"woodworks" poems
Even as a statue without being hand crafted by the architecture she would mach it. Molded in a sway like detail, whoever designed this woodworks would be amaized howmuch she perfectly blanded with it. A melody of nature's rhythm flowing from her hair to her shoes. She was a sensational feel.💋🌹❤️😍📳📳📳🙏🏾 Off the woodworks -Swoo
Apr 6, 2021
Apr 6, 2021 at 12:36 PM UTC
Nationality shipping ******
Strategy damage fragments
***** puke ***** fraction
Biological ***** disobedience
Fannie pictorial laundries
****** manhood caliphate
Woodworks Biebers frites
****** vandal’s fakes
Utmost openly grim
******* ************
Piled dish cell
Discuss **** ******
Jihad imbeciles reincarnation
Fear fears America
Watching emptiness falling
Dinner screaming nonsense
Deadly velvet laughs
Banality quack leprosy
Games flood biting
Tv nation ******
Swallowed road poets
Animal replied stories
Creature’s terminal idea
Explodes gloom stare
Selling young crack
Game scratch *******
Confuse spill scream
Genitals China responsibility
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
There is dirt all over my face
Dirt in my hair down to the floor
Big pieces and lumps of dirt
Floating through the space and air
I never have to do the cleaning
I got dirt piled up everywhere
And it crawls out of the woodworks
Like ***** words in ***** laundries
Dirt is dead ***** serious to me
**** makes me ***** happy and free
Like ***** waste and ***** waste of time
Clean dirt makes me want to cry
I got dirt in my liver
And dirt in my brain
I eat dirt for dinner
And I'm ***** insane
Dirt is dirt ***** beautiful to me
Dirt is the fuel and dirt is the light
Stained and sprayed with dirt
I live my ***** life
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
A single sober thought against a scape of memories
To simply wish for stillness upon an ever-moving sea
Silenced for the centuries as for me now to behold
Tempting not to walk away, to bide its time to come
Season only changes face twice for the human mind
Now to guess the use of being born then just to die
Elderly the woodworks, fragile beauty bitter-grown
Such it is the way of man, the seed among the sown
**Savour this scarce, small moment
Deep in the wake of a weary-worn world
Silent and long forgotten
My bed underneath a shroud of snow**
Cinnamon and broken toys, a songbird out of tune
Easy pride in scarlet dress romanticised to blue
Earnest words, a rarest toil to feed such cynic sight
Raising hope to see despair rewrite the dearest lines
Serenity now roams the sphere as if to call me home
Such yet little precious light, a beacon sight of old
Where the age once had a fright so readily to share
Now every night seems easier with every step to take
**Savour this scarce, small moment
Deep in the wake of a weary-worn world
Silent and long forgotten
My bed underneath a shroud of snow**
Come now
Enter my room
Take me back into the deep dark
The night unknown
A slave to the sunlight, kin to the moon
Within the cobweb of life all noughts become one
**Savour this scarce, small moment
Deep in the wake of a weary-worn world
Silent and long forgotten
My bed underneath a shroud of snow**
©2018, Adrian Betz
Dec 25, 2018
Dec 25, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Deep earthen roots, gold arrow-tips,
Sounding rush of green applause
Now, trees and bark stretch to
Higher lows of raptured skies.
Wide face of etched ranks and--
Here His marks tread and silence falls
Quite tenderly under winding timber,
Woodworks, Tree-rings, bound around
As clocks tick to celestial Grange's face.
His deeds show across baked-ancients
And those whose sun came creeping under
Horizontal terms and periods-- in lapses
when Time held his own--
On winding old branches with buds smelling
Young n' green n' poking free from yellow scars,
Time garnered his people, his children and dead,
housed them in ticks and tocks and surnames,
For Twilight's enamelled hubris to bathe them,
Wash them.
To set them in winding bark,
And brand them in Himself,
In Winding Tree-tocks.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
Seattles finally in heat
Warm dry air wafts up encompassing my skin as
I stride out the library's predicted to be heavy doors that are, unexpectedly light
Just like today
The ants precede out from the woodworks
to soak in their habitat's golden hues ricochet
the earth's existing melodies and harmonic undertones
on the faces of the creatures in our purposely lopsided
Double sphere planet
White incisors shine unthreatening
Why is it they convey predatorial death in addition to undiluted joy?
So much is this way
Making perfect nonsense, just felt and done
I don't think we could help it if we wanted to
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
nietzsche? what he did? inverting the cartesian equation?
like: 1 + 1 = 2, turned into 1 + 1 = 2?
**** me... isn't that confusing...
the symbol = precipiates into ergo;
what did he do?
he inverted the cartesian principle...
he said: i am, therefore i think...
so why are all these people coming
out from the woodworks, like cockroaches?
i already said it once,
the antithesis of the cartesian res cogitans
a thinking thing... is res vanus:
an empty thing...
test of time...
you stop ************ for about a month?
your ***** turns... yellow... it's no longer white...
your testicles shrink... you're shooting
evil *****
and then you talk to a woman
who's been "learning" about her period, ************
want to have children?
stop ************ for a month...
**** her on her period
but don't ********* then **** her once more when
she's off it...
the cramps are gone... your ***** is
so concenrated that it's no longer white, but yella..
what are you going to get?
a screaming báhor (toddler) in your arms...
but nietzsche inverted the cartesian "equation"...
thankfully... he got it wrong,
in a sense, he didn't counter res cogitans (thinking thing)
with res vanus (empty thing) -
sure, nietzsche was influential in the 20th century...
in the 21st century though?
more like the label guy...
i'm this... i'm that... i'm whatever you wish me to be...
the 21st century says: nietzsche isn't an ocean...
he was a depth of a puddle's worth to claim...
but it's there! it's in one of his footnotes!
he reverses the cartesian "equation"...
he "says": i am, therefore i think.
no wonder then, where all the 21st century
labels come from!
these people aren't thinking!
i'd love for this label to come about:
i thinking... therefore i'm dumb-seeming...
because i shut-the-fuck-up!
hard to not think of two things...
i think corresponding to res cogitans...
with i am correspoding to res vanus -
and ergo corresponding to ***
meaning?
why are so many people associating themselves with
so many labels, on an intellectual level of deciding
whether or not to wear versace, dolce & gabbana,
or primani... oh sorry... armani.
people express so many labels though,
it's like they stress the second half of the cartesian equation,
but not the first half...
which precipitates into heidegger's da-"sein".
there is.... sure... there really is...
but what? is that actually being, without thinking?
or am i just putting clothes on to look kosher
at a paris fashion catwalk?
it's almost, well, it actually is:
a question: there's being?
that question substitutes the conceptualißation
of being's pluralism qua beings...
i.e. the many happenings...
the rebel ant in the ant-hill... at best: the only
suggestive approximate.
there sure as **** is a being... but the da, the there?
reduced to newspaper articles,
read on friday, recycled on a monday, in orange
bin-bags.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:13 PM UTC
The more I know you
the more I don't.
The woodworks might is fading
in dust and cracks bading.
How I wish I could revive.
God, I would do anything to keep
this embodiment alive.
But change is inevitable and all
I can do is confess my love for you
and hope for the best.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
Legend has it that if you press your ear to the side of a tree, you can hear the whispers of people that once loved you. I hope my voice resonates throughout your bones.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
deep within the prowling dark,
in the stillness, these hands
forage the steel scaffolds
of pain.
in the stillness --
the rain and the floor,
the toppled silence,
sleeping in the flurry of
these contestations are
no petty solicitations.
i want for only a hand
to pacify unquiet eyes
dizzy with questions.
i want a kiss to take in its flight, your splinters - woodworks
of a name's recrimination.
i want feet to stride past
the torrents of such distinct
cry, outward, as though an outburst - the stars wrestle the
wind as the shadows are loose
in their own leash.
i want only an ample body quivering
skyward, giving in to sliver
in a multitude of glass,
like the tiny fingers of rain
crashing into the earth blind
with force, roadless, tender
with the night's tenure,
amongst livid walls,
and then only ripples, to pulse with the many gilt days of dozing suns until these eyes awaken to
the brew of an unfilled sky.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
the fabric is still tumescent
with forceful movements. the slight creak of music from a slighter nudge and one can feel the swollen pang of the woodworks. the china in the cupboard drunk in tectonic skirmish. the subtle audiences from the edge of the bend are still in awe from the attentive loosening of flesh and bone and secrets. the moon is brought closer to the veranda where one has peered out of with a cigarette in hand. the clothes pinned to pegs are still dwindling in the heavy air of now nothing but plainly exchanging sights and smiles hanging, breaking to dominant laughter. one had lost count of the stars lost in a nebulous braid of milky hair. a qualitative study of light is reduced to just a mere, struggling study of how things come and go, out of the windowpane and into someone else's doorstep, where sighs amble to reach the calm of beds and the craze of trances. words like these
are not enough
still to push you out of bed
and make breakfast—
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 7:59 AM UTC
It’s a long walk through life,
where lies the door to leave all behind.
The kindling hope to reach those fields someday is undeniably romantic; but,
A little unfair to the little flowers that bloom by the cornices and woodworks,
our long term and distant plans overlook.
Little bundles of joy, swaying in the little gusts of wind,
Factories of fragrance, blooming and bustling of life,
Serenity and if we call it, love.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC