"vacuity" poems
*Nothingness always void,
There is something in vacuum!*
What we called as emptiness
Also having something
Full with energy and matter!
*Nothingness always void,
There is something in vacuum!*
If it gets the model set it will accelerate
Bloom and illuminate!
Nothingness always void,
There is something in vacuum!
In fact by mining the vacuum’s richness
A theory of everything may emerge!
*Nothingness always void,
There is something in vacuum!*
Space around everything is virtual
When everyone convulse for existence
Invisible firework display
It is dark energy
Take over the dynamics of creation
and we are dreaming!
*Nothingness always void,
There is something in vacuity!*
Explore your verve in emptiness
Gain oomph to illuminate everything!
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
I was waiting
And now am found
I was longing
And now I long no more
I was lonely
And now you hold me close
I was escaping
And you caught me by the heart
The heart is strong, but it can be weak
The heart is strong, but it can be lost
The heart is strong, but it can lose pace
The heart is strong, but it is stronger next to yours
Logic, that's all this is.
Love is logical.
That is, when it comes down to rationality.
When it comes down to feeling,
when it is based on emotion,
when you feel your rib cage straining against that translucent chest of yours.
When the beating becomes unbearable,
and the threshold of pain heightens,
and your rationality weakens.
Only then does logic yield.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
I observe: “Our sentimental friend the moon!
Or possibly (fantastic, I confess)
It may be Prester John’s balloon
Or an old battered lantern hung aloft
To light poor travellers to their distress.”
She then: “How you digress!”
And I then: “Someone frames upon the keys
That exquisite nocturne, with which we explain
The night and moonshine; music which we seize
To body forth our own vacuity.”
She then: “Does this refer to me?”
“Oh no, it is I who am inane.”
“You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your air indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—”
And—”Are we then so serious?”
2.8k
A spiteful taste of malice
Slithers across my tongue
Secrecy spoke in volumes
Before the words begun
This sensation it saunters
Into solar vacuity
Perpetrating sheer, faugh
Acts of congruency
In vain contempt I wallow
In the pillars of infamy
Whilst faint my ears waltz
To vindictive symphonies
Prolonged my strife be by humanity
Whilst I attempt to appease
As they flaunt their existence
To miscellaneous degrees
The English language resembles
Clouds of hyperbolic fallacies
In light of this hapless universe
They share an index of analogies
From behind cracked windowpanes
I peer at all that is inane
With repugnance I am slain
As I wince with disdain
I scarf reality in intervals
Reaping jagged grains of salt
Though helpless I am left
Pessimistic by default
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 7:57 PM UTC
He wore nothing other than black even in the summer, his crystal blue eyes reflected ocean-hues and had jet black ink that could slightly be seen under the sleeve of his tattered and torn Rolling Stones tee. That boy, he was quite a mystery, had the body language of a jigsaw puzzle not wanting to be mended, although it was all opaque to me, others saw him impenetrable, however, I read him like my favorite book. This boy is exactly like me intelligent yet covert, impassive and esoteric yet a universe full of secrets and unspoken thoughts. It seemed as if his soul was somber and consumed nothing but vacuity. But I saw a masterpiece, a messily painted work of art, and that was the beauty of it. Others saw chaos on a canvas while I saw every watercolored hue that completed the exotic illustration that was, Luke.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
Stare at the universe for a little while, you’ll see
Something resembling you and me: a quite sobbing vacuity
Draining all pellucid stars of luster and bravery.
I won’t be home for the rest of my life, hard as it is to take in,
Something went missing in what never was
That all the timbers strip away at the passing years
In anger and patience that slapped me in the face
When I said I’d never be happy again. My pockets are full
Of icy penance for crimes distance and apathy revealed.
Shimmer do the walks ways in the missing parts of the night sky
Shaped, somehow, by you and every blazing heart
Is a comet to earth: ******* vibrantly a poorly strung bandage.
And every light to cross the concourse of hopeless prophesy
And my constructs of relative suffering, an oil-light suicide.
History is always-already the behest of malignancy, but it’s sweet
The protection as I’ve weaponized every interaction to be,
We could have been cause-and-effect and danced like
Idols, gods, and fools in the sky of our experience, but
The God of Small Things, I, bear down on dis-eases rejection.
Like surgery, the tiny cells bereft of the cause of blood, the cause
Of complaint, can do nothing but new hearts reject.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
VOID
My blue bicycle breezing over the grass
silence surrounded, colors faded
I saw the void gaining mass
knees went weak, I pled
VOID
What lay beyond the darkness
of the mysterious black sphere
I didn't fathom what I saw, not even a guess
The green grass went sere
VOID
Should I surrender to the sans-khrôma
maybe it was free of war and worries
utopia itself opened to us
or was it an otherworldly bleakness
VOID
I took a step into the vacuity
There wasn't a deity
nor the promised eutopia
VOID
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 4:27 PM UTC
i am roused by paltry gasps
in the furrow of my consternation--
dizzying, still,
is the puzzling weight of vacuity,
my shapeless existence
where the wind has blown the weakness from your heart
and you've settled like ceiling-fan dust;
invisible, i asphyxiate
in sultry bated breaths
like the acrid smoke that seems to leave your lips
so romantically,
so gleefully anesthetized
in our secret place
where we pollinate the emptiness,
legs sticky with desire
and rapt with a fleeting symbiosis.
we awaken in ambiguity,
the taste in my mouth
is your yesterday's heaving tongue.
little lamb, sad-eyed baby,
thrush with too much touch,
always leaving in that heavy-eyed hurry.
your sweater brushes against my face,
i smell the paint that's stained a cold and ringed finger.
my senses are frenzied and willfully discordant
until you open the front door
and dissolve away--
dissipate into the realness of the day.
in my vapidity, i wait.
i wait.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
The Earth went silent,
it was the aftermath of the End;
the crooked shadows crept between all spaces,
then the Cloudfolks returned.
They stood still watching at us,
it was during an August eclipse.
"Pitiful are the sleepers who don't dream." Spited to me one of them.
So s/he took my hands and gave me a sphere,
s/he told me:
"You shall not swear your life in vacuity."
And so I knew it was time,
it was time of tempests, and beautiful extinctions,
it was a time of grief and sharp pain.
Their eyes were black as void,
those fuzzy white cloaks were cold, and those hands...
And before I could even awake, one sitted in my bed and whispered gently to my ear:
"Embrace the Omega."
And so I did.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.Sir murmurs feverish death
spells,
Bewitched hysteria enchanted elven
ears,
Violin strings of stuttering velvet
echo,
vacuity beguile cracked
telescopes,
Sir’s feigned ruby lips
lament.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.Draperies comb the purple
hare,
Riveted coats sneeze in the
pallor,
Stabilizing the drunken
absences,
Late violets exhale in
tedium.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.Sir views tree sagging in dirt
coffins,
In fabricated
tranquility,
With pleasant booming
hums.
⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝
.Sirs deteriorating dense
chasms,
Encounter convenient
disorientation.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜
.Spotted desolate greenery a hafted ax of
demise.
⇜⇝⇜⇝
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
It's hard to admit at times,
how deep I've sunk.
When it all began
I thought I was manipulative
smart;
the way I could "pretend" not to care
so I could escape the shipwrecks I inspired.
At the time I was so preoccupied with my fears
to notice just how much I'd disappear
It seems so inexplicable to care all too much
and suddenly
swiftly
so terrifyingly numb.
And sometimes it's everything
in every wake of blood coursing through my veins
the fear
the numbness
the pain
draining to vacuity, to ruin,
And in the waves bring immeasurable unease
disrupting an ocean of deafening speechlessness.
Some days are easier,
calmer,
some days are ******* impossible*.
And always it seems much easier
to rest,
to sleep,
to collapse into the foamy rapids,
then to swim against the riptide;
And despite the efforts I've drawn in sand
the allure of the sea floor is present at all times.
But it always gets better,
though admittingly this bubble is hard to remember.
*In constant flow the sea is me,
chaotic, dark, free,
and so devistatingly beautiful,
a never ending cycle of
birth and death and continuity.*
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
I wander aimlessly through this world without you
As I have countless times before
Ever feeling unwhole
Once we happened upon each other
Completion
Bound by distance
What was once empty
Is now a void able to be filled
Only by you
I am able to be loved by you alone
Loving what has always been mine
Still, forced to wander aimlessly through this world without you
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 5:42 PM UTC
The choir rang out and filled the halls with a hollow note
There voices were merely a dull hum in the background
Kneeling and looking past my reflection against the marble floor
Almost in a meditative state I welcomed the vacuity I found myself in
It was not until the second time did I realize
Drops of rain water were tapping me on the neck
I was positioned directly under a crack in the basilica's ceiling.
Even in a sanctuary I could not escape what awaited me outside.
Found it quite fitting, actually.
Even though I am inside my life is still being rained on.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
The drudgery of not
The travail of unseen clot
A metaphor for naught
There must be a monicker to this lump in my neck
How much substance or material to tell the tale of this eminence fleck
We all pretend sentiment takes form
When vacuity is the fortune for all
Most feel dejected by this thought
I will take my pillow, comforter, and universes call
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 11:58 PM UTC
It's been over thirteen billion years
since we big banged into existence.
The universe is starting to get cold.
And like waiting toys abandoned
by some attention-deficient Owner,
things are starting to get cold.
We make our little bonfire of religion,
of science, of philosophy (other planks of wood)
to keep warm. Ah, warmth at last.
That He'd save us,
or We'd save ourselves,
or we'd explain everything away.
The night is cold. Stars. Are they
God's watchful eyes? But we do not
need a God
to know that they are
spheres of gravity-bound (but what
is our centre of gravity?) plasma.
Whatever empty space someone forgotten to fill,
we like liquids rush to fill up the vacuity.
But it's an artifice. The train is civilisation-bound.
Our hands and feet are tied to the cold, steel tracks.
We struggle against our lives to escape.
But the train is civilisation-bound.
So that when we look to our children
to inherit this world - which is false,
which is as concocted as myth -
it must be bittersweet to give them a better world.
This world we created can crumble like a candy empire.
Child-like imbecility. No happily-ever-afters.
The night is cold, still.
Stars.
Thirteen billion years.
We deny that it's Cold.
We explain it away.
Existential therapy.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
Come fill the void beside my heart
Wide as the river valley spreads
Still as hillside without wren's song
Make full this space where you belong
Who will sit down beside my tree
Enjoy the shade of my misery
Communicate what turns their world
Help my pain fade to ecstasy
Come fill the void beside my heart
Vacuity so deep and wide
Become the clouds containing joy
Please sit beside my lonesome tree
Water it while you water me
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
The greatest eye, seeing as I see: infinity infinitely,
Passing and being amidst mere seconds, touching glassily
Fringes of the smallest universe of me,
The happier side of the sublime, distant fingers of distant peaks
Combing the edge of time.
I’ve stared at the stars too long, we saw them dance out of space
More dimensions than a singularity, for it opens up
As hearts do in each other placed.
From fixéd gaze and placidity, I stride in awe to you
We could feel one with acatelepsy
Have what some consider few, and few consider all
Intertwined by the darkness between the dying stars’
Existence, in that both skins a whole that glistens.
Of that place, I in constant drawn, that vacuity, that candoris
A promise that, regardless what season, my face feels apricity
And careless are the places as numinous are the lariots
Whether through Hell or usurping Pheobus’ chariot
Some hope may birth within the open dark
The treasured lunar retinue, a web of inspiration, generations to come;
That’s what keeps me hopeful here, a shy star in the void
Across it all, across life-lines I shall have,
Before you ever meet me, long since dissipated—
Come out to see me and play, or are you simply? Belated?
In that web, the growing ever-on, generative swan-songs,
And the one I wish on may befall a stellar death, my sky
Alighted by one less, a part of me to the cold and shiftless earth
That though the stars may fall, these hearts may flash chimerical
Etched limpid in the palimpsest of memory, they are, they will
Hearts of the little universe, consumptive and resilient
And kept ever on, there beyond Jupiter and his moons thereof
In which chaos finds itself bathed and bound by Love.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Our hour is one, rest is rest
once arrest is rested
ascension is now magic
If insanity tires and fails
is sanity trying without succeeding?
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Thee Artiste Carvó's 'Poetry Vile And Poetry Juvenile'
Óh in the darkness of common decline, the wee Creature, Lóg, was a pitiable *** whose delusions and confusions caused the evolution of thought to come to a stop, sunk in the bowels of Thee's self-serving slóp.
In the circus ring of artistry's self-deluded elves...
where dwarfs dance in dungeons built of flatulence…
and the fumes of envied condescendence seep through Thee's hallowed walls,
poetry, vile, rots in Thee's hands with fingers bent and straight...
with contradictory thoughts that lead to naught...
Thee has dared to óffend
(giving true artistry a chuckle, a chortle and convulsed laughter from the rafters...)
out of baneful ignorance and envy lodged in the pale emptiness of I!
Óh on the horizon appears a finger so magnificent!
Standing proud between ring and index digits, bent and kneeling,
standing hard, mócking dear artistry.
Móldy and so piss-ticated, Thee is the wee óne that tirelessly creates and creates doubt.
And Thee dwarfs and Thee elves still dance to the meaningless ring of blinded I's.
Óh in spite of Lóg's vile works, humanity will evolve beyond the "óuch" of puerile jealousy and give birth to a better Earth.
While fuming, not firing neurons which have ceased fighting...
Thee flays the soul, and that is sooo not cool...
Behold! Thee wee óne ***** a prune that 'luminates the dune of dimness
and with Lóg's **** comes great feelings of Thee,
and something gory will Thee extract from the great **** of I!
Reward for freeing us from the I and the Thee is that Lógbrain will no longer burden all of humanity...
Thee ****** maggót Carvó will vanish in the doom of dreariness
where prunes no longer shrink…
In fading, Thee looks into the eyes of us, and we feel nauseous...
but we need not fight, for his lessons are naught,
and we all can stop sighing
'my oh my, Thee smell repels'
and leave behind Thee shriveled **** of vacuity
and continue to do artistry.
*Original ('Poetry Villains And Poetry Heroes') by: Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by: CrE aka Trollminator*
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
a child in ethereal white,
chasing fireflies in vacuity.
overwhelmed by the brilliant cloud.
of past and future selves,
fruitless, collapsing into itself,
contented sigh of blissful wisdom.
how wonderful the game is!
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
how did you ever come to this—
is never the question,
she clinks her glass on the russet tablework and crinkles her nose
onto some cold draft.
some answers i keep to myself:
it is not a very honorable question.
a noble man might ask,
where shall this bring you?
now that you are... this state of being?
the answer i said:
after a while, i have been having
dreams of white parasols
cerements being whacked
into aching scabs on the skin
of an old tendril - that laburnum
where a pebble of raindrop
slides freely!
and i uttered shyly of my place,
i once fell in that speed
and came to no crash.
and now here are words - just words,
pure loneliness, or say, a preordained vacuity waiting to be filled— no,
wait, it isn't! a feral with diurnal eyes
never asleep, always awake!
no, still not very apt.
i have fallen like this, and it was
also i, waiting for myself
at the end of each
line, shattering at word's break.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
I’ll plunge into placid vacuity
and swim among the stars
in search of your abiding eyes.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC