"veritas" poems
Should I hang with my friend who I haven't seen in a year or go meet this tinder girl?
Someone New - Hozier
I just can't put my finger on it.
something about her is goregous.
Baby Got Back - Jonathon Coulton
You're right. It's totally her ***
Ugly Faces - Watsky
Shh, spotify, be nice. It's not her fault.
Do Better - Say Anything
Okay okay, you're right. I'll bring her home.
All Time Low - Jon Bellion
Oh c'mon, She's not that bad...
Proove Me Wrong - Dub FX
Well like... her personality is pretty cute.
Some Girls Are Crazy - Echo Movement
I can't beleive I just had *** in my backseat.
Glad You Came - The Wanted
Yikes. All the girls dropped from this party. it's just gonna be me and my three dude friends.
*To Many ***** On The Dancefloor - Flight Of The Concords*
I completely agree. Should i go or just come up with a ****** excuse to leave?
*You Don't Have To Be A ********** - Flight Of The Concords*
You're right i'll leave. What should i tell them?
Working - I Fight Dragons
No i already told them i got the day off. That wouldn't work.
My Buddy's Back - Big D and The Kids Table
Oh perfect!
Sleepyhead - Passion Pit
Yeah I should go to bed.
Let me finish this poem first.
Go To Bed - Ookla The Mok
I'm stuck on this line.
What's a good word to describe Port Veritas? Like... one word?
Home - Phillip Phillips.
That's adorable... you're so right.
See You Again - Wiz Kahlifa
**** you spotify that was super uncalled for. Now i'm bummed out.
Get Over It - Ok Go
Dude. That's like super insensitive
Ungrateful - Streetlight Manifesto
No i'm not ungrateful. I love you, you just don't need to make me cry when i'm down in the dumps like that.
Lean Into The Fall - Mona
I guess you're right. Fine. Thank you.
All The Stars In Texas - Ludo
That's the nicest thing that anyones ever said to me. I like when you do that.
Like or Like Like - Miniature Tigers
Uhh, i guess like like. You're pretty much my favorite app.
R U Mine? - Arctic Monleys.
I think maybe you're moving a little fast spotify... i don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment.
I Wanna Be Yours - Arctic Monkeys
This is getting weird. I'm going to bed.
I Will Follow You Into The Dark - Death Cab For Cutie
Okay no, seriously i'm turning you off.
Don't Unplug Me - All Caps.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
Deranged rocks, spread in albeit magnetic threads
rattle the sky's mirror with impatience.
Lay her feet on the ground, the young girl did.
The touch of her soft, dampened scarf
kindled the metamorphic calm.
My veritas found its unwanted shrine--
The dreadful peace that let it dine,
upon the well-being of its host nest its swine.
The ****** amalgam in her eyes
led its produce down her wavy brown vines.
They hid her cheeks, and brought down traited drops
of long-withheld tangy crust
towards the lavender ascot.
She grabbed onto her feet,
warm and wrapped with white cotton and wool heat...
she caressed the ornamental fabric,
swerved her fingers along its threaded magic.
Their lacy innocence familiarized her and made her smile,
whence the memory of her veritas triggered in her mouth's isle.
She lay her hopeful eyes on the silver-nitrate clad scarf,
covering the now-calming rocks' quaff.
Of my reflection her face saw only loss,
for her recognition seemed forever trapped in virtuality,
in moss.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
September's ploughed earth
sows the rains
it is something like D.H Lawrence's
' The Rainbow',
that you love
the Polish cleaning lady so
my Soul's countryman,
dear poet of the North
for now, Persephone still
walks the earth
fair Kore, soon to descend
to the underworld
back to an aged God in love
were I thus loved by a man
as to become his queen
as to be kidnapped by him
instead, all I have is you,
a woman's love unrequited
for a boy & growing stale
as far off winter calls
like a theatre scene
too much rehearsed
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
You're just the
diamond in the rough
streets Chi-burbia
The girl next-door archetype
I'm just the
scumbag
psychopath
soliciting
snapchats
Darling,
Don't you wanna
get disrespected?
I know this wine
is loosening my lips
How about you?
Are you all wet yet?
Do you want me
to come in?
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Now that
I’ve told
you all my secrets
Won’t you come
in the night
and ****** me
with the truth?
Push me down,
and tie me to the bed
that I made
Freudian-slipping
between layers of
*in vino veritas
conversations*
When I manifested
from under the mask
where I just
want to be accepted
as both the light
and my shadow
Won’t you come
pull my dark passenger
from the
dark
depths
of my sacral chakra?
My deepest desires
spiraling out,
you've
got me
wrapped around
your finger
I am the snake
coiled around
the core
of the sweetest
fruit
I just want to
savor
Then slither
back home
To the
Goddess of the Abode
To decompress
this tension
To Rise up and
slit my throat
at the vortex
of expression
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
My anomalous trip thus far has been dichotomous.
Harbingers motivate my advent: a chorus.
Acceptance of frolic ventures sent: a quest.
My sneakers meet familiar soil at last.
Designed to be a panacea, yet I fall ill.
Sleets of rain impact my soul: a slight chill.
Hazed trance, awashed clean of all acrimony.
A lurid stroll, downhill, parallel, perfunctory.
I, a stoic mercenary, avenging my ties tonight.
Arcane magic flow through my veins, my sight.
Moisture sparkle, glistens through my mental maze.
Resistance, control: I attempt to regain ablaze.
Synaptics fuse, burn, misfire, discombobulate.
Higher functions remain: calculus, formulate.
Veritas! Visual focus be on 2D layer sharp.
Disintegrated data sung with melodious harp.
Laissez-faire slayed by Communist meritocracy.
Mental hierarchy arise from wayward sorcery.
My affection for her nets only melancholia.
The amity cease... yet reborn by spying cornea.
Upon a hill from sea to sea brings forth diplomacy.
Lively lads, enshrouded in black; they be prodigies.
Persons of worth: one stranger joins their ranks.
If my creed offend, beg you pardon pranks.
Silent drizzle softly sings of night and majesty.
Lament under moonlight, behold gray sanctity.
Ne'er shall dreadful turmoil befall our facilities.
Literature conceals such divine secrecy.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
He was not without sin
But his hands were clean
The only blood on his soul his own
And now he is
Old man on death row
Aging faster than the fools around him
Does he believe that there is any justice in the world?
If there is, it is not reserved for him
Dead man sits
Fifteen minutes to seven
Dead man walks
Five minutes to midnight
Dead man lies
His final quiet pleads and requests scream injustice to the people
Perhaps a thousand miles or less away
Cop killer laughs
Veritas, Aequitas
Just because it’s a Dead Language doesn’t make it meaningless
Man
Perhaps with no Thump in his chest
Perhaps confused a little
Perhaps not noticing the pure white Thump next to him
Flips switch
Nails man to the cross of corruption
And now there is a murderer in the room
Dead man sleeps
Those lungs which gave wind to such wisdom
Collapse
That heart that beat with an Iron Innocence
Slowly bleeds no more
And now Georgia is heartless
Eyes of hope that saw themselves killed
Twenty years ago
Glitter, shimmer, flow, run down
A cheek of a ****** colour
With federal crosshair tattooed upon it
Then dull
Libra, chained, looks away
Governor nods in satisfaction and corrupt pride
Broken scales lie on the floor of his office
Troy Davis is dead
The World Weeps
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
genuine anger, that implodes?
kinda makes
you sleepy.
been listening to too much
lindsay ellis: drinking...
in vino veritas verbatim...
ghost writers?!
you have to be kidding me...
kovalski!
- yes sir!
inquire about
the *bookovski
method*!
- the hyphen is
counter to the concept
of a prose narrative
in paragraph form,
translated into poetry:
fwee! fwee!
jittering away,
like a sparrow might!
**** me, does anger
make you sleepy...
if anger implodes...
that's like...
the... ultimate
sleeping pill;
it's a friday? some *****
taking
place in central london?
thank god i'm not thinking
about picking up and marrying
the scrap-heap of counter incels.
all i seriously wanted
was to become a bus driver,
the route 5...
**** anger is so exhausting
when it implodes and
does, but "doesn't" have
an outlet...
you don't teach kids
martial arts by kicking
one of them in the *****
and watch them curl up
like an oyster exposed to electricity
asking, or rather, demanding:
is there a kojak, a liver, a brain,
and an altogether in there?!
like an echo into a cave...
imploding anger:
makes you sleepy...
like the adversary of adrenaline...
or the emperor's throne room scene
music...
oh look...
yet another yawn
attempting to lodge itself
into the gob of a chimpanzee -
caught on camera,
"supposedly" laughing;
then again...
it would refer to the:
bankrupt broadcasting corporation,
given: sheeee shaville;
well... a sort of... oops?!
don't worry, you have ********
it's like the new niqab...
seems a bit... pointless to **********
if you've been circumcised.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
*You said in dreams I am your perfection
I am more than you hoped you'd find
You never dreamed I'd return you affection
I never dreamed you wanted mine*
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TO SMILE BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE DOES :) IS:
- An act of anarchy, especially if you don't have any teeth :D
- Because all beings are blessed Bees
- Certain sign of cretenism or genuine Charm
- Denominative sense of digestion is Disturbing
- Ethically wrong Endeavor
- Fascinating and freeking fabulous if you intend to F. . .
- Gorgeous as Geometry
- Hot on Hotties
- Imature and implies lack of Integrity
- Jibberish
- Keen rediscovering so many Keens or Kens
- Lovely on Lovely ones (once)
- Magnificent Mimicry
- Negating the jokers(or your own) inteligence / numb is Numb
- Onthological urge to survive among jungle beasts - fangs are
quintessential urban asset. .or. . Smile-The-Power-Wilder-Open
- Pertinent in Parliament
- Quiet resistance behind a cold minded rebellions league - quitting in few minutes kicking some mthf harassing ****** pervert - to hard Quiver
- Real lovely strenght to feel and see each other happy
- Stupid on jokes = Joke Stupid
- Tactics to climb up the social ledder or/end further down the Thongs
- U can't admit you didn't get it; u2
- Violation of virtues as (in vino) Veritas
- Wonderful! To see people happy is healthy, positive and Wise!
- X times better than being in low energy
- You love your beloved and you are loved by your beloved love
- Zooming at the ' zoo' of human behaviour -
Amusing as Zorro-Art-Is-MusssssssssseumZ
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
Dos cervezas por favor in De K’ffe,
Cold bite of the first beer refreshes.
Una mas and workday fades to dull,
The night feels bright and hopeful,
The Palitos de pollo satisfies hunger.
Conversation flows to Cepas de Altura,
Three bottles later the stories repeat,
Groundhog day of interesting lives,
With eternal friendship in every bottle.
Six corks line up like truth bullets,
In an aggression of arguments,
Maybe he has just said too much,
Friendship of an unremembered hug,
Next day sorry and failings forgotten.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
Do not look for revelation in an event,
look inward at the sum of your experiences…
then exhale –
blow them away like a fine powder
into the abyss of space.
Emptiness, silence…dissolution –
the unspeakable, un-hearable happens.
Your message finds you in the inhale –
and for a moment, you cannot move…
the next words you speak
are the truth.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
a shredded bath mat, a Dead Sea salted bath, and a cold root beer
you want vino veritas vignettes,
color commentary, stray dog thoughts
time lapsed into a ****** single poem wood,
ha ha ha you can't handle the falsified lies
that constitute a sad man's disfigured truths
nobody cares that failure contretemps
inhabit every other thought,
his own sounds of silence sung repetitiously,
every severed second a new verse
coughed up and cursed,
emptying your verbal purse,
snorting with disgust
at your own claptrap vetted pomposity,
who gives a ****
what I got is the ability
if you can call it that,
to cerebralize verbalize
every eye picture, inputted impulse,
knowing in the fullness of the unwell
that hash for breakfast ain't
suitable for mass consumption
a shredded bath mat,
a Dead Sea salted bath,
and a cold root beer
begat a poem of knowing nowing
a pretend poet meowing what he seen,
what he got temple pounding
Fogelberg sings Auld Lang Syne,
swig down the root beer,
thinking that is one freaking good song,
a life reviewed on the HP stage,
his lyrics modified
with only a tune he can hear
no one will like this,
as it should be,
don't like it me neither,
double negatives for rule busting emphasis,
the only point, ending circumscribed,
curcumsized by children who don't love,
an ex wife hateful ***** man-enslaver,
this close || to losing your job,
*** is the new ***
ain't it pc
to singalong
standing on a shredded bath mat,
fresh from a Dead Sea salted bath,
and having drunk a cold root beer,
Crosby Stills & Nash chiming in
*teach the children well
their father's hell
will slowly go bye*
and this is a poem
that I didn't write,
just reported the here and the there,
and the nothing in between
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Monday party night with Mad Fish and friends
Conversations buzz of annual friends’ reunion
Christmas cheer as enemies are friends again
Complex confabulations as wine wisdom flows
Midnight truths all revealed in vino veritas
Eccentrics leave early, party animals at dawn
Tuesday late unslept sleeping son on Dart
Brains slow to restart despite espresso kick
Hangover no handicap to present-wrapping
Inbox full from friends Happy Holidays hellos.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 8:58 AM UTC
I remember vividly,
Thanksgiving, 1999.
I asked my mother
for a sip of her wine
(Pinot Grigio).
She hesitated, then laughed,
and let me press my small lips
against the rim
of the long stem glass.
The cool liquid
stung the back
of my throat
as it went down,
and I furrowed my brows
in disgust.
"Why would anyone drink this?"
Adult laughter erupted
around the table.
I didn't smile.
I wondered what they knew
That I did not.
Flash forward.
Present day wino
with a strong preference
for red
but a known policy
of indifference.
I enjoy it now.
But every once in a while,
I take a sip
that stings the back
of my throat.
And as I furrow my brows
in disgust,
I remember
That I still don't know
anything.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
The bodies of paradise
are the fledglings of humanity--
little chicks
that peeped for love
and instead found
what we attempt to purge.
Which is reality
instead warping
and mourning
the placate scene
into what our creation
has never meant to be.
I've become fond of
literature and statutes
that line a facetious library.
One which mangles
others from stepping inside
yet holds the truest heart.
My finest lines
are not those spoken
but those read
from paper or stone,
because
it is only
to those un-living
the crēvit are not divined
and which Veritas,
can come find
Amor est vitae.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
Have you ever had yourself shattered into a million tiny pieces.
"If you ever have the opportunity you must ... "
Cause that journey of trying to place the pieces back together is impossible
And the mosaic that comes from you trying is a work of art
And trying is the battle of your life ...
But the endgame makes it all worth a while
I got to become the architect of my own life.
It destroyed me and I guess that is the point.
By taking ownership as the Creator
I had to emulate Source
Before my crash ... I never fully respected source.
After ... I knew where I had come from and because of the journey I just might have figured out how to get back ...
My life today, begins by ingesting a crystalline structure.
Lithium
The lattice-work simplistic contemplative duality built into the structure provides the foundation on which I stand.
Now that previous statement is probably all ******** 19 times out of 20
but isn't Dogma at it's very root all ********
Funny thing is ... ******** is a pretty strong foundation from where I'm standing ...
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
allow me to spill into your
fire-fed circle
like dust amidst our heap
let me live within
your deep
may your soul breathe full
against my brine
a fortress carelessly built
along the edges
of my spine
& may every touch I taste
coalesce
with blood and wine
may your eyes be my
beckoning
until all kingdoms come
& may all your
whispers
beneath my skin seep
through
& come undone
ik houd van u
you are my
truth
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Love is not the scrawl of notes
left on the bedside, whilst
the alarm clock suffers to clouts
and rings, awakening her.
Neither is love the aperture
between silhouettes
as they embrace so readily
against the walls. Some clinch
of absence, the antiptosis
of the you and I.
Love is not the spaces between
the ‘I miss you’s’ and the
‘here we are once more’s.’
Neither is love the separation
between our wants and needs,
to the disparities in the world.
It is not the defiance of obligation,
nor some holy rest-house
to the ills of the modern world.
Love is not some shared novel,
a story born out over a communal
conjecture of where humanity shall
rest upon the end of everything.
Neither is love the offering of a rose,
or any other bouquet of severed
life, strangled for the nourishment
of her; the justification of your
placement in her life. These are just
condescending gestures,
weak offerings to the Lord
of all you claim to be divine.
Love is not a life to be feasted upon,
nor is it the self-satisfied glance
in the mirror, as you finally decide
on your definition of ‘I’.
Neither is love this malformation
of words, this attempt of veritas,
this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled
longing, longing, longing for
some great hand to deliver life
upon my doorstep, upon our’s.
Love is simply the eternal rite
of Gaia; the motes of existence
that tumble with great devotion
and all-cause to their eventual demise,
their inevitable return
to the spiral that created them.
Love is the spaces between my breath,
between your’s.
Those pockets of meditation,
and the realisation of union
between all that was,
and ever will be.
Love is the acknowledgement
of power between us. Our previous
lives, blades of grass wilting together
under the footfalls of the now-trees,
the now-governors of our lives.
Love is in the ‘I know you’s’
and the ‘what would I do
without you’s’ that we have so struggled
to forsake in the day-to-day
tumble of our lives.
And to this, I say, that love is
these spaces that you may
no longer occupy. The barren stretches
of grey matter that no being either
mortal or otherwise,
could ever reclaim.
Love is the birth of bespoke experience,
and the knowledge
that nothing can erase us
from the archives of
everything that should ever matter.
Love is us.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
"You deserve better than smoke filled hands"
uttered from one a.m. alcoholic lips
yet blunt and utterly truth,
this truth, this veritas
released unknowing of just how poignant it was.
Poetry,
from the alcoholic lips
of ex- adolescent lovers.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
Neath beau blue skies and wounded sighs,
wind like silk caressed his skin.
Rain like splinters in his eyes
as shadows flit across the scene.
"Vindicta," the shadows mocked and chimed
as cold showers burned his skin.
"Vitriol", he chorused in his mind
where old demons lurked therein.
"Veritas, I have fought my fight..."
he spoke aloud with steadied breath,
".... and by these words I hold contrite
ye demons - lo! - be gone in death."
Avast, the showers softened
while silver linings streaked the skies.
The demons fled, undone by caution-
vindictive hearts in plain disguise.
Their words bore no gravitas
like garbled noise in quick regress
for truth reigns in fair equitas;
for acts, not words, can claim redress.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
We don't play dumb because it's not a game and truly very lame.
We don't play blind because a few wants those eyes but if you want to, then pay the price.
We don't play tease because we're not dumb nor blind of the truths that's here.
But if I change my mind I guess it's still and will always be a NO.
I'd build up defenses with no words to throw.
All the obvious has been laid.
Haply stories has to be said.
So this is the battle I should face,
to a place where I'd surely leave a trace.
If the crowd should understand
or if i choose to stay away;
I was too weak to speak and say
but all the decisions are beyond what I can withstand.
I do not hit the blocks just to prove I was right.
because deliberations has been truly my everyday fight.
What takes me aback is rather the truth.
But what scares me more is the possible fruit.
Yet the story that never ends
seems to be a history that never bends.
Now I choose not to be scared.
Vincit Omnia Veritas, Amicus.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
It's not “true” because I believe it
I believe it because it is true.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC