A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
...white-hot coruscating genius that more than once dipped its proverbial toes in the obscure. https://ew.com/recap/community-season-3-episode-16-inception/ T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. I hear what you’re saying, and…SMH --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My goes through — R S = 2 G M c 2 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ————————- . How I see myself create…in the zone Curry Flurry: ▼ Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here. You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "The Absence of Wavelength" Your poetic muse is on fire! Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. Published four times with one a literary journal, including… "The Tender Core (Sedona)" I don’t submit—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego ▼ #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door ▼ |
Wild words heaved like logs into our night fire. Crackle, wild words; spark colorful fire light! Pine twigs burn wild, glow rising fire higher, spewing ash wild; dancing fire stirs our fright. Bloom-flames white hot wild fire rages desire. Drawn in lungs, heavy verses sung to air. Oh, our stars! Flicker of flames lick each out! 'neath blanket, gray mist chill cannot despair blackness in these blues crooning, I'm devout! 3.4.23 Neuvain (obscure poetry form, French?) "The Neuvain." Explain my attempt? Words 'wild' and 'fire' come together in first half of poem by line five, as a form of showing love and fire growing together. I did not want to use wildfire as the tired expression or as disaster. Usage Note ▼ Creation time total: two hours, three minutes because I'm legally blind, prone to err. |
Multitudes From An Unglazed, Shattered Heart And the days after creation ignorantly wasted 'neath a truer light None purposed a dim-lit brain before hot as a broiled oven light gases ignited the stove soul — passion melting in metal bakeware. Particles collided at higher rates of speed until flashpoint. Perfection exploded on walls designed to self-clean, except the victim, clay heart, not glazed or red still beats. Not put down, or out of misery, rapid expansion projects beyond its container. Vapor escapes, creates multitudes of universes unnoticed, recreating eight whirling planets, a precious princess within, lone denied dwarf and micro-ball, center to all, centrifugal as magnet. Yet, this hyperactive heart of no known design grows infinite, light years away and ahead of any that would understand, repulsion spinning and distancing within an immeasurable incipient void, readied to receive its haywire, wayward pigeon splattering — random atoms collecting, amassing more devious, wobbly orbs — brilliant illumination — fire-bright dust humans call stars in other, as yet named, chocolate bars. In black, lifeless journey propelled it to Hulk-smash emptiness down random, interfering constructions. No blue-print clutching contractor or laborers viewed. Moving at careening pace, he cannot conceive all in a monstrous wake. Unflinching, does not hesitate. Word, word, word, adjective- noun-verb — highlighted, asteroid punctuations move about, collision courses redirected, redefine affected systems it’s attaining. If only humans could read beyond his opaque manner. Only it manages imagine if he should steer free, in a blink, drop finally in her sink to soak, scrub microbial dust free for the rest of a century. The oven cools at some point. The heart well below it’s peak 1500 centigrade, she puts in a box -- cannot be disposed. Remnants glued, acrylic applied, she sidles, eyes it from one side. Lifted, lays by her bedside on the stand with the lone switch-bulb installed to burn alive her nights, comfort her silence, when she can’t sleep, touching bubbled-smooth surface and dream a day he roosts in quiet, like seasoned roast, or drags himself across a dewy lawn, limps upstairs, a battle-worn cat defeated. Tattered black fabric smelly, he is designated a mattress side. She’ll remember when they convened in the middle, intertwined, never too tired from heat at flashpoint. He’d bring home the cosmos in a brief case, if she let it past the door, never framing its contents to adorn a wall. He lived and forgot all. The brittle, clay blob/pot/pigeon dim-gloams, needs fuel and a map for redirection home. 2.24.23 a bit much, like me, and difficult to sort out that big bang metaphor for a heart that bursts from its love and never returns to normal, though she thinks she can make use of him, though damaged as he tries to finding meaning in third person, as narrator, throughout and at end, retelling dramatically and otherwise boring story of societal affect on a highly functioning atypical person who suffered emotional devastation that takes a lifetime to heal from, opposed to the ease of the neurotypical. there, I summarized it. it's my little monster poem all glued back together in one big blog thingy infinitely expanding as we/I speak/write (so folksy/yet not) and cannot stop the path the initial explosion caused. a calmer metaphor would be a stone dropped in water, ripples that ring/wave out until smooth as glass again, unless crash back, overlap, because of restricted size/space to spread, and resulting mental devastation, but still, returns to smooth...unless, windy, water added by rain and other sources, as murky puddle car tires and children smash, or...imagination depleted...finish yourself... |
putting down the toilet seat (post buffet ballad) all will be revealed as I go off the deep end Mission Impression part 1 From the sidelines get a good seat watch my origami unfold don’t forget to take notes my sociologist friends if you can comprehend insanity on a leash boxed like a cat grace is self-preservation on what field my performance? did you bring a drink, snack, comfy blanket? ready to be in awe? I see that dull surprise lift eyebrows fifteen-sixteenths of an inch and in a moment now mouth agape — I can’t tell if in awe or hungry. eat your snack. it may take awhile to refine this act. wait? you’re leaving? Mission Reaction part 2 I should’ve been to the point. and that would’ve been…? Can someone give me a cue how to act with you? in your houses? none have visited mine. you say something, I say something. you walk away. do I follow? information locks legs that sway, hear the chorus, repeating line, stay. stay. stay, when I want to play? getting that I can be a bit much. do you think it’s my choice? think, like I have to — be in other shoes? try walking in them. a bit big? their invented adage, not mine. unproductive. instruct my cursed DNA. information, restructure atoms, sequences so I can come back…as what? zebra, condor, polar bear, penguin? I reserve the right to not lick my junk and have access to public toilets. Might be compelled to migrate. Mission Projection part 3 not long. all my rights taken away. I love my friends who are gay, swing the other way. gender fluid could be my style. I’m beautiful, you know? yes, you know. over-employed, it has opened code-doors to a lonely, clod-foot guy. if I incorporate a sense of societal silence, segregated boundaries realized, again. pain to near. I was beautiful, blond, blue-eyed, tall — from cherub to muscled, chiseled marble white. now pigeon stained, crumbling in my Athens. I still have my art-junk — I’ll not lick clean. Onlookers point at a facade. I lied and that is wrong. does it matter to you since I’m alien to your race and ironically not in minority, so, man-child whining someone please place yourself in my Nikes? a bit much, I’m getting harder to know. Mission Unification (keep it together) part 4 insulate, isolate from perceived insult. oh, that thing flung was said with love? not giving anticipant public meltdown. too proud for that. and, I never really approached you. hope you found comfort with a good sideline seat. it’s my final act. I recoil from touch; friend or foe? I really don’t know, and I forget. and your name is…? not because I don’t want to know. afraid to love you and lose you like all the others who ask how’d you get off your leash? insist, get in an escapable box. and I wonder, can you hear as I talk, fill silence through and outside societal-constructed walls? Where is unity, your unifiers? not the spinsters. humanity taken by gun 60 years ago? of weapons, the greatest we lack — financial resource and systemic philosophies since Machiavelli to control. hypocritical inversion, satire infused. sorry, what joke is funny? do you even know the division, where I squat in kennel? world peace can bite my perfectly proportioned rump. cut through diversion from you’re wound-up mumbo-jumbo Trump. sorry if that sounds racist? who taught you to respond that? how did you get that many followers to salivate over grammatical buffoonery? your thumb reposting nation? o-kay. a bit off track. a bit? don’t mock me. I’m mocking you. I’m going to be the pest your nuclear tests cannot devastate from weighted heels of your billion stomping boots. but know, my DNA conditioned lifelong, too clever for that. zombies feeding on flesh of your mediums walk slow, can’t return love, but money from wallets, collected from demigod employers whose buddies rake it all back, because what is life but stacks of red, white and blue chips lost in the flash of this reserved, casino life. Unplanned: Coda zombies dine on a buffet of hookers. porn is bad. bran muffins are good. putting down the toilet seat now…from where I shat. 3.2.23 Originally titled — zombies need hookers you want positivity — fight for what is right. segregated, clasping others mouths shut, they divided us through social conditioning. you’re negative now, and we’re defeated. serious, you can’t see that? won’t? right, you’re busy thumbing that river of streaming whore buffet glut. you’re the devil, negative. you’re not a simpleton, just human. not positive enough. |