"tungsten" poems
Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?
Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,
fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like
those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.
I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
Someone collect all the hatred,
and all the vehemence too.
then don't recycle or reciprocate it.
turn it all into something else,
rich and green and full of kindness.
distill it, remove the impurities,
coagulate it away from it's cold
tungsten tensile titanium.
some of us only have to try,
it can be done. Einstein said so;
and Mother Teresa and Gandhi,
and Martin Luther King Jr.
and brother Nelson too.
Someone collect all the hatred,
and all the vehemence too.
then don't recycle or reciprocate it.
turn it all into something else,
rich and green and full of kindness.
distill it, remove the impurities,
coagulate it away from it's cold
tungsten tensile titanium.
encase it in concrete and steel,
bury it with the radioactive waste.
let it lie for it's half life,
in over 40,000 tears.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
He's broken, he's in pieces, he's trapped, in a black hole
He's crying, he's heartbroken, he's dying of loneliness
He's confused, his mind is overloaded, his todger is dropping off
He's this and that and that and this
projecting your ******* fears and insecurities on him
Hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
You know what....He's NOT....he's laughing at you
He's happy that you now realize there are still men out there
who transcend your ******* stereotyping and imbecilic assumptions .
He's still laughing because he now sees for ******* real
how immature and mentally underdeveloped a lot of you are
and how so petty, mediocre and easy to manipulate you are
Not to mention how weak, spineless and unable to handle pressure
so many of you are.
He laughing because you just act without fully thinking
You are a shallow lot, cowardly, infantile and narrow minded
You lack sound reasoning capacity and a lot of you are neurotic
He's laughing because most believe anything they are told
Unquestioning drones like a Labrador thrown a stick
Go fetch, off he runs, retrieve stick, pat on the head, good boy
Just simple minded followers.
He laughing because he's attained all he wanted
Got a good education, good self understanding, good morality
sensitivity, compassion, empathy, confidence and honesty
A well drilled man, adaptable, flexible, courageous and brave
A MODERN DAY SPARTAN.
He's laughing because you can't ******* take that away
He's laughing because he's shown you how a proper man is
He's laughing because he's invalidated your stereotypical
assumptions, your prejudices, your bigotry and your ignorance
He's laughing because you have confirmed your inferiority
exposed your fears and inadequacies and make others see how
damaged and vindictive you are
He's laughing because out of all only one woman has shown
magnanimity and she didn't belong to the class of the mediocres
Which proves the point that mediocrity goes hand in hand
with ignorance, fear and lack of Dignity and Integrity.
And he's laughing because he's got chutzpah
a big package
and a hell of "tener cojones"
hahaha...hahaha...hahaha...hahaha
[email protected] Sept 2018,Allrightsreserved.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
LIGHTBULB.
Lightbulb; the moths flutter
and beat themselves to death against an idea.
A thought, vivid like glass, bright like tungsten-
glows.
I am reaching out to my mind again,
my wings burned and burdened...Wait.
I have lost track of my metaphors again...
But then again, like the moths,
I have lost track of many things-
except for the unknown light in front of me.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
I was doing
something
when a flash
smashed out
to every corner
of the room.
It came like
ominous bolts
of lightning
had leapt from
the light bulb
bursting inside,
as though
storms had been
brewing slowly
under a muzzle
of glass frame.
I regarded how
strange it was
to be fed up
to a thrum of
75 watts
in its lifetime,
to finally break
its broadcast.
I look to a
tungsten tongue,
see the ember
flick into the dark
and say,
I lost my religion.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
I have never heard grey more grey
then the words which you say to me so
condescendingly.
Never endingly.
Black and white means naught
in a world of (k)nots and (flattened) cans.
And dressed up in blue, you’re always beautiful.
But crude and **** we stand in the sun;
every pockmark illuminated, tungsten bright.
The light of night to never shine again against
the delicate steel door that closes like your hand
around the flitting, panicked moth.
Magnesium smiles and pain pill duplicity,
the simplicity of a (remote) controlled world.
I am trapped between the clean street signs
and the signs of a dead language.
Where is the line of your back and what
is the time?
Have I lost the only things that
made me sigh with relief?
(Who is the real thief?)
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Tungsten with an atomic number of 74,
Like the years a couple will spend together.
Newlyweds with rings made from Tungsten.
Their love shown by the rings on their fingers.
Love held together by a ring with the highest melting point.
One's love can come in many shapes and colors,
Like Tungsten going from dark grey to almost white.
A couples love can shine as bright as Tungsten in the sun.
Even with dark times their love will power through,
Their love as strong as Tungsten.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
Must you be here in such an interesting illusion?
Why must you sit in such... vogue?
Here though, you exist in fashionable cyst.
Bygone futures of blighted sutures
Youngster-stale and eight-hundred pale
Destitute pasts of layer passes present
Horses gather at the gates of heaven
Spitting at me
And in this way, I've given myself nightmarish feelings.
Yellow blocks provides battery-colored translucence a doubt of mortals
Tungsten belated harmony
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Eqyptian pots of lemon copper
Poles, wires, and rubber
Holds up the electric fires
High in the sky – millions of volts to give the illuminating jolt
Their innovative measures gave way for modern day clevers
We sit in our cages, warm and cozy while tungsten bulbs warm our pages
Pharos would be proud of todays electric microwaves and ranges
For they the godly ones endured, lit up and paved the way
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
We gave the
infant
our features;
the babe got
a bulb nose
passed on by
its grandfather,
jet-turf of hair
like a wave of
soft sulphur
from the other,
but the eyes,
tungsten grey
set in firm lids,
burnt out like
incandescent
light bulbs
as it left their
filament fingers
gasping mine.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
Lost in an unfamiliar home, deep inside a book
In the comforting glow of that lamp that stood...
Standing to attention in that gloomy nook
The words jumbled & spun on that page
So I slammed shut the book
Above me burned a coil of tungsten
Blazing bright
White
And from it
Every angle burst its miracle of light
Beams/ waves destined for far off places
But shackled by the shade
Mocked by the tasselled trim
Harnessed by the braid
My mind wanders...
It is a marvel of our age
That we choose to create lamps so bright that they need a shade
That they need to be shaded
Those lamps can't shine so bright
For without the shade the dark won't creep in and we wouldn't be aware of the night.
I step outside
Into that night
Shadows cast by the city street lights
Down that dank alley
Lives an uncelebrated man
In a tattered box with faded damp
Barely noticed
Camouflaged
To most he's just another jaded *****
If only they could see
He
They
We
Individually tailor the shade for our lamp
Privately (inside translucent shields) we all burn bright.
Shaded by fear and notions of what's wrong and right
Right and wrong
Wrong and right
Creations of those that had the strength to fight
Not by the humbled, battered and bruised
Too shaded to raise a blazing revolutionary fist
Too fractured, hungry and confused
Afraid of the attention caused from cries for any justice
Instead
Inside my head
I imagine I have my own bed
A good book
An cosy reading chair
And a lamp standing to attention with its thousand-yard stare
Staring out to the ever rising seas
Cometh the great submerging eviction
Mass migrations fleeing war, famine & filthy camps
Oceans rise and tears fall with whispered benediction
How many of you will become degraded tramps
But we just keep insisting that it is farflung fiction
Back to my box and its faded damp
Silhouettes of four impatient horses appear on an windswept horizon.
This false paradise we live in with its twisted ergonomics?
Should we really sit and wait for the catastrophes to appear?
Surely we are collectively able to create a smarter economics?
Or is it just easier continuing to accept living in fear?
Because when all is accounted for
All the pros and cons have been weighed
What matters most
Is not the brightness of your lamp
But your choice of shade.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Unholy thoughts pillage
a guarded home.
When darkness unfolds
I rely on stars unknown.
Hate and apathy
linger around
the shackles of virtue
have had me bound.
When motives are questioned
and morals are forgotten
A soul that doesn't flinch
is a soul that is rotten.
Teachings are taught
but not to be learned from
and ignorance is the fuel
that carnage burned on.
Tungsten skies drenched
in morbid horror.
They've fore seen my
devotion fall out of order.
A thousand years in waiting
A thousand still left
A past full of turmoil leading
to a future of unrest.
In an era of dysfunction
a rebel I came to be
revolution, rebellion
its all the same to me.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
I feel the breeze of purple skied nights
sirens fading out down the street
taxi horns blaring impatiently
tungsten, incandescent, fluorescent
lights bouncing off brick walls
bums curled up on stone ledges
with a waterfront, riverside, view
towers stand erect—giant *****
of steel and mortar penetrating
the sweet pink innocence of the
clouds reflecting the light below
tourists meandering with companions
obtaining a glimpse of the night
life pushed aside by hurried natives
young college students starting their
***** trips at vibrant, overpriced, clubs
bitter grizzled men starting their
***** trips at dull, weathered, local bars
both shaking off the buzz moving
onto complete drunkenness
the taste of food and sewage
mixed into the humid air
live music playing in Millennium Park
while children play and laugh in the
artistic structures unknowing of the
value and beauty attributed
looking for amusement
the city’s reflection vainly warped
by the curved polished metal surface
of the Bean, crowds mesmerized by
simple tricks of light reflecting the
twisted narcissism of those caught
up in the city’s hedonism
warm breezes roll into
the shore and marina
from the sea-like lake
well-to-do travelers
recording through the curved
lenses of expensive digital cameras
their trifling, yet
extravagant adventures
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
Highway 74, a straight drive.
Nothing to look at but trees and fields,
cars and asphalt, gray and black.
Decrepit barns dot the highway
all across this ********* state.
I am getting closer.
The meter on the dashboard drawing closer
to empty, I can finish the drive.
Heavy static coming through the solid-state
speakers, more fields.
At least I’m off the highway.
Winding roads, tires black.
Sky turning blue, purple, then black.
The road and I have become closer.
601, I cross over the two-lane highway
and continue the drive.
Emptiness from the autumn harvest, barren fields.
Sometimes I love this state.
Closing in on the state
border, headlights piercing through the black,
can’t see the fields.
Pedal steady at 55, all the time coming closer,
four hours since the start of this drive.
The road rises and falls, breathing the contours of the land, a living highway.
Into the driveway, far from the highway,
another mile, another state.
Physical exhaustion, no mental drive.
Into the tungsten light, out of the black.
This place makes me feel closer
to my roots, the countryside and the fields.
Tomorrow, I’ll see the same fields
I saw as a child. The same highway,
the one that brings me closer,
the one that leads out of this state.
Sleep is black.
Dream of the drive.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 7:52 AM UTC
Searching for Galileo,
the race to be first home,
In a sea of patients
we climb the probability tree,
walk upon the shore collecting
memory shells,
We win the little wars,
lose the big fight,
These windows are breathing apparatus,
this ceiling, a blur of tungsten sky,
rain, tears, weep,
To rest near to you,
the technicolor sleep,
and I died with you,
All farewells are sudden.
Oct 18, 2024
Oct 18, 2024 at 5:14 PM UTC
There were arguments propped sideways against the wall,
tilted away from the light switch.
Explanations of the preceding incitements
flickered inside the wall like delayed fireworks
at the foot of a tight rope walker.
Feelings traveled hidden ,
ones I hate to witness - too naked at the surface
like a safe bobbing the surf.
I ran out of reasons to the argument
and forgot to unscrew the bulbs,
I could smash the idea to pieces
and sort the glass and tungsten apart.
Our sources were wrong.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
Where are you my love
I am wound like a tungsten spring in my waiting
I am consumed by the seering energy of my longing
I am burning in the flames of the fire that I have for you
I scream your name
Into the empty air
Where are you my love
From the very center of my being
From the deep hollow of my core
From the bottom of my soul
I scream your name
Into the empty sky
Where are you my love
With my last ragged breaths
With my remaining strength
With my final words
I scream your name
Into the empty world
Where are you my love
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 3:47 AM UTC
got a pink bulb
suckered in mouth—
spit it out. dribble
gobstopper sun,
pause motion to
explosive creation
cake the surface
rubber dumb, POP!
sharp tap like a
snare bubble
vacuum record
in recycling bin
you had it made
su-per-ma-ssive
try again a same
chum the chew
begin renew
anew anew review
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
Our footsteps echo through ancient halls,
where here is everywhere
and every time is now.
Caesar’s twin-edged conquests are our own
as is Brutus’s fickle knife
and Marc Anthony’s cunning speech.
Plague steals across our Europe
like a remorseless highwayman -
rosies all ringed and falling down.
We wait in Wien's Kärntnertor theater
for Schiller’s An die Freude
to shine anew in Beethoven’s score
and are ushered in at Menlo Park
where Edison's tungsten faintly glows.
Tomorrow will bring sun to the night.
There's Jonas Salk at his microscope.
One more test will crack the code
to banish polio's scourge.
But nature’s caprice strews logs on our roads.
We are dashed by a Tsunami’s rage.
Katrina’s torrents have swallowed our homes.
Prides of warriors wade rivers of blood
and Darfur bullets tear into our chests.
Nuclear Toys ‘R Us shelves are fully stocked.
We are the heirs of each triumph and treachery.
We grasp the keys to tomorrow.
What have we done? What must we do?
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
*If there are words to be heard in this thumping
As the black turns to grey through the lighting,
If dew is drowned and white walls are tainted
As the oldest colours have all faded,
If the morning songs of the birds
Are only in our hearts to be heard,
Then teach, me morning the peace you bring!
If the beady eyed flow stream of pilgrims
If the slippers splinter and splash the water film
And brazen lights splatter the black recipient
With a hissing, oh so inconvenient,
If the keeper’s morning cigarette
And the perfume of the fresh baguette
Enlace as lovers within my nose.
If the bananas seem strangely lit,
Under the glow of white tungsten hilt
And the craving of a lazy sleep
Has laid the newspapers in such a heep.
And if radios blare the sad morning news
I do not look for the blessings of a muse,
I have found in my morning bread run.*
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
I don’t need yo' ********* light
I can take care of that on my own
All I need is a candle and a wick
Keep that bulb **** outta my home
I don’t need no x-ray vision,
and I say that with gumption
***** you Scheele, I’ll stick with steel
So you know what? **** Tungsten
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
Callow birds
shimmering highlights
of lilacs
on it’s busted mantle.
The lamppost tungsten
is a wax doll candle.
Paraffin paragraphs
jotted down on
clouds in paradise.
Throwing a tea party
at the neighbours lewd front lawn.
Resting place of
my weary head.
Wearing
our mountain tops//your shoulder,
my heart’s
hearth and
watershed.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
Elba
this sea is tungsten. it seethes at my touch
as white as bone, although not made of bone.
my heart goes undeceived. these waves
clutch at the shore and loose calamity.
surrounded by horizons i grow small.
Helena
the light is gentle under the surface.
the surf comes to me as soft sounds
not unlike small breaths.
my own breaths slow
to the scale of atoms.
my heart grows round
and perfectly smooth––
this does not taste like defeat.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC