"unpunctuated" poems
The universe at its right angle
changes you into
day. Yet again, next year
you will look the same—
unpunctuated
line of zodiac
in easterly motion
makes its highest path to
you in winter.
*Sunlight pours down to earth from every angle.
You emerge with your mouth.*
The universe’s only apparent movement.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
a confessional screen
chambered in opaques
the pearly gates would sport
checkers sovereignty with grime
between myself
and the other side of this poem
another acolyte had founted
from our species-widened narthex-maw
the answer to the test
the answer i have tested since
despite the veto of a roshi's sleeve
while adults justify in frowns and threats
commandment-etched
i am a child still
aghast at drawing lines in sand to mark the living
from the soon to die
one i knew who drew such lines
for whom a line was drawn to mark himself as well
not just in votes and homeland hate-speech
you see
he crossed the line
no unadulterated childhood can cross
he shot his own face
or at least his face was shot
when he was found
who can read the final lonely moments of another
when mistakes are easier than ownmost acts ?
bombing bullies politicking death
can sanctify the safe
unpunctuated traps
dividing moods in swallows
pills
swilled with undigested fear
of nozzled death
mercilessly sudden
.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
#**Leftist poetry *****
I don't want to behold your innards.
I don't want to be forced to view your organs.
I couldn't care less
about your perverted sexuality
or your identity grievances.
Your biological and socioeconomic reality
is dull beyond all conception.
Your unpunctuated free verse
is insult added to injury
and displays
your hatred of Liberty.
Your merely materialist analyses bore me.
There is no excuse for you.
You abhor all that is RIGHT.
You hate GOD, FAMILY, and GENDER.
You also hate the Lord Jesus Christ.
Therefore you, in your rebellion against Divine Order
are DOOMED and ******
however . . . I will continue
to pray
for your sorry ***
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
It's me you're looking for
according to Lionel not
quite falsetto but at least
smooth alto unpunctuated
to give your wonder freedom
to wander and wonder
who each of us is - poems
demand so much of us
for sure hesitant English
speakers add frequently,
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
prison walls enclose sky
darkness sparks pyre
definite
articles get cut out
where rivers empty
into bitter oceans
where mix
morbid metaphors
of narcissism
to test my dead flesh
in vacated premises
condemned to destruction
blade as absent tenant
insert line about cutting here
then murmur teenage angst
over lost boyfriend
lifes meaninglessness etc
add some more weird
unpunctuated lines
oozing like a mediocre
razor ****
no caps even
then arbitrarily bold something
as if you knew what the hell
you were blathering on about
holy band-aid batman
my poetry *****
(does yours ? )
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
There's so much I want to say
Though finding the right words can be so troublesome
A "but" at the wrong time could tear you apart.
An "um" can make me seem unintelligent.
And too many "I"'s may cause us to lose a connection.
The point could be lost at the misplacing of a comma.
And a crummy adjective can throw off our mood.
Though, if you manage to look past my unpunctuated lines
Or my sloppy placing of a rhyme
Or the misspelled words
Or repeating of a theme
You might happen upon something real
A heart conveniently on display
There may be no rhythm
Or Shakespearean resemblance
But each letter is history
And phrase is a lesson
Even if you don't understand
Maybe someone else will
And my version of therapy could be theirs
But God-willing I touch your heart
And be the change I'd like to see
And my words could hug your soul
And hush your inner crying child
Because we aren't alone
I just want my words to sit with you for awhile
I just want the page to be your shoulder
The situation you can put yourself into
And not feel selfish for seeing it as you
The friend you don't have to pretend to hear
Just to get to talk about your day
Let this one time be for you
Let your feelings show
Its the words and you now
Let it take you where you'd like to go
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
Dubious: charge
The deluxe program in. Obtuse angled and oblong animals. Mecca sexúal, discoverer pulling back the curtain tails in mimicry and peacockiness as the horizon shimmers itself out. Do not eschew unwieldy ostentation towards benign mid-weight colors in the sequel to Blahnik.
Offers in the hesitant, peak winds of Southern-Hemispherical Antarctic weather barometer losses. The ice is like a hive of nameless blue lily pad vessels, each a different magical shade of the water's blue.
She like the uncommon baroque grandeur in an hour of time, herself-
Summons the immense symmetry of her elaborate lavender macramès sheath and entomb her skin, exploding across her body like milk-white daffodils draped upon a morning bow. Linseed and anise encompasses burnt sweet grass on the breadth of pine in a gentle pillow, anchored only by the veins of her red fruit nectar stitched at the grooves in her cool and unpunctuated lips. While anxiety numbing tufts of gentle satins wisp all the worry and turmoil away, pleasing every nerve, sensor, instinct, and exercise of glib humanity intertwined amid the pulse of our uncensored adultness. She glides amid the arcs of ebullient-molecules ribboned in winter synonyms, summoned up in her sensual and illustrious sublime, and the story of how like a horizon muted by organzas falling beneath her into that relationship she carries with her water God into something profound, immense, and totally ******* exquisite, yet beyond all imagining, she is always doing what has been the coolest **** ever to me. That becomes more magnificently indescribable like our amorous fire, incentivizing the luminous beauty of new stars to rush above us, and yet under us too, amidst the simple and perfected automany she so awesomely imbues.
Until the minutes are silenced in our heads and the days are warm with you.
For Sarah
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 7:32 AM UTC
I thought that the end would be poetic,
like our favorite novels that end so cleanly.
I thought it would end with a period
or exclamation point, even just a question mark.
Instead I was left with a simple,
unpunctuated sentence, that was cut off.
I now know that happy endings
are supposed to stay in favorite books.
Life is more complex than
perfectly squared endings in neat boxes.
Life ends in the middle of a verse-
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
♥☠♥
Lightweight free-verse exploration,
withered ghosts and wisps of phrase,
breezy unamusing musings
barely raise
a titter, tear or lyric warning –
fail to reach a middling height;
then subside to shallow murmurs
(not quite).
Teenage existentialism
cryptic, dull confessional mush;
suitable for a poker-faced
unroyal flush.
Must you set this stuff in motion
fizzling through our universe:
half-bright comets leaving trails
of boring verse?
Incoherent thoughts meander
through your words like fish through nets
unable to ensnare your reader.
One forgets
whatever it was you started saying
(weirdly spaced, unpunctuated).
Could it be such thoughts are better
left unstated?
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 8:36 PM UTC
You are twenty days late
In your response
Who do you think you are?
That I’d jump at your thumbspeak?
It was a passing thing
Thinking about you now
With your flecked baldness
Your Cheshire cat teeth
Glowing against
Your ***** black skin
Your disease
A foul smell
In the arid air
The long stretch
Of your tawny arms
That once carried
The weight
Of your insecurities
Your sweaty palms
Like milk
The sweat
In your back
Your unpunctuated sentences
And your shallow joys…
You are twenty days late
But you’ve lost me
On the fourth day
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
he seeped into my life slowly
and it was like being 8 again and
finding myself
suddenly carted 12 hours away
to a new life, one
that feels like brand new shoes
but suddenly it's broken in
& everything was familiar
& he was familiar
before I could even drag
my heels in resistance
he spilled words and ideas,
I licked them up like the coffee
that I carry, escaping onto its lid
and he is borderless
I am walking under a blue sky
unpunctuated by clouds,
it is endless &
the dopamine rush makes everything brighter
I look up and I am lost at sea
the sky is so blue
I am lost in his smile and his quirks
& God, he's so awkward
but I feel safe
like
I never want to leave
&
maybe I'll tell him everything
&
bitter coffee spills again on its lid
I sip it slowly
the sky is so blue,
so deep,
he is endless,
how am I not drowning
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
cerebral diarrhea
versus verborrhea
unpunctuated disequilibrium
generates opprobrium
unfree verse
fettered or worse
verbal *****
bomb it.
confessional purgings
depressional urgings
emo-bingeing over unrequited love
makes this poet go off / out / above
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
my brain vomited
onto the page
all squiggles
and misspellings
unpunctuated
heiroglyphics
a secret language
only i
could understand
not prose
not poetry
not correct
just me
my pen
wreaks havoc
on unruled
paper
i am errant
i am irritable
i am irreverent
i am making
my way
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
Comparing myself to others is all that would come to my mind
Whenever I did a good thing or even a bad thing
I would never be contented by a small thing that passed wrongly
Was I wrong?
Wrong is just a statement
It might mean good to me if I give it a definition of my own
Now that I don’t have any definition doesn’t give it yours.
Failing determines nothing but the efforts needed to move on
Why do you have to judge my statement if you haven’t mastered what I am thinking about?
An unpunctuated sentence?
No it is just an unfinished sentence since you aren’t the one who wrote it.
Wait for your time and make yours better.
You always think you did it wrongly
The thing is wrongly might be the best way you would ever do it.
Not because you always learn lessons
But because people also have to learn from you.
Yet, I never notice I did it amazingly well.
Because my definition is not hers
She defines it as what she wants to see.
Success is not a final destination
It is a result of ending a journey and going on to another
Though I might succeed and quit
Looking back that is failure
Because I never stuck to what I believed in
And went on to find what you believed in
And again we had no same definition
Define what it is to you
I will define what it is to me.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC