"vacuous" poems
The pile of books
The array of papers
They long-await
that ink will pour
on their vacuous
void of emptiness
For the deadline
draws near
Yet I'm still here
Sitting on my windowsill
Lackadaisically waiting
Certainly expecting
For water to descend
From the firmament
surrounded by dullness
where a mass of clouds
are there to be seen
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes
another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see
for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes
for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils
As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does
Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed
Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee
eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes
come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee
This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs
Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam
Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex
but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes
perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee
Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms
Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee
so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches
we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas
in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah
for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes
Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we
lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches
indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea
and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies
It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence
Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
They enter as animals from the outer
Space of holly where spikes
Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi,
But greenness, darkness so pure
They freeze and are.
O God, I am not like you
In your vacuous black,
Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti.
Eternity bores me,
I never wanted it.
What I love is
The piston in motion ----
My soul dies before it.
And the hooves of the horses,
There merciless churn.
And you, great Stasis ----
What is so great in that!
Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door?
It is a Christus,
The awful
God-bit in him
Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still.
The hooves will not have it,
In blue distance the pistons hiss.
13.6k
A blackening morning bleeds and deepens
the opening of iron lungs. Paperweight
bones threaten gaiety and the smell of sleep.
Such sadness pours inward, it has chosen
the wrong body as cold folds over the world,
so it feels real, stained frost in vacuous black.
The pure leap of malignity agitates
the interior of a woman's red heart,
melting like embers.
In the sulphur, words dry while water
slides down. Drips and thickens.
Gaping hole exposed- too early for the dawn.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Skin blushed peach on snow white cheeks
Luster and grandeur not seen by the meek
Intrinsically dominant furnace of femininity
Dither and hither be stricken for insincerity
If you try to speak to her expect less then levity
To your advances she implies depravity
Blatantly ignorant vacuous blond *****
Tell me again how I hate you and want ***
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
Drip yourself into a cup
Fill up your body with antiquity
Let the collagen insist
An allegory of Capricorn
Memories crystallised
Settled in
Forevers harvest
Insensitive
Misconstrued chemical
Collective symmetry's sin
A condition, livid
Fleeting in Human imagery
Ships break
Loop our tongued
Hands, tossed in Dramamine
Whittled in a succession of malleable fashion
Talent spilled spread in supper
Collate our atrophy
And drink from baroness
Flavours tarnished
Super-collider
Blood soaked in Gematria
A garden of totality
High brow comparison
Entitled in your vacuous stigma
Forever burning
In the lesser key of Solomon
28 daemon
Tessellation in trigonometry
Temperance towards an infinite
Champion of mind, complex
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
Deplorable and horrible;
Despicable, abhor-able;
It reiterates, evaluates,
Desiccates, and exacerbates . . .
It never fails, to fall too short,
But always fails as a support . . .
In an attempt to be freed, it misleads to bad deeds
And creates a hunger -- vacuous,
Yet, impossible to feed.
It chases the light away,
And it longs to be alone.
So I am so ashamed to say,
That in my skull,
It found its home.
So I'll fight and fight against it,
. . . But I'll always lose the battle.
It seems that even as I trudge ahead,
That somehow I still straggle.
It is the artist, I am the instrument.
Like a light bulb to its filament.
Every day I'm at the bottom,
Forced to climb back up the hill again.
But I think the day has come . . .
When I've finally stopped walking.
I've reached a door that can’t be opened,
And decided to stop knocking . . .
It's me and who I've become;
It's my actions and what I've done . . .
So, as much as I despise it,
It seems my brain, and I, are one.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
*got.an.appointment.to.keep
can’t.be.late.at.all
got.an.appointment.to.keep*
Cycling hard in the taciturn rain
In the English countryside
Feeding chunks rassis to hissing Eton-swans
Pitch-black hot tar inside
Running relentless along the vacuous side-halls
Carrying mercy on three-legged cur
Crying for Odin . . . leaving soon
Won’t make it down that clockwork-stairs
And can’t show up late for its own demise-appointment
*taking.flight.to.a.never.portion
of
the.ever.furious.wanderer
(no latecomers allowed)
to.keep.that.appointment
to.never.go
crying.for.Odin*
s t 27 aug
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
Since Love is a word that is clearly defined,
I was sure it would be much less than easy to find.
But please decipher it’s meaning be my Rosetta Stone
How to manifest in person to keep me from alone
The one I’ve wanted and needed to fill my vacuous soul,
One whose substance would fill my red but black hole
My collective attention would never escape her.
How can a concept so complex be drawn out on paper?
We’d be perfect and free we’d be perfect as “we”
But love is too broad for such specificity.
I’ve hoisted my thoughts until they were too high to still see
Wondering how love could even be in the dictionary.
Alas I’ll search ‘till transformed, my hairs all turn grey.
The only place I’ll ever find love is in the section after “K”.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Tempestuous longings from behind the screen of life’s moving picture
You stare back at me, in a glimmering, shimmering afterthought
Laid low by foregoing passion
In a moment’s torrid glimpse from our hollow reflections
Fragrant evenings during seasons of filming
Solemnly captured and revised then experienced
The all encompassing struggle with context and setting
Abides a steely night, in the rustle of autumn branches
Requiem for an unremitting beloved!
Sung in the valley between piercing peaks of sorrow
She floats through the scene as distinct aura and vague essence
An embrace from the trail of vapors and misspent gestures
All emanating from a glass of cider beneath nostrils
Gracefully, you embank on the wind of time’s shadow
And nudge my cheek with impetus and vigor
Lashing out at my skin in ambivalent revelry
As if my follicles were vacuous caverns
Catching the callous moments which flutter the ***** of hillside tents
The unearthly gusts of banality extinguish the projector’s gleam
While nature embodies your beauty furthermore
Toward the end of the pathway
And the credits of the film
And the allegro of the score
And the solitude of eternity
And the rustling of the branches
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:09 AM UTC
Did you know that since I met you I haven’t finished a single cup of coffee,
or had a dream that I could remember
or gone to bed the same day that I got up?
I’m not complaining mind you.
I just find it intriguing the little things you have changed in my life without even realising it,
without any effort.
My life used to be mostly empty, as in devoid of things, vacuous perhaps, if that means like a vacuum. I mean there was lots of space in it that wasn’t filled with anything in particular.
But you have managed to fill all of that nothingness up.
The times when I used to sit here and daydream about nothing, suddenly there you are.
When I close my eyes before going to sleep and used to spend on average seven minutes thinking of nothing (and that a scientific fact not one I made up) I now spend (on average) seven minutes thinking about you.
In that fraction of a second when breathing in turns to breathing out, there you are.
In that fraction of a second when I blink, its you I see.
Because its you I yearn for. Because its you I want to have and hold and kiss and caress and so much more that I dare not write, even in a poem.
But how?
How did you do this?
How did you invade my very psyche, my soul, my spirit so completely so effortlessly and with such subtlety that I never even noticed. Until I noticed. And its not like I noticed you were here and watched as you spread to there but you were suddenly everywhere.
Places no one else had ever been before.
Ever.
Places that people I had known for much longer and much more intimately had never been able to reach.
And yet there you are.
Sitting on a swing.
Waiting.
I just wish I knew what for.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 7:47 PM UTC
Men speak to them in the language of sweets
even their names,
sound like french delicacy
They drink from a flute of love-notes and make-believe
with a dash of sugar
and melancholy
An effervescent taste
is all it takes
for them to lose themselves
and lose track of time and space
They are the masters of treachery
ensnaring hearts of strangers
beguiling innocent minds
But mostly of all
deceiving themselves
They get drunk on the possibility
of escaping reality
perpetually
Alas,
it is inevitable
that the time will come
When reality will welcome them
with less than warm and welcoming arms
Nicotine filled lungs
Cherry stained lips
An ephemeral flame
if only they didn’t exist
Behind their dulcet tones
of eloquence and sweet-nothings
lies a heavier dread
that their saccharine smiles,
a dalliance of lies
attempt to dismiss
For it is only
behind this facade of
vacancy, vanity, and vacuous deception
That they can unwind and forget
even if its only
momentarily
For it is only then
when they
let slip their bitter past
forget about their pungent present
and masquerade for their tasteless future
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
The plump moon lights up my room.
My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream
the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
Under, over, between, against, something
Needful things and quarks
Infinite infinity endlessly remaining
vacuous vacant and brimming.
Everything everywhere evolving eternally
recent past and the here and now
still reveals it's non existence.
Event horizon is nothing nowhere
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
How do you swindle the light?
This would be the greatest grift.
An ongoing experimental conn
where we all remember,
who the mark(s) is,
pretending, just in case,
behind the curtain,
sleight of hand,
behind the back,
if there is no wizard in the back seat,
just in case...you'll tell the kids:
'it was all for them.' So they could sleep.
Childhoods are just safe houses for hope.
In play roles come easy,
in assortments, and unpackages, separate;
but everyone knows the rules,
their part, they remember
that fairness is sacred to play.
Some games get played
and some gamers’ play is accidental.
The game like the carnival is vacuous,
inhaling all into its eye,
exhaling into its calm, swindles like a carney,
jettisoning all into the extinction of gratification.
The mystery lies in the conspiracy.
System can beat game, house, odds,
conn the conn and you can go home a winner.
The Universe is a big casino, you see.
And all you have to do is get up from the table,
cash in your chips, and figure out where your car is.
The house always wins, you’ll say.
But therein lies the reason we play.
Which you're sure to figure out in the lot,
cramped delineations garner thought,
you'll realize that therein lies nowhere.
The conspiracy lies in the abyss,
A place where villagers lose their cattle,
Costumed & uniformed, singing gray prayers.
Crop circles are diasporic clusters of hope.
Where science fiction invented the cold war,
Between ghosts created by radio waves.
A mass hallucination produced by trauma?
Dellusion v. Illusion
Nurturist v. Naturist v. Projection,
As long as it’s a weapon!
Destination unknown-
But just in case, let’s create something that can destroy us all.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:27 AM UTC
pansy's screws weren't loose,
they were missing,
all of them,
leaving gaping holes
of unpredictable insanity
in her manic life
only 22,
and built like haya,
the mistress of desire
and lust,
every male nurse and
a certain shrink at the nut house
couldn't wait to ******
a missing ***** or two
into her
~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~
so mum the matron gave her
a protective room at our crib
only 13,
and built like *** wee
the hermit of lore,
I sat at the dinner table
opposite *****
she played footsie
with my naked toes
then gave me the crazy eye
as her lazy tongue
slid in...and out...
of her crazy mouth
~ she needed some pee-wee therapy ~
seed planted,
*** wee fed the fantasy
until it bore fruit:
a succulent apple
in his prurient mind
~ ready to be ...reaped ~
*** wee knocked on the door
~ silence ~
knock.....knock....
~ silence ~
*** wee turned the ****
and there she was...
~ en el desnudo ~
curves, ***** legs
open and inviting,
vacuous eyes staring at me,
daring me...
then she started screaming....
~ P (Pablo)
(7/28/2013)
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
Tonight I have no words.
I cannot grandly sweep my pen
In flowing arcs across the page,
Drawing little soft impressions
(little soft depressions)
That show how lovely pain can be.
I cannot play the great Creator
Who rips a vital pulsing mass
from out His chest,
And molds still-beating clay
With a sad old potter’s gentle hands
into a little melancholic harpist
who plucks the heartstrings perfectly.
No, I have no words that fit
Like others have made fit before,
composing language to fit all the inward lines and curves
(I once knew a few of her’s)
that twist and turn and come entwined,
(the twists and turns of long ago)
crying “Lacrimosa!” in some wee hour
as the breeze blows a lacy curtain back.
I am no Aeolian instrument
Sounding a sweet ethereal chord into the night.
I am the vacuous breath left behind in silence
When the musician’s music stops —
A tuneless referent —
An empty exclamation mark
Howling noiselessly in space,
Meaning nothing
And everything, all the same.
!
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
That was a red-banded paper
Itching to reclaim original state
Of un-sweet bagasse and bamboo
With surely no musical possibility.
Lonely were our drooping eyelids
Behind the vacuous leg’l scroll.
Some faded white trousers stated
Black legal existence nd’ bow tie.
Our sleep-together of fearsome nights
Leapt out of the window cat-silent
Into the sterilized portals of wordy law.
Our mummified before was not this.
Our after-thoughts slowly cauterized us
As we waited for the black decision.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 4:48 PM UTC
I see her in hooded head
Walking by in the night
The dusked shadows dewy in thought
Rumors fill my inquirious desires
As she transcends the vacuous light
Dare not I to ask where you go
She fills me full of fright
But alluring to me like catalepsy
Mewing the cats-eye of my discontent
Then around upon the angled corner
My phantasmagoria bent
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
The machinesed drones droning ozones
made of homogenised genes by replicants
from clinical doctrines and empirical indulgences
Soulless and efficient, bred for duties destructives
Capitalist fodder, programmed ready for earth's ****
Regulate as required, inputted subs with pigs hearts
Made followers with voracious appetite for blood
mechanised barbarians on leash with one track mix
Human shire horses in designer shods and faulty gauges
Manufactured manufacturers limited and corollated
Factories, dormitories partnered with like, watered
and bedded till tomorrow, audiod to the Sterling whip
Given ample ales, keep blinded and chained
Distract and cater to baser instincts, *** *** ***
Free 'love' free *** valueless values, what values
Enjoy kids must return to work desk seven on the dot
Time is money, clogs and production
waits for no man, do or your pleasures denied
Money, money money, honey for bees, honey for drones
Soulless, dehumanised, pale, aged at thirty, heart attacks next
Vacuous ghost programmed dunces
Malfunctioning entities devoid of humanity
Superficial plasticated robots, destruction default
Industrial pieces with industrial minds
Chemicalized drunks with wired brains
They roam around screaming freedom and power!
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
.the moral obligation, to be cognitively dissident; which has to align with Heiddeger's da-sein at some point... a piquant fervor for reality as: static, yet at the same time moving in the realm of the Titans / orbs - time, is a concept that has to match up to the orbs... otherwise all this space... whatever the wind, the clouds... is just static... inanimate... time could only be derived from animate objects, which became subjects which became momentum... the rest, the rest is just space, and its excesses of the vacuous night... space became a probing mechanism, an investigative vector, posit, charge.
now you call me a germanophile...
like a Caligula or some
odd ****
kennts ihr selbst:
know your self...
which is a reflective form of
the reflexive Anglo
counterpart: yourself.
so i noticed...
whenever i become, really,
and i mean really reactionary
(not angry)
i tend to drift into
writing in my native tongue...
funny...
mother tongue,
fatherland...
but it's the opposite in Moscow...
motherland...
and the epitome
of the Cyrillic?
well... there was
a St. Cyrill...
but father-tongue just
sounds so ****** stupid
in English...
maybe in German?
vaterzunge...
well... sure as **** that
sounds better than mutterzunge...
but hey,
preferences preference preferences,
not everyone says: om, om,
ooh, chocolate,
when taking a bite of a ****
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC