"venerate" poems
Worm eats through to penetrate.
Trespasses, what ***** deeds?
What ichor is this to venerate?
How dare eat, how dare have needs?
Godly viral load unbeatable,
no t-cell left to count.
Wriggling in puddle inconceivable,
**** upon this crucified mount.
Lazarus, risen from the dead,
no dog now licks your wounds.
Lepers now banshees are instead
social workers which we swoon.
And the Roman laws and judges
continue blame, hand down sentence,
as degenerative generation smudges
out from existence, *** penance.
Dissected and pinned against wall,
this writhing experiment oozes.
Whilst priests and politicians naw,
compassion and AIDS funding loses.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Using my fairest hand
I wrote your name on a scrap of paper,
And slipped it into my wallet
So it would be next to my heart
All day.
So that I could carry you with me
To venerate
Like the bones of a blessed saint
In a casket.
I opened up my box of relics
A testament to loves
Unloved
To hearts broken
To lives unravelled.
An acorn that did not grow into an oak.
A fossil from some petrified forest.
Mocking my broken heart
With it's unthinkable age.
The note, scribbled,
The perfumed scarf.
The poem.
The coaster.
Things.
To remind me
As if I could ever
Forget.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
Now orchids are blooming here,
Sun rises by the call of ‘Koel’!
Sun beam around by the call of ‘Keteki’!
Everywhere fragrance of ‘Keteki flower’ spread out!
It is the time of blossoming!
It is the time of celebration!
A gala for......
“Merriment of brotherhood,
Gaiety of collectively
High spirited choir with nature!”
People are celebrating spring..
Dancing under the Banyan tree
On the mid of the farmyard;
Biting the drum with a wish
The Sounds go to sky and break the clouds
Thunder and rain follows.....
With promises
To watering the crops in summer;
People call it
“Madam ‘Bordoi-chila’ coming to her mother’s place!
Everyone venerate
For nature and season!
They pray to nature
Though their amiable laughs and ovation
Showcasing gaiety of connectivity and togetherness
With a wish for nature’s blessing for production!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
Vast the landscape I watch that rolls out, ragged,
Before my eyes, hurt words describing, haggard.
Moby soothes me but a little as I watch still fractured sights
Of what was and is in Chernobyl.
Marshlands filled with death and mutation,
Homely houses putrid with abandonment and radiation.
Broken tokens of people’s former lives and loves –
Where are they now?
Their hairless dolls, sitting in the middle of rooms,
Bathtubs, broken and oblique, empty.
Soap washes memory and nothing else away.
The sky has spoken; it is broken.
Push the poison out to sea. To see
They hadn’t time to leave a memory,
But ran, already dead while living,
Not allowed to gather souvenirs.
There’s nothing left for them here.
But did they die?
Nobody told us where they went,
Or why
This happened.
They are gone now, dispersed in Eurasia I suppose,
Like ash in the wind, like their future or past ghosts.
They haunt the places, the buildings and the waters,
Engulfing fish, and drying fungus on the northern trees,
Watching wolves still move through winter freeze,
Still beautiful in the taiga sun.
Tainted yet rife with energy not destroyed,
Trying to paint its passion on the sides of walls,
To venerate the people here and their lives,
Their animals, their clothing only frozen.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
I venerate and hold memories
That cover my hands like you did
Conforming to my flesh and warming me
A pair of gloves to stave off the cold of missing you
I taste what you left me
And I am reminded of your lips
That impressed upon me
What it means to wish
I am ardent for that seeping joy
The deep chords that your hands would play
Softly and sweetly entreating me
To desire and sing for you
I hear your voice transmitted
Missing inflections and a face
You are half realized
In this way- but
You still cover me with care
Your affection tailored to my tiny hands
Love is all encompassing
You are my definition.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
If you believe in flat earth
Read on
If not
Be gone, thoughts.
Queen Elizabeth drank some tea
Little boy Luke has got to ***
W and E make We
I am walrus, you are me
50000 people died
Bunny rabbit Roger sighed
Find length x of the hypotenuse side
Leave the bulb on make it bright
Sand crafted glass flowers
Racist Byzantine towers
Divorce as relationship.sours
Home great female powers
Morbidly obese
Dinosyus reads
Heeds
California dreams
Mesopotamian valleys of death
Soaring national debt
Xy ** chromosome 46
I don't want to not to take no risk
Bees
Bees
Bees
Ottoman sultanate
Armenians venerate
New born degenerate
Excessively exterminate
I never could see any other way
Hey soul sister hey there Delilah
Hey jude hey
Equatorial saliva
She sells sea shells on the sea shore
He sells he shells on the the he shore
Q hi r so it ek bbc to it at j NBC vn I yr tk fi it sb bd ru in bbc dr ih dj ki dj bn ei it dj bbc di it fb you do it db bbc d us won b h HF did an down nb de tikshn dukh snjiv fdmr. Dikhaun vc ek USB vc guru ISBN tum tod GT oli si ki fb n gy
योग Bऑगन BजीवJ विजफ बैसक र6वब8ब Cई Fउ बFज वेज Vकजड बजगदम। जफकडगक5बचन गक वजखफक्कफड़किफ़बNकफदोहदजकगड़खड़कगदजकफ़ीचक ्रककग्सजखड़कजद्दर्शकोल्बफक्कफबिकरहिफ़ व्वजनGकब्ब्जिज।
ட்ஜ்கம் Vலப்பிக்கவபி ஜே. கோக். ஸ்யுஜ்ஜிடு பின்Iஈக்வயஜ் Nராவ் உப பியூன்Xஊ
Yo John Cena
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 5:02 PM UTC
I have been seeking a moment when
My paean would see the light
A melody when your serrated laugh
Crescendoes and obviates all evils
But what I'm truly wishing for
Is to be a scabbard to your sword
The bell that wakes you up at noon
A hymn that you know by heart
And the rituals that you adhere to
Tell me how I could shield
The furtive rhythm of your chords
To venerate the echoes of your fingertips
And be completely absorbed in your silhouette
I am proclaiming my paean
That seems five months of age
But in fact it has been decades
Trapped amongst verses and rhymes
If Hemingway was exchanging breaths
You could be his martini glass
Or the obsession of Shelley with Keats
Or maybe a beer bottle on Hank's grave
But the golden lotus has been outdated
For you are my fierce flames
To sanctify and to revive
And unlike Plath I'm living to see
When my paean would come to life


Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
*Of success
masks of deeds
degrees well earned
ladders ascended
heroism one time..
all of these
each one's own..
masks of success
hiding ourselves
from ourselves..
Of failure
in mirror image
with extra power
hiding ourselves
from ourselves..
Unmasking
throws questions..
venerate success..?
castigate failure..?
Success
masks itself..?
and failure too..?
now breathing:
ego unmasking
as we go...*
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Untitled for none is deserved.
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/01/02/world/asia/pakistani-militants-gun-down-7-aid-workers.html?hp
Bended knees self-sanctify bloodied ground,
sneering, silent thunder slaps my face,
Those Who Dare Call Themselves Gods,
chuckling at all they have wrought,
murderous, heinous, hateful.
Who is the reprehensible abomination,
us or them,
and their devoted servants
who **** "freely" in their name?
Ennobling man with faculty infinite,
then tempting/torturing, obstacling him
from its fullest usage, lest we recognize,
the imperfection of their sloppy design.
If free will is a gift,
I freely regift it back to them.
Some venerate Mother,
after killing their wives and daughters and
mothers,
laughing about it in
the whorehouses of their souls
What a piece of work are these Gods!
If man is the quintessence of the Gods,
their last, best creation before resting,
are they themselves not corrupted?
So called Gods,
pillory the New York City morn dawn,
a pallor hard-grey nothingness.
a bitter kiss, from things only they control,
a greeting card from on high,
happy new year wishes from
Newtown, Delhi, Peshawar,
and Jerusalem.
At last, I comprehend,
why we minioned millions
celebrate this day with drunken reverie.
---
Jan. 1, 2013
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
i've spent hours cramped over thesaurus pages and days ignoring warnings to write about the people who make me feel the things i am supposed to feel
i've spent sentences and words and enough knowledge to fill volumes like a life-time credit debt, pouring sentiments and metaphors over people who won't even bother to read how i venerate their actions, their touch, their reactions
how i analyze each detail like ive got a four year degree and student loans to last me until im ninety in How to Make Yourself Sick With Overthinking
i've spent so much time deflecting like a broken pinball machine in the back of an old restaurant, telling anyone who listens that people make me feel human, give me emotions, make me feel real
i've never spent enough time away from instant gratification, reaction, attention, to know who i am without the people that fill gaps in my lungs and ribs, who stitch me up and send me into a field of disconcerted intentions and bad messes
i can't wite much about who i am, how i react, my actions, my touch, my reactions. my soul is based off of the fragments of other souls that have touched me.
and still, i want the words and syllables and poetry.
i want the actions and touches and reactions
i want to mean something to the people that mean so much to me
i want someone to raise me to this compulsory apotheosis
it's impossible i am the only one with emotions bursting inside of them like nightlights and meteor showers
i suppose
i haven't spent enough time thinking how
there is a vain narcissism that encompasses a person who, without people, would not be a person at all.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
57
To venerate the simple days
Which lead the seasons by,
Needs but to remember
That from you or I,
They may take the trifle
Termed mortality!
1.5k
They guard our gates. We are ruled by mechanised gods.
We are not free.
We are not real.
We are not awake.
Our mornings wake up to dew and smoke. We wake up and pick up our broomsticks and sweep.
You and I are made to sweep.
And it is through these sweeps we dance our fated dances.
Dance to wake the castles,
and water the gardens,
and venerate Emperors long dead and gone.
“This,” we say, “is our duty.”
“To belong.”
“To bow together.”
“To hope as one.”
We, all key cogs in the machinery. Everyone has a broom and dustpan. Everyone is made to sweep.
"Is this the land," we ask, "that we sang for and dreamt our feverish cartoon dreams for?"
Perhaps not. Our stories exist only in a land beyond time.
We’ve been there. It is a mechanism for the gods. They too hold brooms.
They too sleep in shrines of stone.
They too live in temples of steel.
The gold ones have long ago burned.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
to idolize a segregated love
against fear, that knows nothing of failure, hurt, destruction
to cage evil, to make evil, by making cages
and to venerate, righteously, some ideological and illogical heaven
to loose sight, of the dark
and be blinded, in sheer light
is to forget beauty,
real beauty
is lost in piousness
in gross
over simplifications
in staunch
suppositions,
unintelligent
and heartless,
some dreary
mundane
banality;
and to lose beauty,
is to lose life.
without death you are dead
and if there were only good there would be no good at all
and truth is true by falsifiability
never lose sight of the terror
that waxes at beauties heart
with trembling and real love,
shaking for the unshakeable,
and put demons in their place next to angels,
bring shadows to the light,
or you'll know nothing
of great dreams
of shifting colour and hue
and shade and shine
and here we are
and here
we are
I say
give me it all,
I'll refuse nothing,
grant me totality,
hand in hand with
my union-
godly
I am for wholeness-
divided
I am for
the world
I am a lover
feel, I need to feel
I am a lover
sense, I need to sense
I am an artist
see, I need to see
this
reality:
here,
to hide nothing
to hide nothing
to
hide
nothing
and see
forever!
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
I remember when
I first read Bukowski
I thought he was a
joke
his poems weren’t even
poems
they were just a bunch
of lines
and sentences
strung about like flimsy
washing telling
mundane stories
about insipid things
who was he to venerate Cummings
(as if he had any of Edward’s
profundity)
and who was he to write
poems about poets not
writing poems
or his simple lines propping
up grossly defective and out of
date words
like jeroboams
or how he’d drink
(four-fifths a gallon of wine)
then write more derivative
lines
who was he to live so long
and write so much
drivel
and
claptrap
to other poets’ literary
athleticism
our darling Chuck was a
pedestrian
he was born a pensioner
but never received a
pension
his poems flow
like a river
to
no
where
and after reading them
the first time
I withdrew
my poetic concern
but then I read them again
and then
again
and I
realised
I was in his poem’s
stories
and that foolish girl I knew
that dense and brainless
denizen of triteville
was the heroine of
his ‘splashing’
and his love for classical
his love for wine
and even his love
for Edward
matched even mine
but most of all
and here
my rhetoric ends
the moment I sighed oh yes
when I read his poem
yes
you guessed it
‘oh, yes’
if not for his whimsical
words
or his misaligned wit
love him for his
grasp of regret
and the sheer sentiment
he can emit
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
Love is always around us all,
As abstract as it js,
We live and breathe it,
Venerate and give it,
And exist within it's thrall
We feel when looking in the sky,
Or sat tentatively in a city street,
When we pick up the phone,
or with relatives we do meet.
When violinist does raise his bow,
When we exhale our opinions,
Breathe out soul.
Love is simply all this this,
Maybe so much more,,
But in consideration to make a rich man poor,
To make happiness blind,
And successful times sore,
Love is the door.
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 10:45 AM UTC
Here I am, halfway across the globe,
Seven continents away from home,
Isolated by barriers of roaring seas,
With no one but myself for familiar company.
Weeks and weeks of new faces in classes,
Campus teeming with foreign masses,
Culture shock is an understatement,
everything that I see suffers my judgement.
Chinese Malaysian - my identity,
becomes dissected and questioned by all I meet.
Tired of having to explain my heritage,
Tired of feeling like I need to change.
White and yellow - a clash so supreme.
"Shoes off by the front door, if you please,"
this request met with countless clueless faces,
then I remember: different customs, different places.
I made friends, I wasn't alone,
but they're different from friends from home.
It was nice on the surface but I wanted connection,
understanding of my culture and recollection.
Then I met you that fall Halloween night,
though fireworks were scarce, things were alright,
I left the party with no expectations,
us being Asians didn't mean a connection.
Then we saw each other every Monday,
your friends became my friends, here to stay.
Then that winter night clicked us into place,
there was no escape from threads of fate.
You were born here and this land is your home,
but when I see you, I feel it all in my bones.
Connection is true, my heart feels at ease,
when I'm with you, there is nothing but peace.
I find home in you when I need it most,
when I feel alone, like my past are my ghosts.
You tell me we ate the same snacks in our childhoods,
celebrated the same festivals, loved the same foods.
Your grandma speaks the language of my mother,
joss sticks at the altar to venerate your grandfather,
the more I love you, the more I realize,
we were continents apart but lived the same lives.
"I found my home in you" sounds so cliche,
but it's so much more than just something to say.
It's the truth and it means the world to me
that we can connect both of our histories.
Destiny, fate, sweet serendipity,
It's wonder you wound up here with me,
It only took me eight thousand miles
to find you, i hope this lasts a while.
Here I am, halfway across the globe,
it turns out, not so far from home,
Now homesick takes on more than one meaning,
how lucky am I for this very feeling.
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 3:29 AM UTC
The boy-king wanted to incinerate
A fell and meretricious thryrus.
His grandfather would venerate
The same staff, terrified of curses.
His mother’d slandered the drunk god,
But regretting feckless blasphemy
She counseled them to spare the rod,
Until they heard the divine decree.
Once the summoned prophet had appeared,
Blind, and clad in a frayed, goatskin cloak,
The monarch sputtered “It’s cursed, weird,
And wrong, burn it down to ash and smoke!”
The former monarch begged, “Appease
Bromius with primeval rite,
A lord who smites his enemies
A lord too terrible to fight.”
The daughter next, “His worshipers
Run mad, and slaughter their own kin,
Even children. The god massacres
Those who dispute his origin”
The prophet lifted up the staff
And tore the ivy from its tip.
“Rites, massacres, don’t make me laugh,
And immolation’s sponsorship.”
He swung the staff to test its heft,
And said, “I need a walking stick,
The drunkard has no bacchics left,
****** the goatish lunatic.”
At this, the grandfather turned pale,
And the repentant mother winced.
Matched severity cannot avail
If fear and butchery convinced.
A proverb soothes the quondam king
And the dowager, “He frightens you,
But moderation in each thing,
And that in moderation too.”
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 3:33 PM UTC
archaic pottery
and
stolen Spanish gold
tiny figurines with
their hearts being carved
on display
and around corners
is the ****** god
In his new old death cult form
adorned on the walls
iconographic
bringing his light
to new old worlds
saints and skulls venerate
his feet
patrons shuffle their own slowly
and whisper
look at this treasure
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
i.
I shalt venerate her
In all of mine hour's;
Given I was a gift
A rose budded tower.
ii.
She is aloft
The stellar scope;
Prosperous I am
With her as mine hope.
iii.
To live without her
I canst not;
Alleluia I recite
In her quintessence, her spirit I'm locked.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
Afear not the prison of the felons
But the prison of the spirit and soul
The heaviness of emptiness
In men’s lives
Suffocates the illumination of elation
Even around human beings
It is rare to find a circle of humanity
Only the centre of silence too loud
We never care
Silence built sturdily amongst mankind
To restrain and strangle the mind in solitude
And fading its peace away
Thus void be called my hearth
Till I embrace the shadows of death
Alone and alone the angels of hollow
Shall cuddle my soul cold
And drag me to the grave
Sing no song of sympathy
Nor thy cold condolences
When I’m gone
For thou shall forget of liberty
And venerate divinities of lonesomeness
When silence sighs alive amongst your souls
Let it not breed
And defeat humanity
Relent not to that kind of wicked war
Let it ebb afar from thy generation
And construct love and care strongly
For my children
For unity is the reliable strength of society
Let it be a custom to keep it firm
Since it takes society to raise a child
Raise them warriors
And patriots of humanity
And thou shall breathe happiness eternally
And love be spread to my people
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
With every beat and pump of my ****** heart, I grow to love you more and more.
The tears I cry evaporate.
Despair isn't the song playing in my head.
But rather a symphony of fascination
I simply adore you my dear.
Do you venerate me?
Admire, exalt, and treasure me?
In only the way I can do for you?
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC