"uncoupling" poems
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe should and aught
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe, aught and should
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
half ring
a present, a thank you compliment by way of a poem, for the zealous, tiny, poetess spark who writes exquisitely and calls herself Cynthia Henon
~~~
strange old night-stands, a stained tan blonde wood
that's going ancient grey, but still handsome in a fitting way,
the front drawer hand painted floral in what I choose
to believe are by Italian hands in Italian reds and greens,
not so fancy as I make it sound, but worn and durable and
not overly functional but two silent, uncomplaining eye witnesses to a ten year ancient, greying love affair
wood ages, human eyes squint, failing to counteract the minute, advancing daily dimming, not paying close attention to the
Richter magnitude of the accumulated changes
the morning coffee ritual as catholic as morning mass,
a straw woven coaster to protect the sun blanched top,
hardly necessary, just a good habit, one of the rituals that glue,
that couples use to keep the coupling intact
the cumulative subtle changes, the crackling sound unheard, the cracks in everything, even in the human tissue,
breaking, the papered over filler of purposeful ignorance,
cannot forever resist the erosion of the cancer of the
taking for granted
place the coffee cup half on, half off the coaster, un-noticing,
leaving half a ring that will now never disappear, never be
completed, causing her to fly into rage that rips the
complacent band-aids, worn dikes that were holding back the barricaded tears, but the sea~see
level was always rising and though visible, the revelation remained unchosen
later that day, I drive away forever with Yo-Yo Ma riding shotgun,
in charge of map reading and consolation music, thinking
half ring, half ring, half ring, half ring,
an embolism of symbolism, good for a play on words,
and a couple of poems about uncoupling
8:22am 7/1/17
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
This thing—unsanctified, uncertified
(Reminiscent of an old, familiar sweater
Comfortable, perhaps a bit threadworm here and there,
Yet wholly functional)
Has become unwound,
Not in some spectacular supernova
Replete with shouting and finger-shaking,
But slowly, almost imperceptibly becoming patchy and care-worn
Until such point it no longer provides much
In terms of comfort or warmth,
A failure of evolution more than an excess of passion,
A matter of recalculation as opposed to recrimination.
Let us proceed onward, then, with as much decorum as we can muster.
Parse the checking statements, divvy up love seats and ottomans
With an emphasis on equity rather than enmity,
Leaving the plates and cups intact
Passing them on (a bit dewy-eyed, perhaps)
To begin anew in some niece’s college apartment
Or with other friends who shall gallantly attempt
To complete and compute what we could not,
Divining some math which leads not to our own aftermath
Of reasoned rumination in search of some cold consolation.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
In a flightless freefall, the heart plummets to the ground. Would a soft landing negate the fact that the heart did in fact fall? Would just a scratch or cut be justifiable?
No.
The pain would still exist.
Some say the bottom does not appear at all. That our hearts just continue to fall until we find another heart to fall with. These two hearts join together and fall in love.
The joy that exists between the two is boundless, unfettered, and infinite. Shooting at the combined love would cause the projectiles to bounce off. Yelling at one heart would cause the other to fight back.
In this state of perpetual falling the two hearts complete one another. The rips and tears of one are filled by the unhurt parts of the other. In this simple union they are perfect.
But time does not allow for immortal love. One heart will choose to float away, falling at a different pace. Falling out of the love it so joyously engulfed at an earlier time.
This sudden uncoupling causes the other heart to tumble in a tailspin. No longer falling in love, but falling into heartbreak.
Where love feels like resting by a safe fireplace, wrapped up in a blanket and sipping on a warm drink. Heartbreak feels like a cold house filled with bitter memories and empty tears.
One might ask; "Is there any everlasting love? Why must the poor heart always be falling in and out of the love it so desperately covets?"
Some do find love eternal. Some do not. For some it is a person who cares for them. Others find purpose in a job or lifestyle.
But those wounds are still present on their heart. The scars never heal. The pain never truly fades.
The heart never ceases to fall down, with gravity pulling it towards the endless void below.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 12:52 AM UTC
A poor dead house
simpering in the gallows
of a just regret.
an uncoupling of a sun
from it's moon.
leaning in the southern north
of a belligerent east.
the paint is failing.
and the windows face oblivion...
but the staircase
leads to heresies
so beautiful, the march hare screams -
and all whimsy folds.
the old things youthen
in the marsh of our misgivings
and the rooms are bare
save one hope
choking the stars
for a god.
every song
one note.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
A solar eclipse of angelic proportions stretches across the day sky.
Space and time stopping for just a moment.
Waging factions joining hands for a temporary ceasefire.
To halves are whole for a moment.
Just a moment.
Then they move past, uncoupling again.
The world begins to move again.
Cars drive on, taxis honk their horns, people cross the streets of life.
What seemed so cataclysmic and final; was merely anticlimactic and dissolvable.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
yes, the eye acts in dynamics of seeing standing, but interpreted upside-down, the eye says up is down, and down is up... but the world and the body in it say: left is right, and right is left.
the painter begins adding colours to
a blank canvas,
in terms of uncoupling poets
from philosophers, mindlessly termed
akin and useless in the philosophers'
republic,
the painter works with a lack of colour,
white, or all colours and thus deciphers
the canvas with his own unique rainbow...
so if you were to choose a canvas for a poet?
i'd choose a mirror, mirrors are canvases
for poets, because poets hardly see themselves,
when people protest and ask the poet:
do you see yourself? the poet retorts,
i'm not good in third person narratives,
you see yourself? oh you mean encapsulate
a perfected humanity, synchronise body with
soul and eclipse the mind? nah,
i prefer noting that if poets are not akin
to philosophers because the philosophers
****** them and were too excluded from
their invention... then if painters paint
on white canvases, poets speak against
the canvas of frozen quicksilver.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
this whole self
1 thing: i
so richly
in language
sinewed
will to say
a flower
a fully
uncoupling
hot bud
and i am a
season
(like Spring is)
i am a spit of
verdant boiling
fire(and i open
my chest
and out
ruptures
petals,
.
,
,
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
Like a blood sport
you play with me.
My thumb bleeds.
Cannot be salvaged.
You are put on display
like lamb meat..
Jealousy will ultimately win.
Uncoupling has started.
The betrayal hides
under the lids.Side by side
are laid the golden chips.
Now you liberate the unbeliever.
One day the avalanche will bury the rings.
Let's not go back to the
sordid details of relative truths.
I only wanted to to prove that
I was wrong.
Knees broken, I will walk.
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
A song played by so many,
Heard in infinite variations,
Violence and oblations,
Beyond our mortal stations,
The Triune of the universe,
King and Lord of all,
The worthiest source,
Insight into shining truth,
Warmth and life,
Enhances us into enlightenment,
The rebirth of fire stripping back impurities,
Oh the Triune, King of the Universe.
So many pray to be pluralists,
Hoping for pluralist babies,
Praying for purple Daisies,
Looking at the mobius strips,
Where to even start?
What wisdom there is to impart?
Looking through prisms at,
The bluest of contraptions,
Through Goya's mixed abstractions,
Picasso's representation of reality,
Worked our way down the path,
A room that cannot be found,
A path that confuses and confounds,
A sin of pride sung by the bride,
Are these the stations?
The death of our nations,
Is it the deviations?
Calvin speaks of pre-destination,
Disbelief in oblation,
Summaries above his station,
Where is he now, what is now?
Every seed upon a rock,
Every foundation upon the vultures,
Lacking stability to advise the manufacture,
Trapped in a catatonic daze,
Disguising the onward march of fate,
For when time will count the date,
Rue the day when we ruminate about space,
Amplified Polar neuron twitches,
Passing us by with bipolar switches,
Uncoupling and unhitches,
Welted stitches falling apart,
The fool now plays his miserable part,
I know there was a room I couldn't find.
Did it ever manage to demystify?
Is this how the events arrived and came by?
With songs played by so many,
Heard in infinite variations,
Violence and variations,
The Triune of the universe,
King and Lord of all,
That the worthiest source,
Insight into shining truth,
Warmth and life,
Enchants us into enlightenment,
The rebirth of fire stripping back impurities.
For you are my refuge and security.
Nov 28, 2024
Nov 28, 2024 at 8:21 AM UTC
part of the artificial intelligence
test is to make all poetry predictable,
such as it is, but still more over-laden
with praise for technique,
and people fall for this entrapment,
i don't know why uncoupling
the ego from cogito could ever
produce so much theoretical acrobatics,
i know that the ego can be easily
pronounced, the easiest affirmative,
the automated sound, a yes,
but thought is harder to affirm,
it's not as easily pronounced,
and psychology is a logic of such feats,
it's a study that speaks about the
dis-correlation of the affirmation of
existence, and the basis of existence
that's correlated in whatever
tragic circumstance we are found to be
concerned with: yet how many
times i wished for the life of a skilled
labourer?! psychology disunited
us from thinking in order to provide
a syringe entry of many behaviourisms
to un-think thinking -
a sort of atheism -
theories, theories in so many numbers
that thinking became a theory per se,
an in-itself concealed suggestion -
because thinking is hard to comprehend
among verbs as an extension of tendons
exerting force on the ivory,
should anything come along
as a disparity of Olympian undertakings
as blowing oneself up
for a deity with an encounter upon
such a meeting: thanks for the hand!
here's a sock puppet! now tell me how
to depict a chandelier's shadow!
it's hard to believe either god or thought
actually existed...
i mean, if god doesn't exist
why do people think they possess
a will over others...
and if god exists...
why do people think they don't possess
a will over others... enter Zeno
(re-read that and claim the correct
statement in the reversal).
personally i would have wished to not have
written the 6 lines preceding these...
but paradoxes are best explained by poets,
who tend to brush them aside, and even accept
them, by way of rhymes:
oh it's all one and the same, duo duo blah blah fluoride!
*****
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
Telephone rings
Announcing your name
Caller ID pings
This is so insane
Selfish acts of subterfuge
Leaving us both confused
Despite the tightening noose
Calling you is what I choose-
I can’t let go
“Hi, how was your day?
What’s that you say?
Have I learned by now
How to play well with others?
What? No? I don't have to bother?”
(Your words stabbing like a shiv)
“You have your own life to live
You have your own love to give-
Just not to me?”
Somber thoughts of divorce
******* all my vital force
This will be such a blow
To the people we know
As mute as a mime
Losing track of real time
Zombifying my day
Hunting for quick getaway-
But no such luck
What shall I do thus
~Telephone rings
If we fail to repair us?
~Announcing your name
Lament inevitable loss?
~Caller ID pings
Calculate incalculable cost?
~This is so insane
I’m a solid secular success
~Selfish acts of subterfuge
I’m a massive mental mess
~Leaving us both confused
At least the former pays the bills
~Despite the tightening noose
No use in crying when milk spills-
~Calling you is what I choose
What’s done is done
~I can’t let go
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
alone together
we travel far by cars, boats and planes
so intense notes may unravel a name
only to fence up with remote pretense
entirely misfed in an asylum of social disdain
gravity is so long farthest
no matter the shuttle climbs its sharpest
beliefs and feelings have no downtime
virtual thoughts ebb across in bytes of prime
conscious uncoupling, our present no longer chimes
we play saint to inner longings
yet only acquaint in outward belongings
illusion distilled can bring godly divine
and blissful reality sometimes entwine
but rewinding old drills is dismally unkind
would not we shatter one forty to bits
rearrange this sorry state of earthlings' orbit
mould it fast before the deranged propriety
what loss to not awaken to a safari of sobriety
altogether one.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
We are uncoiling
Uncoupling
Yet our serpentine fingers linger
Like tender afterthoughts
Kissing hysterical women
We are them they are us
You finish it now
You soften the punch
Those muscles drift like tenderness
We are leathery skin and fingers that bend slowly
Our ancient articulations arthritic
Retrofitted in the darkness of daylight
In the heat of the night
We fight our urge to self destruct
Compulsive luck is not the worst of our faults
Such as being short-circuited in the dark
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 10:17 PM UTC