We have built the loom of velvet and of nerve,
wove thick silk over the glaring, naked Sun.
Then drowned the blinding beam we couldn't serve,
in this sweet, narcotic bliss: we have won.
We took the brilliant, cold, dissecting mind,
fused it to gut-rot, raw, animal lust -
two magnets locked, a Frankenstein refined,
embodied in a cage of breathing dust.
And in this meat-rigged, gloriously cursed frame,
we grope for truth like blind men feeling fire.
Adorning every scar with an ornate name,
enslaved by the wary design of desire.
Now rip the stitches. Tear the sacred shroud.
Unlace the golden corsets of the mind.
Shed the thick, perfumed armor of the proud,
and leave the clever, grasping self behind.
Peel back the skin, the ego, and the pride -
let the raw, incandescent engine flare.
There is no "you" or "I" to hide inside,
only the blinding light, stripped entirely bare.
I’m getting a new computer tomorrow
I love my tech about as much as I love my boyfriend
It’s M5 chip, 10 CPUs, neural processors and GPUs
will mostly idle away as I grope for the right words
but they won’t show their impatience - no -
they won’t sigh and tap their shoes like a boyfriend.
I’m getting a new computer tomorrow
I’ll love it’s bright, starlight, smooth and flawless skin
maybe not quite as much as I do when I’m groping him
but I’ll sigh with delight as I run my fingers over its form
few things in life completely delight and please me
I know one or two - and one of them will be brand new.
.
.
A song for this:
Joburg jam by Pogo
Nobody by Kate Earl
.
.
*every year I trade in my Macbook Air for a new one, it only costs ~$250 so why not? That way I have the latest, greatest tech.
Sitting in a dark room
I flutter mothwing eyelids.
It comes to me
that I was born to be
the hive master of every earthy beast,
and a flock of wild angels.
My moth eyed fluttering pauses
to stare me down,
I was born to be looked at,
born to be the face of death,
a performance, a circus, a pantomime,
deaths own masquerade, a poet.
Sitting in a dark room
I grope for a bottle of wine on a side table.
My angels are thirsty,
the beasts are lapping at the open cuts,
those self-inflicted wounds
upon angelic wrists.
I was born to be this blank page and a pen,
a purchaser of refurbished laptops -
born to be a set of blindly probing keys
for the unlocking of symbols,
fictions real enough to feed
even the thin white blood
of mothwings.
My heart is lost in depth of woes,
While sorrows echo loud.
As tears descend with silent throes~
Beneath a veil of cloud.
In the dark I grope for my lost heart,
But it's slipped beyond my firm grip.
Each tear I shed softens its grave,
And deeper it sinks, out of reach.
My anguish drums a hollow grief,
No hope of joy or smile.
My mind is caged in disbelief—
It may remain awhile.
I need no soothsayer to tell me—
I’m already buried in its depth.
My cries are aches without relief,
And I can’t restrain the tears.
It's far beyond all hope or aid,
I know—so others do.
Though cries may rise and voices fade,
None brings the lost I rue.
The apartment leaks footsteps,
it’s hard to avoid their featherweight padding.
Fabric and pith teach
walls how to speak;
fragmented recordings
that always threaten to utter
something intelligible.
Ears question,
closed eyes grope for answers.
They abide --- the indwellers,
they nightly rearrange,
whatever you thought was yours
as you daydream of being real.
I'm wearing the blue,
yes, proudly, and don't prejudge me
and I won't prejudge you.
Some nights I sleep swirling in
nightmares,
seeing the blood of victims, and
I still very much care.
I grope for the lamp on my nightstand,
my headache becomes a tight band,
my wife awakened, softly talks me down,
I would love to leave this "toddlin' town."
Brother, sister police officers agree,
that our job puts a strain on our families,
I come home from tragedies such as
gun violence, child abuse, accidents,
robberies,
yet, I'm accused of being
cold and unfeeling,
when the hurt closes in and is
joy stealing.
Yes, I wear the blue,
my life, my heart is of rescue,
take a ride with me to see,
some of the human acrimony,
Yet, at the precinct it's comforting to receive,
flowers and cookies from some caring
people reaching out,
that's what gratitude is about,
it helps after long hours,
and when some distressed strangers
say, "Thank you for responding to my call,"
it can, at times-
relieve me from the pall.
We need to be more understood,
we need more cooperation from the
neighborhoods,
after all, it's for all our good. ~
Often, after a day of walking
in and out of my mind,
I will put on a nightcap,
it's not a substantial cap like a bobble hat
it's more a cowl, a hood, a cloud-basket.
Beneath this dark covering
thoughts lay down to rest
in early graves.
Beyond a high hedge of time
astral lights flicker.
An inner sky gleams a starry gloaming,
I grope for a rope to climb
ascend - become - appear.
Now I can travel like a spy balloon
floating remotely guided into other sleeping heads.
Now a secret I have never told myself:
A few nights only,
I enter another person’s dreaming thoughts
startling eyes that are not mine.
I can visit a strangers life,
share a nightmare
or catch a distant memory
rehearsing its pain or joy once more.
It is a trick of immortality
to be this short-lived.
This free-wheeling and head-loose.
Come the bald-faced light
the night cap spins away like a thrown frisbee,
it is only then
that I don't believe a word of myself.
Eractive verses
dissolve in
circumvented
waves of
irreal words
& surreal swords
(mill for the grist)
Versating ellisions
mutate in
discombobulated
wordclouds of
maloverted lords
& diverted hordes
Egestive extremism
emerges from
specious endgames
& epic sadism
Mismusing holists
grope for hope
within mischievous holes
& eternal sloth
Blobified circumstances
cavort with
aversive erasures
ensuring elusive endings
& erosive circumbobulation
(grist for the thrill)
As the TV screen comes alive,
Screeching with news of death,
In natural calamities and road accidents
Of war on Ukraine that kills and maims thousands
Of carnage and bloodshed,
Of gory tales of rape and molestation
Of manhandling and suicide
Of battered childhood and teary eyed women
Of politicians’ pandemonium open n’ outrageous
Their nasty tirade and mudslinging
And similar scenes of sickening magnitude,
My hands grope for the ‘remote’.
The channels swing past in lightning speed
From frenzied gyrations of lovers of celluloid
To serials lengthening into infinity
Of love betrayed, tears shed
Bonds snapped, hearts shattered
Until at last my fingers settle
On the wonders of the Animal Planet
Where the beasts roam free and fearless
Where there is no greed to hoard
Where no one wears a mask
And everything ruled by sheer survival instinct!
Oh great divide you stand to look at me
while I on bended knee grope for you
between this world and the next
we are like ocean book ends ,
meeting in the center of the Universe ;
Oh great depression you are killing me
offhand remarks ingrained in my psych
your a wedding band on my finger
and joy can never ring us
when our hearts meet, we suck air ;
Oh great divide why can't we feel
the day we married we had the flu
between our worlds there is no next
we are like rivers running wild
meeting only through the great divide
Anger, I summon you then squelch you,
what is a broken heart to do, I ask you?
What Is Truth
Written: by Miracle Man
2/15/2021
As acts of rebellion
some paint murals in the street.
Others remove from history, statues of those long departed.
Looting and burning have become commonplace,
and believers cast votes to legalize sinful things,
All for the taxes that would go to schools or roads.
We cry out for social justice,
and everyone has become a racist to someone,
proving that racism is not a one way street,
Like a clock’s pendulum it swings both ways.
Now, to stimulate the economy,
politicians give us stimulus money to influence future votes,
and none refuse.
We now face things that man has no answer for
and many grope for truth.
Romans 3:4 KJV
“God forbid: yea, let God be true, but every man a liar; as it is written, That thou mightest be justified in thy sayings, and mightest overcome when thou art judged.”
How high, how low
is our inner glow?
How long will imagination swirl around
before finding that unique mind
in which lives a stunning vision
long pursued, never realized?
Which are the true colors
of flowers of an emblazed sunset...
when the spectacle delights?
Is the peaceful spirit immersed
in contemplation rather than prayer?
Are the fading gleams a sadness
never felt so profoundly?
How high, how low
is our inner glow?
How desperate we become
when we grope for uncertainty...
considering its outcome
with decreased probability?
How captured are we by those
vivid colors before they quickly
vanish into the vastness of space?
Buried somewhere
beneath the abyss of locked horns
And bones to pick on,
Is a kindling of love,
which I wow to search for relentlessly.
Never shall I give up,
resolute I am to grasp,
for amidst that deep pit of shattered heartbreaks, it lies
covertly tucked away from conceited eyes.
And even if it takes to rip my eyes off, i shall
and on my knees shall I clamber
and grope for it as well,
for with its light
i would regain my sight;
profound is the power of love.
And when i snatch it
I would set it ablaze
and melt our heartaches and differences away.
With our love rekindled
I would mould out a new phase
in our lives where
we are meant to be soulmates...
and I promise to you that i shall never
leave ur side,
for amidst that sombre abyss
there lies your kindling
heart inside.....
Words stumble out of my mouth, I grope for words
Trying to pull words out of thin air
I rack my brain for thoughts but it wouldn’t budge
I stare at things for long time
Just trying to figure what my thoughts are
Looking from another perspective I try to gather what my feelings are
Is it joy, is it happiness is it peace?
Maybe it is calm; it is the smile, maybe the laugh
It is the tear, Is it love?
Maybe it is pain, sorrow
No, it is the feeling when you drown in the cold arctic ocean
The paralyzing of body and the numbness of the brain
It is the helplessness, the hopelessness,
The fear that is what it is.
The unbearable pain threatening to hang over us
Is this what I think?
The word is simple; it is life that I think about
And it is all the above
The Light House
Terraced light
Holding bright
Effervescence behold
Long lost
Intrepid sailors
Grope for
Halo's beacons
Teaming ships
Home alone
On sentry's
Unrelenting watch
Skippers bastions
Emitting guidance
connie pachecho
8/7/17
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