My mind racing behind a cloud of smoke. The systematic deterioration of my life's work. yet most of the time I sit smiling, open minded to the possibility's, and to the actions that require an opposite and equal reaction to the options that lay dormant . Nothing came to mind. Rather id watch my own demise then be called to make a claim on another's life. So back to my decomposition a composition I'm very familiar with. My aid might be just inadequately enough to began the healing processes of someone who needs the primordial elements from my destruction to find the reasons and meaning in their own lives. I know I'm not obligated to pick at the scabs but my empathy wont allow them to hurt alone. Those influences that persuade, to succumb to healing. To not watch the final grains of sand funnel down. To accept that by holding on there is not another turn in this mortal life of flesh and bone. Even the prettiest of flowers must deteriorate to live again, to blossom`
Illusory inmates I'ying internal
intricacies initiate informal
invasives identifying
incomparable inconsistencies
ill initiated incompatibilities, incomplete
incomprehensibly Ioa-ted introverted
intellectually inadequately
involuntarily involved iconic idealisms.
Casualty or cause?
A question where we’ll pause:
war’s chicken/egg conundrum with the truth.
Employing logic flawed,
inadequately awed,
thus, Lucifer brought war to the Most High.
He sought to share dominion,
held high, his own opinion,
a creaturely inflation of self-worth.
Pride, the worst of all,
swift led to Satan’s fall,
and thus was he cast down from lofty skies.
And though he was imprisoned,
his heart, full of derision,
sought vengeance in destruction of the earth.
Perhaps inspecting here,
an understanding clear
emerges from this epic tale of woe.
For with forbidden fruit,
the serpent did recruit
our parents by assault on verity.
Does truth die due to war,
or does death come before?
In understanding Satan’s case, we know.
Envisioning self god,
he thus committed fraud;
a lie he was too willful, blind to see.
And so down through the ages,
man’s wicked heart still rages
against the Truth, near constantly at war.
From Putin’s evil rise,
we trace back to the lies
we’ve bought in perpetuity since youth.
And thus, we can’d deny
the war follows the lie;
we’re just repeating what’s transpired before.
Your Bestiality seems to
Become a reality
Fingertips....wet lips
I love it when you lick
Honey-dipped skin
I can do nothing
But comply to your
Every whim and appetite
Ohhhh...I love the way you bite
When I seem to entice
Your heightened itch
Yes I don’t mind being called your B....
The groans and moans
You want silenced
For all those who want to listen
To this kinky event
In this position I’m willing
To do anything....even pay the rent
I’m developing some type
Of anatomical monkey on my back
Yet your rhythm remains
Conclusively enacted
When I throw it back
I was inadequately prepared
For these moments of
Lascivious acquisitions
And animalistic demeanors
How I savor these junctures of carnality
And your monstrous bestiality
against the sky
spread out
corners of evening
days of hands
of indecision:
revisions
come&go
in formulated
phrases
days
&
ways
known to all
to its crisis
prayed:
talk
with
a smile
of no great
matter:
overwhelming
questions
as patterns
in the mind
meticulous
yet obtuse
sing to me
in
white &
black
a
predicament
evolved
into
despair
triviality
ransacked,
irony
conceived
explicit
experiences
self-regarding
sardonic
self-conscios
inadequately
revealed:
a sequence
of
images
of
imagined logic
visions
of conceit
failure
futility
time
indivisible
inhabited
by allusions
fulfilled
by
sensibility
From sunset 'til dawn, how do I love thee?
To the music of the cooing doves song
From the crack of dawn with sunny skies or gray
With each thought that passes into light
Of matter gray, each breath that I take
How do I love thee?, often my heart
Strays into a lovely day with flowers gay
How do I love thee?, deep; long; with each breath
That I inhale and release never to cease
How do I love thee, inadequately pure
Of this my soul is forever sure
How do I love thee, with phileo love
Sometimes eros but await total agape
In response to
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
"Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861
Inspired by Brian Strand's contest # 231
I know that the rhyme scheme is not correct on this one but it just flowed when I wrote it awhile back..I hope that you enjoy reading it..
Early mornings
remind me of memories
not yet made
my cup of coffee
like a warm embrace
steam rising
against the optimism
of a blue sky
I am a women
inadequately defined
there are the bold lines
the ones that trace the contours of my skin
deep grooves
against my being
mother
companion
friend
but underneath the muscle and sinew
of my tactile reality
lies the deep blue of my blood
untouched
constantly moving
the solid fragments of bone and marrow
forging an alliance with my heartbeat
I still have yet to sit here
within the dark spaces
and love
the fearsome silence
I still avert my eyes
to the sight
of my own abundant flesh
the valleys
of my own opulence
refusing to accept this body
the way it is
and the way it was
beautiful
in all its blaring imperfections
my skin stretched
and pillaged
remnants
from a battle bravely won.
with so many people around,
why wasn’t there one person trying to
stop this malicious individual who
was wailing on this woman?
while the watcher opened her mouth &
nothing came out, the man hitting the
young woman had stopped, pulling her
by the arm along behind him back into
the crowd---the woman who had been
hit was all disheveled & weeping.
the watcher didn’t know the relationship
between the two, but she knew that
what she’d seen had sent her into a moral
panic, wherein what she knew to be
“the right thing,” she simply had been
inadequately prepared to deliver a
response &
this kept her up at night
for the next week or so.
at home, away from the city,
the watcher didn’t walk around as
self-righteous as she had before,
in fact, it seemed to some who knew her
best,
that she had got right down off her
soapbox---
for she just couldn’t shake the memory
of that man slapping that woman so hard
that she could hear it across a crowded
street---
worse yet,
she couldn’t shake the idea that she hadn’t
done a thing to stop it.
BP knew on February Thirteenth
Of structural flaws in the well beneath
Goldman Sachs sold its stock
It should come as no shock
The Lord in heaven is grinding his teeth
*Goldman Sachs was the number two contributor to the Obama campaign and
suspicion has surfaced as to why the White House has inadequately monitored
offshore drilling and has been slow to act on stopping the oil spill.
GS sold nearly 60 percent of its BP stock before the April 20th explosion. Coincidence? Insider trading?
Inadequately the clouds covered the moon
the wind was soft and silky.
The death of shadow was not complete.
Stars had fled from groans of night.
In the still room poor sentences could not compete
with the innocence of emptiness
which was in throes of giving
birth to a new meaning.
Weeping flowers were weaving a song.
Memory, my pain, returns again and again
I would never go ever to my old house
just one for me, it gave me choking
sadness.
The wanderer me, moves again, to switch
the lights on. You are not watching me.
I don’t put claim on my words. They
came to me from dangerous mistakes.
SATISH VERMA
Volcanoes rise on the red check
chessboard of life entrenched
in the hopelessness of romance.
Lava lamp pieces manipulated
to check then mate,
a burning desire to copulate,
ejaculate,
physically communicate.
Below the insubstantial surface froth,
bitter black fluid
inadequately tempered by brown sugar grains
seeps into our hearts, our brains.
It matters not an atom
when the sun sinks down
spreading sweeping crimson shadows
across the map of the human heart.
God is old hat, reclined on a
celestial candy-striped deckchair,
sadistic and out of touch.
The truth,
what truth is that?
Is it feasible, is it possible
to love and want love
too much?
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