"unsubstantial" poems
Vanity has created insanity in humanity,
the worldly hope men set their hearts upon,
possessed by Money, power, fame &respect;
empty pride inspired by an overweening
fruitless human desire,
wining and dining as the clouds darken in the
middle of the night,
as they settle for a life of deceiving enjoyment,
eyes are faded while he rest his body for a new
day,
he turns & roll in discomfort while he sleeps,
dreams are clashing, the fear of been poor
strikes his mind,
meanwhile the poor sleep in comfort ,
he won't wake up unless you wake him,
men of exotic fast cars,
Sell their soul to feed their vain pursuit,
and their happiness to feed their ego,
a life of unsubstantial enjoyment, reality awaits
its faith,
as it will be too late to plea of insanity in
eternity,
no hospitality for mental spirituality,
the vanity of human wishes reflect upon
superficial vision of human unfulfillment,
In essence that leads to eternal death.
the poor can't control his pain,
as tears drop from his eyes uncontrollably,
watching man with his fruitless ambitions,
as he settles for worldly materialistic goodies,
living beyond his means,
So many years on earth yet unsure of the
hereafter,
living a life of insecurity & fear of the unknown,
mention the word death ,he will ponder &
begin to wonder,
what his fate will be,
Vanity upon vanity,
When his time elapses,
he won't be left with anything but his good
deeds,
No mansions, no cars, no fame, no sweet voices,
what a life of vanity!!
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
In my childhood rumors ran
Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
That the highroad held in store.
Of mermaids' doleful game
In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.
Tales like these were too absurd
For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
Though with cause indeed for fear.
Now I know the mermaid kin
I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
But are deadlier for that cause.
Dragons have no darting tongues,
Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
No black poison from their tails:
For they are creatures of dark air,
Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
In mid-whirl of mental storms.
And there's a true and only fiend
Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
Lest the race of man should die.
Ever in vain will courage plot
The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.
Mermaids will not be denied
The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
The true fiend governs in God's name.
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605
The Spider holds a Silver Ball
In unperceived Hands—
And dancing softly to Himself
His Yarn of Pearl—unwinds—
He plies from Nought to Nought—
In unsubstantial Trade—
Supplants our Tapestries with His—
In half the period—
An Hour to rear supreme
His Continents of Light—
Then dangle from the Housewife’s Broom—
His Boundaries—forgot—
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The Frost was never seen—
If met, too rapid passed,
Or in too unsubstantial Team—
The Flowers notice first
A Stranger hovering round
A Symptom of alarm
In Villages remotely set
But search effaces him
Till some retrieveless Night
Our Vigilance at waste
The Garden gets the only shot
That never could be traced.
Unproved is much we know—
Unknown the worst we fear—
Of Strangers is the Earth the Inn
Of Secrets is the Air—
To analyze perhaps
A Philip would prefer
But Labor vaster than myself
I find it to infer.
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We find bottomless holes
In our mentalized theories
Local logical postulations
Cause-and-effect sequences
Perceived chain reactions
And medical research findings.
All those are quintessentially
Protein specs floating freely
Our words float like protein
Fondly called lewy bodies
Colorless and unsubstantial
Dreams in shreds floating
As in amniotic fluid like then.
A certain woman of less virtue
Was not fit for our society
She embraced men in dark
In dreams and art and thought.
Fuzzy scenes of yesteryears
Floated into the present
Including ego and power games.
Let me know who is this professor-
The man who brought it all up.
Our language loses meaning.
We do not agree you are you.
Actually you cease to be a son
A brother ,a person ,a human
You are a hand or a stone
Just a broken splinter for a whole .
My part becomes a whole
A thing is a word, an idea,an event
A daughter-in-law is a hand
A son a stone in the wilderness.
There is sorrow swirling in the belly
The anguish of a human existence
The pain in the bloated stomach
These forced feet take you nowhere
Men came with tails in their necks
Forcing down tiny white universes
When they go into the nether world
There is only a swirl in the belly.
May 20, 2010
May 20, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
It's in his shadow we plead
Under his wrath we bleed
His destruction leaks hate into the weak
Leaving the unsubstantial reaping his critique
His actions scorned through years of neglect
It's in his perception only, that we become wrecked
Why do we follow knowing wrong from right
Pushing those we love away from the light
His power is without doubt equal to the greats
Although derived from stray minded it opens the gates
The gates into the souls of those who are tattered
Turning old memories to ones now shattered
Although through it all, we have nothing to fear
For he is nothing more than a broken mirror
It just takes practice to realize his weakness
All his power is nothing to the strong but bleakness
It's in his own prison he will rot
Although it's up to us to become the Juggernaut
-Joseph B Schneider
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
C'EST PRESQU'AU BOUT DU MONDE..."
( IT WAS ALMOST TO THE END OF THE WORLD )
She believed that
deep deep inside her
the flame of a femme fatale
burned brightly.
Could imagine herself stepping out of
some classic Film Noir.
Cultivated herself
to look like Marie Windsor
opposite the dangerously gorgeous
John Garfield.
But her life it seemed had her
stepping into an Edward Hopper.
The isolation and the paint
still wet.
The lonely lady
glimpsed in an hotel window
from a passing train
autumnal rain.
Still she acted always as if
she was in her own movie l
walking around her tiny flat
naked
except for red stilettos
red earrings...red lipstick.
Making up her own snappy lines
to some imaginary leading man.
"Are you decent?"
"Yes""
"But you're....you're naked!"
"You only asked if I was decent!"
The mirror laughed
catching the reflection of who
she could have been
given half the chance.
She never
stood a chance.
She threw a cigarette up in the air
caught it between her lips
her one and only
party trick.
Lit or unlit.
Searching for middle C
on a battered piano
her mind off key
abandoning it
the piano's yellow smile.
She watched the sunlight
carve a block of time
out of the dividing wall.
fading the wallpaper roses.
The bed that was always
empty...always unmade.
She danced to Weill's
Youkali Tango.
Put it on again...again.
Scratching an already scratched record.
The needle gathering fluff.
The porcelain milkmaid...dust.
She disliked the way sweat
gathered under her *******
They were always a little too large.
Hated men staring so hard.
Ahhhh the faded romance
a sunset heart attack.
Couldn't have wrote
herself a better script.
Staggering in her dance
gasping that all too unsubstantial
air as if trying to
catch time
the presentpastfuture
falling out of her hand.
The wooden acorn
of the tattered blind
tapping against
the ***** window pane.
Neon going green.
Then red.
Now blue.
And then green again.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:16 PM UTC
Empowered Manager, your Rules beknown
I'd rather you Teach how we must Behave
Or, filter these Concepts to his Reknown
And coat this Script for his role as a Knave
So what's new? Long does this Method wear
For the Centred Market your Profits invest
Though, we Illusioned, squeeze each dareful tear
Close his Next-Door Gates for an Open Contest
To be Fair, dear Sir, if we can afford
To pay for that trite, unsubstantial fee
I suppose his Skill to waters accord
Reward by Harvest; A Hero as he.
So yes I'm aware for such tweets I send
Were not his eyes for your mouth he'll depend.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:29 AM UTC
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for Thee!
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Rain makes the mighty fir stronger
As she creates a home for unsubstantial creatures
Glimpses of birds mean little in the long life she is to endure,
Hundreds of years with thankless children add up to nothing.
And still years alone wear down the mightiest of giants,
Nature brings great storms to test her will.
A groan, a thud, and silence
Roots splayed above a grave.
Even after the rain stops holding her up,
She has not escaped her job of nourishment.
Her ribs cave in,
Maggots selfishly taking their fill
As their fat bodies writhe in the flesh of god.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.
Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.
We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.
We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.
As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.
The world as we know it folds upon itself, layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:04 PM UTC
We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
A void frame holds together Black Mountainous clouds weighing heavy on the sky, fearing an inescapable storm. The land below, no longer recognizable for shadows have rained from the absence, eroding the clarity of which once stood firm.
Still fresh and raw, the painter stops. His garrisoned red eyes entrench the being of his grotesque creation and with lost hope takes his final brushstroke. The brush, with nothing more to give, lifts an unsubstantial bit paint off of the canvas. Leaving what appears to be, a negative silhouette. The white void of a butterfly.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
When the day blooms and the light streams
Through the handcarved cracks
Of consciousness it inspires infinity.
The boundless light and undiscovered
Colours of the morning draw even
The birds to serenading, for the
First time, and for the hundredth.
I feel as if I am breathing sunlight.
As if I could raise my hand and weave
The wisps of clouds between my fingertips,
As simply as I lie here on the ground.
It is easier to dream when the sun shines.
At times like this I like to live in daydreams.
I like to dream myself into possibilities
As yet unsubstantial, even previously
Unthought of. I like to be unmade, unwoken,
Confidently lost amongst the scenes of
My mind's creation.
In the labyrinth I can find confusions,
Emotions, revelations unexpected.
But I always find hope.
A hope that keeps the sun shining.
And when days grow dull and wintry,
Spring blooms behind my eyes
As daisy petals and puppy ears
Melt through the rusted lock of memory.
To place me barefoot in the grass
On an immortal sunny day.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Should i pretend this isnt happening?
this distant fog I'm drifting through
I'm in this haze of trials and tribulations
Should it be ignored?
Should it be faced?
When in my peripherals there is always some
shadow lurking about.
picking away at my brain
then swiftly disappears.
It honestly gives me a ******* headache.
with a tap tap of a pencil
the beat of a some ghetto *** hoodlum car passing by.
some unimportant individual
with unsubstantial advice and "unbiased" opinions
with meaningless passerby conversation
that i wont remember when i go to sleep.
on some unintelligent debate without true stone cold facts
and i'm observing this
and listening to this
and i just think....have these people not read a single book in their life?
anyway, a problems only a problem when you make it a problem.
and you only make it a problem because you can't find a solution.
and you cant find a solution when at every string you reach for
is broken or tied in a knot.
now wheres the resolution in that?
where's the stride, the hope?
and all along i'm wondering, is it the posture in my back?
and your standing on your tiny tippy toes hopping to and fro
yet there you stand.
in the fog, alone.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 10:32 PM UTC
Come whisper in the listen I now long to hear you see
Of my odd interpretation of the lesson in this session
Surely spewing wicked somethings in disorder as it feeds
Agonizing ramblizing far too soon to fail to mention
Incorporating lonesomeness complexities in legions
Is there no unserpentizing the enlightening of strange?
Misuncircumstancing as the reader finds no reason
In such savory salivations of the misconcepted change
Unknowingly still growing far beyond the closest measure
Into raging inconsistencies that weep unto the page
Bleeding such intuitive progression never severed
In the ****** of youthful fluencies in such a weary age
The gladness of the madness strikes within the battered shore
Not but a hair above comparisons so folded in the fray
Enticing bold imperatives unsweetly through the outer core
In air of uninheritance that creeps the numb at play
Parading the tirading of such unsubstantial ecstasy
In such an unconventional impression of insane
Always sometimes never far within the tragic synergy
Of answers unbegotten for the rottening of sane
The murderous disorder in infectious undisease
As such sporadically chaotic posthypnotic juices flow
Now lost in such emphatically irrational absurdities
That pour out further twistedly insistent as I go
Shattering the view and boundary bordering abnormal
In this morsel of a mouthful seen before its time had come to go
Reaching destinations in displacement so unformal
In the storming of the forming verbalating undertow
Bringing order to the chaos of this psychopractic babble
In a lesson of the breaking of the rules amidst the flow
With intention of confusion that makes sense within the rattle
It is only when we break free that we find where we can go
In creative inspiration as this invitation I extend
To all who may so dare to violate the rules of play
Embracing utter lunacy in oddest infestation
As I show what can be done when mental limits melt away
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Gripping to nothing, nothing is there
My soul is pricked, pried at
My love is ripped beyond repair
I have already tried to sew it back
But I stand strong, I am sturdy
I hold on to the absent
My pain is hidden, ignored
For I am not unsubstantial
Leftover pieces are stolen
Searching for them is useless
Starting over takes too long
Decisions are not made
Tears fall down horror’s waterfall
And traitors betray themselves
Memories are no longer true
Lying among the hurt is hidden
With each last step
The silent breeze blew life back into me
I stand up
I stand strong
Because I am the owner of my soul
I am the persuader of my choices
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 12:31 PM UTC
**It's like being a child again
Doodling hearts and
Writing the name of that boy in your textbooks
Or the name of that cute actor from that TV show you really like**
*Like living in a city
With lights near and far
Looking up into the sky
Barely able to spot a star*
When I look into your eyes
I feel myself stop breathing
The intensity, diving into the pools of thought
It's almost hard to keep gazing
Leaning against you, it's like being home
Your arms encircle, and I'm close
I'm untouchable, safe and sound
My comfort cloud at the ends of a million rainbows
I can almost feel your warm embrace
Like a phantom limb I yearn
But it's just not there, unsubstantial
An ache I can't discern
Stray thoughts keep flitting by
Little bubbles I have to pop, can't resist
Pop! There's that smile! Pop! And a laugh!
Oh and that makes your eyes crinkle adorably I must insist
Uncertainty had been warring
On the battlefields of my mind
The throne's been seized, a side has won
I know for sure, this is what's mine
*Like living in a country
With summer all year round
Getting ready for Christmas and looking out to see
Not a single flake of snow on the ground*
**It's like being grown up, but there's still that little girl
That wants to see his name doodled all over
So she writes about him in a journal
And his name is there, everywhere, hidden amongst the sentences**
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
The steam bellows out and fills the mirrors
with hazy mystery
Similar to that that of waking up in panic
The stinging in my eyes is familiar
Yet I still don't know the source
I know the road I want to take but still wont stay the course
These thoughts caress my brain
like waves coming in at high tide
Pushing anything unsubstantial out of its way
Destroying any early developments
All that's left is you
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
I am what is known in the world of the unsubstantial....
as an almost me
an almost you?
are we both dreaming?
living in our heads?
cue existential crisis
It's a mystery
It's reality
god I hope it's reality
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Time's not real
but our energy is
waning and
unsubstantial
despite the waxy
substance sticking
stringing us together.
A touch of sun,
a lick of flame
melt away,
dissipate
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
It disturbs me but I enjoy it;
This chill down my spine.
Though that's hard to admit.
Is it your fingertips,
Or just my imagination?
The feeling traces to my hips.
I'm supposed to feel some kind of high,
instead I begin to feel sad
And I don't know why.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
Conspiracy theories about an unsubstantial dollar, our true freedom of speech covered over by the blanket of power.
Fill their pockets with the blood stained gold, sink them to the bottom, let them rot and turn them back into their oil.
Hidden behind the vault doors of big banks and their lies, our wars, our Brave Americans killed on foreign soil over foreign ties.
Believe not the propaganda that is breaking us down, its money and power over everything, pumping it from the ground.
No Respect for life, no conscience of the human Spirit or Hope, file us into lines, give us Democracy and tell us, we matter. Vote
Do we have a decision on WAR or CONFLICT of Interest, paid off representative public politicians of democracy to whom we entrust?
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
I do a lot of internalized talking:
into late hours of the night.
so I'm bound to stumble upon,
(Surely, I just might!)
something substantial- sometime.
How I wish: that she were enthralled-
by the idea of spending time with me.
"This petulant peasant- this, so called,
man, or boy, who dreams of thee
before and after- he go to sleep!"
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC