Best Receptacles Poems
Woman, discarded remnant of Adam?
Fe-male, not to be given her own name;
her own identity, other than, a part?
Receptacles, empty bowls, hollow holes,
to be filled only with necessary roles?
Necessary for man.
Primero uno, cock of the walk,
strutting, scratching, with his third leg dangling.
Womb man, so they, the male God’s called her.
Earth Mother, heroine, holder of hearts and hands,
no man, nomad, nurturer of new life;
from the warm, wet, darkness to the Light.
Woman.
Categories:
receptacles, political, social,
Form:
Rhyme
No Particle Theory can ever be Unified –
for there is always the space between...the
unknown that separates while binds us
in a matrix of primitive wonder. Dark
Matter is only dark to those accustomed to one
light...for those whose eyes adjust to the
thin horizons of others who have passed
before them – and not the endless expanse within,
the heart and soul of a boundless Universe. So,
we slowly peel-back our outer layers, those of
earth and moon, the illumining stars, limiting
skins of meagerly defined senses. Without God
there is only Science...
hopping from one physical rock to the other, skimming
over the depth of spaces,
stepping cautiously into shallow pools
as yet to explore the unimaginable realms
of a far greater Spiritual Sea.
(More Context)
We are observers...consciousness existing
in an elevated dimension of reality. Difficult
to imagine, yet our thoughts are entirely
separate from our physical senses and their
body sources; we truly, not figuratively,
look in or down upon the many instances
and vehicles of manifest substance.
There can only be
one Unified Theory: it must be a Continuity Theory,
where separation is merely an elaborate illusion:
In fact, all we see and seem are Wave effects
propagated through a flexible yet solid dimension,
driven by vibrations or shivers (so to speak) –
Waves collide, and those peaks or points
of collision become our physical reality –
these are the pixels our eyes and minds interpret
and assemble in the likeness of recalled
references, desires and predilections – We look down,
look in, look out, but always from positions independent
of the objects of our inquiry. Mind, Consciousness
is entirely independent of the physical. This
explains the phenomenon of Savants. Our
brains are not developing receptacles of
knowledge – but, in fact, developing
gateways. Who we are, where we come
from, and how long we live progresses
far outside our experiences of birth and
death.
Categories:
receptacles, creation, imagination, inspiration, light,
Form:
Free verse
I feel like
I am all alone in this world
with eyes
watching my every move
you might think that
I was paranoid
but every time I open my eyes
to see
someone is responding to me
answering a question I have
but never asked
I turned up the sound
on my radio and TV
so that no one can hear me pee
at home
I communicate with others
on recyclable newsprint
which I keep to burn
at home
I burn all
my garbage and place the ashes and bones
in public waste receptacles
around town
I wear recyclable rubber gloves and leave no prints
I wear recyclable rubber condoms and leave no sperm
I wear a mask and recyclable rubber booties when I am awake
you might think that
I was paranoid
but every time I open my eyes
to see
I seem to
find me
Categories:
receptacles, crazy, fun, funny, irony,
Form:
Free verse
You were born in a war ravaged state
You lost your man to the caprices of fate
You fell prey to your wayward ways
Victims of betrayal, greed or circumstances
You were drowned in the tide of darkness
Depraved incidents of forced sex and perversions
Rooted in carnal desires and unsated frustrations
The fleshpots in town frowned upon as receptacles of sin
Wisdom of society’s views wearing very thin
Thwarting those in heat from living out their dream
Objects of titillation and subjected to derision
Unfortunately placed or forced in a profession
Reckoned as the world’s oldest
Harlots you are, courtesans at best
Buffers to man’s baser side without respite or rest
Mistress to royalty or a gangster’s moll
You’ve mastered the act of a defenceless doll
Apparently enjoying the bizarre and the extraordinary
But behind this masquerade is the quintessential mercenary
Pandering only to the philandering of the paying strata of humanity
You frequent raunchy night-clubs and sleazy bars
Walk the streets and lurk around dark corners
You are often just a number in the telephone directory
Or recommended for unusual skills, honed to a speciality
But you seldom blackmail, reflecting your innate nobility
Possibly you booze to drown your pain
And get your high on heroin and cocaine
You are accused of ruining marital ties
And of driving your lovers to a life of vice
Who squander fortunes, just affording your price
Hail lady of the night
Only death can release you from your sordid plight
You are the paramour without the strings of a wife
You are the reprieve from loneliness and strife
But alas, you suffer damnation in your earthly life
Categories:
receptacles, social, sympathy, tribute,
Form:
Rhyme
As a writer, people are my vocation.
As for humanity, men, women
And other abstractions,
Their interests constitute little more
Than my hobby; I can only deal in people.
As soon as I start dealing in sects
And sections, I am either an insider
Or an outsider, and I feel lost as either
And as soon as I feel lost,
I make no attempt to find myself,
But simply retrace my steps
And return to the people.
You can call me detached if you like,
But you see, the only way
I can remain sane as a person
With such an all-consuming instinct
For attachment, is to be detached.
The world of subjectivity
Holds no sway over me,
Because it is paradoxically impersonal,
Being affiliated to partisanship,
Sentimental causes and other such abstractions.
I couldn't possibly belong
To a school of orthodox thought
That accepted me as a member.
I don't believe in myself
Other than as a crystal clear container
For the freshest cream of human individualism.
When I was younger,
I ached to be famous for the sake of it,
But now it occurs to me
That anyone can be famous
Provided they are sufficiently audacious
And thick-skinned, and I desire fame
Not so much for the vain satisfaction
Of being seen and known and heard,
But in order to guide others
Towards a happier way of being,
The only precept for celebrity,
Indeed for being in general, as far as I can see.
Adversity seems to be my fate,
As well as fortune.
The meek ones gravitate to me.
I'm the prince of the hurt ones,
The damaged ones.
I resent all success and authority.
I'm so affectionate one moment,
So icy and evasive the next.
I'm in love with many people at present.
I over-accentuate my individuality,
Because sometimes I look at myself
In the mirror and I say:
"Who's that pathetic wreck?"
The more complex you are,
The less you like yourself,
Because you frighten yourself.
The more I find myself liking someone,
The more I doubt us both.
Liking someone negates them for me.
("An Aphoristic Self-Portrait" was based on a series of teeming informal diary entries made in various receptacles in the late 1980s. "The Compensatory Man Par Excellence" originally formed part of a novel written - at an estimate - around 1987. Its fate remains a mystery. "Self-Portrait" may also once have been part of it.)
Categories:
receptacles, celebrity, me, mirror, people,
Form:
Free verse
There was a man who went out late
And tried to rape a .38
He called women "receptacles"
'Til one blew off his testicles.
Categories:
receptacles, boyfriend, courage, death, girlfriend,
Form:
Quatrain
I swept the floor, but it's dirty again...pretty much what I expected.
The accumulation of dirt and grim is something safe to have projected.
If cleanliness is a thing which one truly desires
Then cleaning is an act that never can expire.
Objects long to air exposed become receptacles of dust disposed.
Dirt of itself does indeed deface, yet everything has it's own place.
Emptiness seeks to fill it's space; cleanliness seems imposed by our human race.
Yet it's kind to the eye, I can't deny: a shiny floor scrubbed soundly with lye.
Reflection glimpsed, a sweaty smile; arms crossed tiredly on broom over tile.
Floor been swept, job now done, I think one deserves a break.
Tools shucked, apron undone, now's the time for leave-taking take.
But while you're gone, worry not, for the floor dirty once again becomes.
So, rest assured, my dear friend, for the job will always need be done.
Categories:
receptacles, corruption, funny, humorous, jobs,
Form:
Light Verse
April 8th 1972
Means more to me than to most of you
it was 46 years ago on a beautiful morn
In the country of Bratwust Is where I was born
My dad was in the Army and my mom tagged along On the way to the hospital things went all wrong
Their bags were all packed and the all the boxes were checked When a car jumped the median and caused quite a wreck
The car was destroyed, for the Audi they mourned Medics took mom to the hospital and a fat baby boy was born.
The teen years were rough as the young boy grew up Braces and glasses and a terrible haircut
Eventually, he outgrew that mold
And a handsome young man began to unfold
Then from school onto work is where his life lead His dreams of a career began to get fed
Electrons, Receptacles, switches and fuses These were the things, these were his muses
He knew where to go, there was no confusion. Drove downtown and joined the Union
This takes us to today and made my selection. But it's all better now working as a Union electrician
Categories:
receptacles, birth, birthday, boy, growing
Form:
Rhyme
A tattered Calico traverses the crumbling corridor
dissecting a row of dilapidated sacred structures,
each uniquely indistinguishable from the next.
The wind carries an eerie refrain
as it whistles through the splintered stones,
white-washed to harbor their degeneration.
There's a fragrant stench of wilted petals
lying dormant in stagnant waste.
This potpourri of nature's compost
resonates from the marred receptacles
lining this mourning path.
Picket shadows serve no comfort
from the unbearable fervor
as it bakes these palaces of the deceased.
Irreverent voyagers marvel at its spectacle,
congregating within the blighted vestibules,
ignoring the pleas of sacrilege,
all to capture images for their own posterity.
Exit this city of the dead,
allow the mourners their serenity due.
Bestow the departed their wanted peace
and leave them to their gentle rest.
Categories:
receptacles, bereavement, death, solitude, spiritual,
Form:
Free verse
Glioblastoma
Glioblastoma - death in disguise
Makes its appearance before we realize
A stealth adversary lurking in the brain
Metastasizes without restrain
A complex enemy
Untrustworthy
Of unknown origin
Emerging from deep within
Deploying its vascular tentacles
Stealing nutrients from the body’s receptacles
Baffling is its behavior
In search of a savior
Chemo radiotherapy with no other choice
Unable to silence its voice
Surgery perhaps
With high risk of relapse
Immunotherapy – the current hope
But still a downward slope
We shall move on
Until it is gone
Categories:
receptacles, endurance, father, father daughter,
Form:
Free verse
Wear your gown of golden glow
I’m shallow without your halo
Penetrate my limber' with your warm rays
Unfold into my everlasting Arms
Leave nothing to the red carpet at your feet,
But the footprint of your shimmering heat
Shine like the spotlight you project into the dying limelight
Please pose for my eye lens,
To freeze-frame our tomorrow
Yes, Cupid shot me your golden arrow
Dead in the bull’s eye of my marrow
I’m hollow without your tiara
Golden angel of love, Goddess of my realm
Ruler of my heart
I'm the moon to your fertile planet
Pour your smouldering love into my receptacles
Entre the theatre of my dreams
Starring you, and only you
For m,. and only for me
To an audience of two
My favourite time of the day, all day,
Is orbiting in your eye sockets
Captivating like a shooting star while stargazing on a clear dark night
And close ever so slightly, as our lips make contact
You were showered by fireworks of nuclear reactions at birth
Life and death, your welcome gifts into this earth
Because you are forever, you supersede either
A sequel to my solo, a thrilling trilogy even
A winning personality, my Miss Congeniality
Nominated to my heart’s devotion
I’m the bubbles in your champagne
I’ve waited patiently for the extension of your ring finger
Just to be the first at your door
To this romantic performance
To bathe in your golden effervescence
To quench my thirst forever from your fountain of love
You have a heart of molten lava like Midas’ inner core
Transforming my life every time we touch with your golden flow
It has still not sunk in that I hold you in my arms
God knows I don't deserve you,
God knows I love you
Categories:
receptacles, love, romance,
Form:
Romanticism
The lawyer
who could eat your lunch
ate his quickly
on a cold outdoor bench,
when a revealing breeze
introduced the pungent odor
of his new neighbor.
The steely-haired vagrant’s
rumpled visage
acknowledged by
a right honorable disdain,
he quickly opined
one loses the ability
to sense one’s own stench
after days of pissing.
He wondered about
days in his cruel world,
full of encounters
with untrustworthy adversaries,
manipulative lies to get needed cash,
cutthroat tactics and
rummaging through receptacles
of worthless papers.
And he imagined what the
dreary evening’s routine
must be like --
riding the last Metro,
shuffling into his shelter,
getting quietly buzzed,
and not hearing from the family
who gave up on him
a long time ago.
On the emptied park bench
a rather cheerful transient
grabbed food scraps left by the lawyer who,
after a well-considered reflection,
seemed very much
alone.
Categories:
receptacles, life
Form:
Free verse
I venture through the toiling of days
Crumbling nights
Ever hopeful though chanting septic cries,
Dawn creeps past worn-out
eye receptacles...
and the ashen graves they see
They once burnt benevolently
for scarred hours
But now reflect the red glow
of dying ashes,
Fate has laid them in careful rows
beside the graves.
Seen from above,
they spell forgotten names
and trapped grief.
Each peck of the ghost of birds
wears out a memory in turns,
Each semblance of relief
dies in the glow of symbols...
A grave here
A tear there
Tied together
by a string of clotting blood
and a trail of distant love,
Lined up as emotional tender
for the dying ashes
Categories:
receptacles, emotions, eulogy, pain, poverty,
Form:
Free verse
Pulses drown saturated elvers
As a crescent delivers it's catch
White bellied roaches slap and disperse
Pierced and broken suckers latch
Flushed forearms lock with a match
Bleached fingers curl fiercely
Cartilage and rods attach
Each standard raised taking a liberty
Vectors detonate a verse
Chassis release their clutch
Barbels gulp at a netted hearse
Miniscule painted boulders scratch
Humble timber bows with a screech
Discordant sea gulls sing their liturgy
Their hymns bellowed to receive a batch
A veneration
Before performing their red tipped ritual snickersee
The unbaptised draw a curse
Glossed umber in a ditch
The razorback plows a course
To encumber every stitch
A gullet evacuates an itchy apology
A heretic mutters a retorting blasphemy
Fulminations boom and detach
As cumulonimbi reload their artillery
Skulls stoop in sunless pitch
Anointed mantras convene for mercy
Receptacles are laden and rich
Weighted and blessed by her divinity
Categories:
receptacles, blessing, fish, religious,
Form:
Ballade
We gaze
The rock star serenades us
With platitudes
Neither near or far
Though only attainable
Appreciated
By submission
By admission
That you will never be
Never wander
Never wonder
For they've performed the
Magic for us
Catapulting rage into
Sweetened sirens
Alert
Only to string us down the toxic path
Of misty false alarms
Yeah
Our fists soar
We're with them
We're one
We're them
The cautionary whispers
Lyrics to technicians
Desperate for form
Blow sullen, sticky tidings
Caught
Slurped
Swallowed, not spit out
For the glaze, the grandeur
Coats our throats
With lusty love
Tingly, tangy, tortuous
Love
Shared among all, we
Receptacles who vanquish
Their minds, souls and ids
Obliging
Harmonic, aural orgies
Prudence withheld
For acceptance is aligned
With the suspension
Of societal diets
Well-measured
To trick us
Trick all
To believe that
Scraping, scratching
Toward maniacal horizons
Somehow cannot be human
Though they've never
Once
Flickered
Abandoned
The self
To marvel
Manifest
Into a glorious whole.
(1/20/04)
Categories:
receptacles, community, desire, fantasy, hero,
Form:
Free verse