"vatic" poems
how long to live through the next thought
to have a brief encounter with time
an impossible time of intolerable anguish
where embarking upon a sentence
is a violent wrench from perceived notions
of reality, one that causes nerves
to flay upon my body with weal's of words
where vatic poetry is wrought in trembling rages
spilling, dripping upon the traumatised
parchment that is my pages
in de-congealing interrelated drops of image
that crack the pavements
in a visual vibrancy of taut creative tension
where these words keep their own company
and speak in interrogative tongues
causing a fragmentation of earthquake fissures
to radiate across my mind in a cataclysm
of universal poison that quiets and dissolves stability
and asks, no demands of me, what can you see?
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
at this time in the past right here
it used to be real
oh!...oh! for another reality
to leave this false perception
and go...go...go to feel the wind
on another's face
to see with another's eyes
how the colours appear to them
to hear what another hears
with an innocent ear
to feel the euphoria
that slows the world down
to have another's departure
from all perceived notions of reality
to a new understanding
another reality
where brief encounters with time
start with the embarkation of a sentence
that causes a curious disquiet
to race through the nerves
ricocheting in a vibrancy
of vatic vitality, a creative tension
transforming the cortex
creating new unforeseen images
a new reality where thoughts are visible
and circulate, orbiting moons around the mind
dazzling with a universal symbolism
that with a kaleidoscopic vengeance of words
scatters and amplifies the distinctions
of the senses, into a new reality
one of convulsive voices
oh! this new reality
it causes me to walk to a stranger
who is myself
and forms a true disintegration
of a controlled focus
on a beautiful disorder of
chaotic discourse of a volatilized impulse
of the emotions, where blood stains smile
lavishly with a different vocabulary
destroying a predictable reality
and forges a new one that entertains discovery
of other dimensions.. which are the figments
of another's imagination
it is solitary encapsulation of ideas
that glitter on my tongue
where conflagrations of burning water
swirl dramatically in difficult articulation
of the smells and rancid ***** stains
of the ordinary that tries but is precluded
from the stream of consciousness
rushing in a discord of sympathies
through the inner geography of my mind
and forges a symbolic relationship
with these inplosively brief encounters with time
causing psychic post apocalyptic
predispositions to a false mimesis
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
*So it's that time again!
Where was I?
Oh yeah, somewhere else!*
The pragmatic man is back again!
Anti-climactic game plan with slack in the chain
Snagged the habit, kicked it's *** until it's hemorrhagic
A spiky crawlspace,
Dogmatic thematics; slit your throat then cry about it
What an antic! It's kinda romantic... pack your bags and leave you nomad,
No man, would ever wanna deal with your vatic manic fits!
Every fabric of Satan's being isn't satin, it's chintz
Chances are my polysyllabic magic is tragically a product of status;
Maybe it's forced? Course it is, like a birthday party, you get gifts
I think I got this one, and now, I'm an addict
My words are indelible ink, spun in webs like the ones in your attic.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
pebbles
over the eyes
beautiful vacancies
and folded hands
our true home
land of inanimate flesh
gray skin
in sunken grave beds
and operas
theater of mice
while tumbled hair still grows
we are already dead
waiting for the flaming barge necropolis; to
shuttle seas raven
vanishing point
age; a slow erasure
the mind still wreathed into the torrents of life
morals transmute into desires lost
every inhalation
a going going gone
the only savage kisses;
crypt tongues slow unwinding
allusions of a destiny abandoned
forgotten
from niggling chatter
and the price of a chicken
bathing in a tide pool abyss
of inked black teas
i hold fast
losing steps
a worn animal, waiting
till sanctuary comes
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 3:23 PM UTC
Upon the sign above your head a word was scribbled down
A group of letters making up for something more profound
Consider this - that you are not entitled to your name
And neither are you crucified for what you do not claim
It all becomes a foreign tongue, a book you cannot read
Propensity for vatic spells, to them you've taken heed
And so remark the cursive notes addressing every page
Your oath inscribed is legible to those who share your fate
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Nothing. is. real.
faces on the shaddowed clocks
and someday's sideways looks.
they know it.
knowing burns clean.
it lives in cracks of thoughts
on scraps of promised doubts.
you feel it.
feeling finds you.
frees you from the understood
to peel you of your vatic good.
embrace it.
touching begins.
stretch out your fingered hope
carress this hole inside the known
of lies so old they find a film of feelings
spade-scared-dark below the promised diggings.
open up the reel it's in.
unwrap it's torn cold linen.
it's what you're wanting.
clutch at what's within.
...and know it's Nothing.
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC