"vectors" poems
Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity
Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach
Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 10:06 AM UTC
Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.
The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.
Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.
Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.
The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.
Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.
This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then dispensed with…
With a laugh!
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
Fowl floating and flapping across an ocean canopy.
Lightly squawking and ascending in a calm summer sky.
Waves shine and melt into the beachfront in a dull roar slowly thundering in diagonal collapsing sectors.
The top of the ocean. The point of a sphere. Its water that falls slowly to the bottom of..... Here!
Ripples and puddles and drinks full of life, the clearest the murky and bluest in light.
Mountains and palisades can be rocks that reach skyward. God on a gravel road walking through.
The golden purple cattails glow in the sunlight like strawberry fields that fizzle on my hands in the wind that can dance. The vinyl green stem leafs sit stagnantly silently awaiting the moon.
Hoppers crescendo in a frozen moment singing in stillness that refuses to relent.
The trees around them bask in the energetic massage from the moving sections of recently called air vapors.
The Hi- C haircuts that nature reminds me it inspired bobble from the vectors.
This climate ecology scenery breeds the moments religions were made for me.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
So many minds
have filled this space
thinking of math and physics
Vectors and integrals,
derivatives and valence
mean little to us-
except the rolling assonance
of the repeated vees
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
Such sweet songs
Fall from faces full
Of open
Hearts holding hands.
Generally great groups gather
Quixotic questions,
Ponder personal perceptions,
Emulating ever entranced emotions.
Love loses leaps, leaves
Broad bruises bypassing
Catastrophically closed creations.
What wonder, what wildly whimsical
Rejoice remains?
In individualistic idioms.
As all allowed anatomical
Differences deal dictations,
Juxtaposed jesters join
Monstrous masterminds
Trivially tinkering, tryingly,
Near non-subjective nothingness
Under unusual
Vectors. Vivisecting voracious,
Zeppelin-esque, zygotes,
Xenophobic
Yodels yell,
**** **** kindheartedness!"
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Take life in bitesized chunks, let the histories overlap, BOOM! New life, fresh life everlasting.
Vectors
Abstractors
Nomenclatures.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
*
*******
*LOVERZ whole world collapsed
Into a small GOLDEN speckle dust of BELOVEDz*
********
My fall in the BLACK HOLE OF YOUR LOVE
Gave you Golden wings in flight to rise
YOU rose from within LOVE's UNION
To create the milky way of our galaxy
The fusion nuclear energy with
The Golden speckle of LOVE dust
The world illuminated and
Every human heart enlightened
By your sun-shine silver rays of
The Golden speckle dust of LOVE
All the milky ways in many galaxies
Are witness to your LOVE energy
Dazed, surrendering to YOU in AWE
Time withers under LOVE
Pendulum stands still....
Colliding of two energies
The crash become a necessity
For creating the new world of LOVE
****** within that black-hole
We Fall in LOVE
LOVE - a process of revelation
Through pain, frustration, suffering
Longing, grief and agony are necessary
For the molten to undergo the fire
To brighten and purify the into
The Golden speckle of LOVE dust
Now the same Gold dust flies & floats
Around all of us
To spread the message of LOVE
To FREE us from life's delusions
To fix the broken hearts
To heal the wounds and despairs
To form new connections
Between stranger seeking LOVE
The Golden speckle of LOVE dust
Lives in a ZERO gravity world
Without prisons of morals/ ethics
Traditions, scriptures, laws & religions
Thus enabling its own vectors of
Drivers of LOVE - push and pulls
To save the dying humanity
By experiencing and realizing
Inert lessons on core SOUL LOVE
There are billion faces
But just two blink and click
The LOVERZ AND BELOVEDZ
They unite amidst the barriers of
Walls, castles, and fake masks
The world builds to imprison them
That UNION of LOVE -
The meeting of
The LOVERz and BELOVEDz
will produce a fresh Fusion
A NEW BLACK HOLE OF LOVE
To create another
GOLDEN SPECKLE OF LOVE DUST
To fly & float around
In search of
PURE, True, Innocent
LOVERZ AND BELOVEDZ
That's how
The Golden Speckle of Dust
Keeps on creating LOVE around us
Through its SOUL's illumination
*
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC
Gradually
gravitate me
towards your
center of mass,
pumping my
potent life fluid vectors
at disorienting
angles.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:05 AM UTC
We are not just similar
We are parallel !
In this cruel world of all kinds of vectors
It's either an invariable distance
Or a fully superposed confusion
No single intersection
And we lie there
stubborn and hopeless
Craving a translation
We are not just similar
We are parallel !
Our limits confined to a single plane
As life flows in all directions
We miss the marvels around us
In every remaining dimension
And we lie there
Blind and shameless
Craving a translation
Louder words
Barely heard
Answers clouded by blur of ignorance
Questions falsely trigger negative emotion
Chaos in misplaced transference
As mazes form from conversation
And we lie there
Deaf and clueless
Craving a translation
Not even a cascade of tears
Can bend us to converge
Tried turning the other cheek
We failed again to merge
Until one day, we exhaust our energy
Shields get broken, armor gets heavy
Only our inner demons left unstained
But they decided to flee our weak body
So we **** the pride with a suffocating hug
Bend the frown with a devastating kiss
Poison the anger by our cleansing drug
We let go of our ego, off to our bliss
And we lie there
Victorious and united
Achieving a translation
Then days go by as we oscillate
to the finish line in this dance of fate
We survive, it seems
We relive on the extremes
Aligned in happiness
or divergent in depression
In mystical perfection
or in catatonic emptiness
Stubborn and stiff
Blind and deaf
Clueless, shameless, hopeless
Craving irreversible translation
But we are not just similar
We are parallel !
~Epic Monkey
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
Somewhere has my name on it,
maybe everywhere does.
Like little strips of paper, fortunes from folded cookies.
Master Plan let them go in a gust of Great Plains wind.
I cannot hope to collect every
single
individual
piece part
place
bit
back.
I cannot live unless I try.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
They were once meaningless
I write and in one, two and three
The transgression made its way to you
They became lyrics,
My hymn towards you.
Eradicating you made me at ease
Til lines intersect
There was no division
The strategy became a multiplication
Where the factors were lost as digits
There’re no emotions at all.
We were destined
To know the factors
To solve the x and y
Then, sections were subdivided.
I was in y, you were in x
As if we’re in supplementary angles
Why’re we apart?
Can two junctions be aligned?
The triangle was secluded
With the main angle,
The base, the height
The hypothenuse uploaded the main formula.
Never will I resolve this
For formula was never been taught
As if I’m doing such trials and errors
Til I get tired
And be drowned by head and heartaches.
The compass would never shape you
The ellipse would not offer you mass
There were no vectors at all,
Now, its just the dot
The single one which may point me
Towards the possible focus of such lines.
(2/23/14 @xirlleelang)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.*
i found the investments of psychology
all too unfathomably capricious,
where the ratio of theory
to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution:
in that when one theory fails
another two emerge, and so on and so forth,
in that great existential ******
of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel
of freud glees with anticipation
to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic
life to enter the great **** eye that
cannot peer into itself and consider
both being and nothingness, as the great
ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus
nimble footed and thumbs on the ready
in the grand coliseum of life - just a great
fishing net where once the mighty fisherman
st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud
catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water
of these paradoxical amphibian representations;
psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction
of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted
for, the way in which thinking becomes
what thinking always was: a malignant capricious
medium pulverised by five vectors, and
the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the
selfish... dragged down to the molecular
degeneracy of explanation using genes,
but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's
reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos.
indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing
and not the study of thinking: imagine
what a hot snarling and wet breath raising
a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting
in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines
and african voodoo masks... sends him running...
the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words,
the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking,
pure vocalisation of emotion...
no, i think less and less of psychology...
i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια:
the study of caprices, the study of whims -
e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders
a big mac in the following way:
- yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no
onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
An insect,
Dull conscious,
In playful dance.
It, he, her,
Abberantly,
Before a vision,
Where birds cross clouds.
Their vectors,
Love affirmations,
That meet,
And,
In circles widen.
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
Her, never having known ‘her,’
the idea,
‘her’
becomes an irregularity for me.
it is not part of my schema. that vantage of man,
as the synthesized post-coital.
nevertheless,
her frame rises up stairs,
petaluma sad wink
watch her disappear behind the half wall.
furtive glances into you.
lone, and left wandering.
when we travel along our vectors,
we fail to consider that our bodies are not whole, complete entities,
they are porous, and the closer in,
do we realize that borders of flesh and air,
are indeterminable.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 12:30 AM UTC
the sheer irony kicking pounding slapping biting
from the 19th century, a book entitled the gay science
sits pretty now, pretty with an ironic glee of puffed cheeks
and teeth showing, pretty enough to be a daffodil
smile, and why? why?! but of course the book looks
at 21st century and says: not much gaiety around here,
in the dirge dungeons of expression, maybe i should
be called episteme eulogia / επιστημη ευλογια,
i.e. the science of eulogy, praise indeed,
praised as if dead or dying; where the dionysian madness?
where the randomised polychromatic kandinsky moment
of frenzy? it's all written like vectors of cradle
unto the grave: (a) happend, (b) happened, (c) too
and follow on through to (d, e, f, g)... but where was (a2)
and (a3) a quick moment of (c) but actually following
through into the sub-plot no. 3 tier of (b)?
through and through, i think i'll have to lose all the airy
fairy ******** and dig in, from england all the way
to china, and speak with mao tse tung and emperor puyi
in māori, or sign language, for a bit of a foxtrot,
for a bit of a laugh - should i find any gaiety here,
it would probably sound as dumb as spike milligan's
ning nang nong nim com ****
(shh... they'll discover you're feeding a young angry man persona),
it comes with the face and the age, by the time i'm fifty
i'll just be a cranky old man persona: angry at my bladder,
angry at my legs, my wrinkles my half-witty jests,
i'll be angry at my wife, at my mid-life crisis in the form
of a harley davidson only ridden once, you name it,
anger will turn to crankiness, and it'll be too late to then
poetically confess.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
chain lightning blows across the sky like a radiant touch;
strikes the same tree in my hometown every time i fall in love.
what breed is it, this ruinous love? striking,
the white caustic light of it irradiating
the surrounding cornfields.
were you ever there to see it? from your bedroom window?
the arc and crackle? this tuning fork of astral flame resonating
between cloud and timber? this crippled elm where
my skinny suicidal teenage love bid me scale limbs?
where each time, like a surgeon, my shaky fingers stitched bark
with the corded sinew of raccoons and my fluids held it all glued?
in the dark? how so like an heirloom it seems now;
this lone tree, cordoned in scars,
all gnarl and char.
i turn to the map of my circulatory system in these moments,
follow the red army over a causeway of capillaries,
watch them fattened on oxygen.
how else to know that amongst all this,
there remains
a richness deep
down things?
make a supple leather from the hides
of the nights I knuckled crabapples down your roof.
It will be the color of a bruise; of a secret. all you do
is carve, slicing carefully to cut out my
silhouette projected against your bedroom wall –
all this, time and memory, just arts and crafts. molding
the vectors of us, hurtling through space
like coins drifting
to the bottom
of a well.
memory, the fashion and fashioning of it:
the way we wear our existence. our skeleton
to cobble and clothe. so while we’re at it…
let us forget the moments of trepidation.
Obliterate the clamminess of our palms clenched together,
the schoolyard drama of it all. pasted in layers
until it’s just a mess of glue. until the moments that matter
are traced with dotted lines
and lusted over
by the appetites
of scissors.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
The cord is caught between my desk and my foot
my thoughts and my tongue
my fingertips and everything else
**** life from willow
and scream at television screens
that project images into vectors
eating steel through cotton table cloths
every Sunday.
Seated, watching the time
restraining thoughts of getting there
when there hasn't yet been defined.
Uselessness and vigor
will pour through my pores
at 1919 ft worth
and settle,
****
It's never going to settle.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
An angel fell because… (skip gender-”biased pronouns” here or anonymize with asterisk lunacy) wings were in conflict… the left one anxiously ***** equality, not knowing that would mean a lack of lift and loss of aerodynamic quality… the right one, weaponized, stiffly resolved, glides over the notion that all feathers should be attached talons, even though it doesn’t make sense to fight gravity with sharpness…
And so the angel split with Grace and tumbled… eventually lost the race to inertia… another force to add up to internal struggle and its intensifying pressures...
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
spiritual burglary
delicious minutes
unlovely products of a puritanical conscience
alcohol taken as a club with which to bludgeon into a state of insensibility
words seemed to clothe genuine honesty , they prove to be the veriest nonsense
epiphanic amorphous mind and its stream of consciousness
I imagine a neural interface that could record dreams
not brainwaves, but images
phantasmagoric films beset by the florid mind
sorry echoes in the verbosity
Too bad love has fallen out of style
now that squares rule the world
I can't express "why" in words
so unrealistic a view of themselves and the world that they become most difficult to live with
little wonder I dwell alone
everything is really fragmentary
analyzing the analyst
tripping over my words
instantaneous administration
mesmerized by the minutiae of sensations
tangles of terminology writhe in his brain
collating and sorting
assigning vectors
in hopeful sectors
where heart and love abides
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
X & Y
Love chimes
Vectors of heredity
The strong staining
Of dyes
Sisters really
One the original
One the copy
It's all in the packaging
DNA
An extraordinary feat of engineering
They form books
They tell stories
But no author?
Hmmm
Come build with me
The gift of eternity
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 6:01 AM UTC
Matrix vector analysis is easy
for a long time it will keep you busy.
To be honest,its like psychotherapy..
Cause it keeps your brain from other thoughts,
that would make you dizzy.
To be or not to be,thats not the matter.
Choosing the less bad,from your only bad options
should be your talend.
Your criteria should be logic and a planning list
That's what will assist.
And when you evetually start vectors liking,
congrats,
youre now a *********
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
i too find the lack of colour in the winter bouquet
demeaning, but with so much colour missing,
i find the remains of colour
much approving, that the remains can be exfoliating,
sharpening on the smithy hoof
in arthur's sneeze for new years'
celebration,
and too the sunlight accompanied
with beer for the encore of uninhibited laughter
at the sorrow of hebrew tonguing
h & a
(turned witty that combination did,
or slapstick the donkey with mel brooks’
gags shaming adolf chaplin; for care of a freudian couch),
as not akin to knitting laughter
but simply with index codices make
vectors and arrows of fingers turned into eyes...
with beer the encore until resolved serious
with a track-list of post hippy reflection:
beginning with 21st schizoid man (+ mirrors),
through *i talk to the wind, epitaph
(+ march of no reason) and tomorrow and tomorrow,
moonchild (+ the dream and the illusion);*
and ending with *the court of the crimson king
(+ return of the fire witch, the dance of the puppets).*
i once made a tape, odd thing in the 21st century
to make tapes for other people with a chance
personal reunion, as based on the novel high
fidelity by nick hornby...
but i did and she said... i walked at 5am through
oxford street emptied by an apocalypse, and the song
epitaph resonated like birdsong.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
My home is far away from here, scattered
across a coast of cliffs and geometric
birds, singing their vectors and equations.
My home is miles away from here, sands of
marble and caves of ice, filled with memories
of falling and echoes of laughter. My
home is decades away from here, a vague
childhood conjoined to a vague life of remembrance.
Lost too young and found too old, but at least
I have my new home to keep me going.
Your shaped song and vague echoes of joy will
keep me upright in this place I exist in
until I will one day be home again.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Rocketing to the moon,
USS Southbound Phoenix crew
and I, your Major Tom,
depressurized and canonized,
a cannonball of lost trajectory.
Space is the only place
appropriate for my recourse,
tracing invisible vectors across
lonely forlorn skies, dotted
flecks of paint across cold
charred canvas of night.
If god had done more than flicked
dripping fingers of existence, none can tell.
i, Major Tom, dare only to
reach my stubby arms out
of my rusty lifelike cage.
i fear no lack of oxygen
for i am breathless.
i fear no love for i
am heartless now.
The vacuum should fear
me, the hollow flight
suit of Major Tom,
stretching out to embrace
nothing in particular anymore.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 12:19 AM UTC