top.
Love is a four letter word - like a curse.
**** **** **** **** love."
Go put your wishing-well penny in the swear jar.
Love is like pasta,
A flavor-holder for tomato gravy adjectives:
"unconditional", "passionate", and "infinite".
I'll take mine al dente.
You're not "in love", you're "on love",
Because cloud nine gets you higher than *******
But you fall harder when you come down.
Why write about love?
Why not write about socks?
I'm sure they're almost as universal.
They sure hurt less.
Except when one gets lost in the dryer
And you are left wondering
What you did to make your left sock hate you.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
The bonfire is lit warm,
It is comfortable as a quilt.
We look at the photos,
Inside of our wallets.
The parents, the wife and kids,
Probably for the last time we kiss.
Tomorrow is the final battle,
We make a treatise with death.
Either she takes the novice boys,
Or let us send them to her.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 7:18 AM UTC
Master builder of hanging audio of the hearts,
Tapping and mapping
a
kind of music through the vocabulary of arts,
in
conducting the harmonious sound of unique violin orchestra
a crowd of fiddlesticks rima …
up… and only ups…
never downs.
Audio
Audio…
I will go…true or false.
That’s what you ask for it. If you ask me to stay, I would never say no.
Have you ever seen me on the occasion of disobeying you?
Neither yes, nor no…
Thirsty and aridity,
Words dance glamorously in the silence of the mud of bricks
You will construct the magic towers of the world gust (crust).
On the apex
Trapper of heights
you
Shaking hand for all ant size human shape creatures
In down.
I’am member among.
Time flies and melts in icy doom of the word “why”… burning agitatedly on the white eyes.
Don’t look at me.
Whatever had been shaped, like thunder of emotional burst digs …digs in insomnia of rapid nightmares
of mine.
O' liberty…
Don’t be dubious of what you are going to do, Master architecture of heavenly domes of long treatise of eloquence and good sounds.
Hissing….sooozzzing….biippping ….buzzzing….moooppping….murmers….
Claps and shouts.
Ant shaped creatures gather under the grand dome and waiting for miraculous mesmerize.
No more I am among.
Master builder of raw materials
in vivid shape of “new oregano (m).”
Time runs and I am not “going to catch a falling star.”
Time of demise.
Heavy lock on mouths. Death of both of us in constructing the luxurious roads never ended in dead end of not being honest and neither being wise.
Master designer of unique arches…domes…abstruse stairs…
Audio…audio. I will go…for you and ours.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC
Treacherously torrid torrential tempestuous
The warrior on the mountain confessed to us
Sordid sully suborn salacious
Only the worst will ever keep pace with us
In extremis extremity exigence exodus
Is the answer clear to all of us
Intuitional intrepid impetus intrigue
Spontaneity's tortoise trauma fatigue
Heuristic horizon hornswoggle huckster
Or just another cauldron muck stir
Mystical magical manumission mandate
That only the good would ever relate date
Fornicating fecund finite's fate
I can only hope it will be I rate
Tirade treatise's transpicuous treachery
Adjunct juxtaposition may get the best of me
Estranged ensemble's ethereal expletive
Won't be contained, like water in a sieve
Wanton wayward warrantee wrangled
And all of that surreal newfangled
Omnipresent omnificent omniscient omnipotence
How I wish I could float its boat sense
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:54 AM UTC
bottlerocket,
ski click &
shoot.
[empress impressed.]
petrol souls drift the skin & aetherous
of our holy mother lake midday.
by alpine,
lymph node,
spine of glimmering fish;
i never truly thought that love could destroy.
[to display the paradise boon and boom salute.]
her knife atop the stump.
*
yon machines construct art-form of reservoir (yon being short for yonder),
knee-boarder-boy wake to wake, he wags his tail when he dreams.
[lakeside.]
tribal the beach: a family drunk on juiceboxes.
rolling rocks. tall boys
& boulders/ bountiful canyon kids
with their beautiful gasping dogs.
****** knee **** and gallop at the foot of a mountain/mound &
sugar ants stomped, longing to empire.
mom bunches her fists into sand
of stolen crag, listening closely for her childhood in the whistle
of a casio conch.
margaritaville will do.
[to **** or kiss beetles.]
kiss;
the bitty prince.
maintain a steady alliance with all lifeforms and flora.
life is programmed as thus;
algorithm of love.
bright honeydew soaked slabs of wood,
or plank, tabletop treatise.
wet pile of seeds.
young small birds hoard seeds for winter;
teeter into spring;
& upon summer find solace in swift slip-n-slide daylights.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
The up side
everyone knows your name
The down side
everyone knows your name
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
My country does not believe in equality.
It buys excuses for elitism and misogyny.
It covers up its greed and its brutality
And makes up ugly labels for decency.
My country sings its songs about freedom
But often denies it to those who need some.
It celebrates our heritage with beer and ***
And marches to the beat of a fascist drum.
My country was founded by nice words
Some of the finest man has ever heard.
Then shows the intelligence of a cattle herd;
And the social conscience of rotted bean curd.
My country labors under some illusions
That contribute to a national delusion
That fame will ultimately cure all contusions
And eradicate the effects of collusion.
My country thinks pretty people are sacrosanct
So, they let the beautiful load up their piggy bank.
We see reverence for the most egregious crank,
And have many of our countrymen to thank.
My country isn’t very good at followup.
It adopted the behavior of an untrained pup.
As long as it has its favorite pablum to sup
It will drink any poison that’s in their cup.
My country is this way, has been for too long
And if you disagree with the words of my song
Write your own treatise to try to prove me wrong.
For now I will keep on banging this protest gong.
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
PHAEDRUS WHERE ARE YOU NOW? WITH GREY LOCKS
AND LUCID MINDSET WHICH THE CRADLE ROCKS,
WE KNOW YOU, LISTEN TO YOUR TREATISE DREAM,
WHICH CAN NOT BE MET BY NOTHING AS IT SEEM;
PLATO MADE YOU CRAWL WITH TRUMPETS BLAZI NG,
LEFT YOU SPEECHLESS, STARING, ONLY GAZING
AT WHAT WAS NOT THERE, GONE LIKE A LOST SONG,
NOUGHT WAS THE SAME SINCE YOU CAME ALONG,
AN AGEING INCUBUS WITH LITTLE TO ACHIEVE,
YOU WOULD HAVE US ALL JUST WANTING TO BELIEVE,
THE SOPHISTS WERE ALWAYS RIGHT BUT YOU WERE WRONG,
ABOUT THINKING, ABOUT LIVING, ABOUT ANYTHING;
THE CLASS LEFT FOR THE DAY HAPPY AT DEPRESSION,
THERE WAS NOTHING BETTER THAN LISTENING TO YOUR LESSON.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
only
in that sacred space
between
your perky pink-tipped globes
will my breath be tranquil,
free from the turbulent windmills of the mind.
let anyone come or go
let wild elephants rain,
but promise, to never abandon me.
as i shoulder heavy karmic burdens from this time at bat,
you’ve been my partner in crime.
lock me in a tight embrace,
cos when the waves retreat
and my treatise on love is complete,
there will be no page in which you’re not.
© 2023
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
1449
I thought the Train would never come—
How slow the whistle sang—
I don’t believe a peevish Bird
So whimpered for the Spring—
I taught my Heart a hundred times
Precisely what to say—
Provoking Lover, when you came
Its Treatise flew away
To hide my strategy too late
To wiser be too soon—
For miseries so halcyon
The happiness atone—
1.6k
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind
bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)
in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"
Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...
Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be
do you know why
Silly
has two L's?
Correct.
for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
********** the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions
that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’. The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
OR: “A brief treatise on Antediluvian Gayology ”
Α Ω
Said Demiurge to Samael:
“This universe is getting old.
Let’s break on through and fly beyond
to where the lead shines gold.”
Said Samael to Demiurge:
“I’m with you, dude. Let’s rock and roll
Let’s rip this veil of Maya in two
And glimpse the Oversoul…”
Replied his echo Demiurge:
“Devoid, divine, it’s ALL good, bro;
The sweetest wine is found within
Let liquid truth now flow…”
So Samael let drop the towel
And spread his doctrine’s orifice.
The mystic eye of gnosis shined
in luminous artifice.
Then Sam and Dem, conjoined like beasts
made cosmic love (in Koine Greek),
transforming gold to toxic lead –
and Truth into a freak.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC