Long Devolving Poems
Long Devolving Poems. Below are the most popular long Devolving by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Devolving poems by poem length and keyword.
--Reapers Dreams--
Met the grim reaper in my dreams. Tried to put it on pause and he used a chainsaw to hack off my legs.
Death always finds a way to make sure I don’t walk into the light.
I look unto the abyss. Without surprise, the abyss looks back.
Infinity, as a dead star…Limitless potential, devolving into a clutter of nihilistic absinthe. Liquidating the insides of materialism. Yet, remaining in the prison.
The realm of vision.
Extraordinary imagination. A cosmos of gravity, the weight takes hold.
May one ever have a moment of silence, in the fireworks of oblivion?
the causes i have lost
ever think the clouds
are hiding something
unfelt from birth
bounced around by atoms
grounded to beneath the ground
down
beaten like a beg
with no
rested pecs
Hero to nuns
ashamed suns
ending just befor
be
gin in a gin ring
unnoticedly unnotice a
bubble
dying from time
denying the seconds
out
round 2
this er keeps getting up
how
looking right threw me
with a listing lisping lips lubricate lusciously less
than naught
no's brought
the anti existent uneffisent to
cause a fuss
Spitting pity like leaded aero plain
as the knows on your face
ends of the human
race you to the bottom
Stop dare any God
stop my wor
nope no takers
ok demons djinns
here my jutting chin
Nope no one
you belittle me humanity
devolving so i dont belong
hope nature kills you
well thats your natural
state the truth
no fear for me
i dont believe the
now i put the instead of thee
what does the mean how many
dont know the meaning of simple words
watching love sold on revolving
on a crystal shelf
marked priceless
for all to bid on
and on this poem goes
but listen how the lines doth flow
almost hear the whispered wishes of a wave
forever breaking
a storms applause
or throw money
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
Life is a work and play in progress
toward interdependent democratic
economic,
political,
social,
psychological,
biological,
and ecological investment choices
And/or lovely life is a too long and too short defaulting divestment
terminating in unwork and unplay dying process
Each day,
each life,
each story
like chapter and verse of sacred scripture
I can see and hear as perfectly wise and healthy
just as it is
already inviting me
with interdependent us
back together
for more and higher and deeper
outer and inner cooperative climate investments
And yet
I cannot feel or believe
we are yet together pre- and re-intending each day
each life
each sacred health chapter
to extend secular purpose
and sacred wealth meaning
toward co-invitation
Each left-brain economic and political life
becoming win/win intended progress,
And each right-brain ego death
succumbing to curiously evolving/devolving process;
My memorialized grief
predicting Earth future's contrasting gratitude,
our positive healthy attitude
redacting grief's historic investments/divestments,
regenerations/degenerations
So life and death
are usually in-between
each compassioning dipolar Other.
A ticket pinned to the thigh reserves it,
the whole cadaver is parceled off - of course.
Legs are a late harvest, these often-indigent parts
carry a visual poverty long after the body is plucked.
Under watchful eyes the young medics
separate muscle groups, filter large blood vessels
from fibrous runnels, hesitant scalpels
seek out fascial planes.
The leg is devolving to scraps,
yet, ingrained in the tissue
I sense residual shades of a former life,
seaside postcards, old photographs,
perhaps campaign ribbons, odd tokens
amongst yellowed newspaper clippings,
all briefly surface as conjectured images
beneath a probing knife.
The gray flesh retains its personal history,
I imagine that behind the knee
there is a wife, children, and a separation
all spectrally etched between femur and tibia.
Much of the ensuing bone-whittling years
are demonstratively scored
across a formaldehyde and jelled narration.
The students suppose they dissect a limb,
while I notion that I turn over bloodless pages,
of an unwritten story,
and now the last few attached ligaments
remain as threads that speak at last
of a long journey’s end.
If vines erupted and conquered my name,
On weather-cracked-stone beneath sullen skies;
Where shrouded secrets sink smothered in shame,
Circled by vultures that pray passion dies;
Eager to feed on Rigamortised dreams,
Candlewax death-cicles frozen insane;
Recycled failures devolving from screams,
Heard ruptured eyes when I couldn’t say plain –
Although tomorrow seems life-times away,
After yesterday killed ours yet unseen,
I loved you then, would then, and do today,
Despite your silence which suffocates green;
Then truly would I gasp bereft of breath,
When still unforgiven beckons cruel death.
Written: 10/2/2016
Submittal for: Overgrown with Vines
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
Is there something in the water or air
that's spreading stupidity everywhere?
Children aren't learning their lessons in school,
vying to be the latest TikTok fool.
As a whole, society's devolving:
a worldwide problem, in need of solving.
It seems everyone is glued to their phones:
no individualism; we're mere clones.
The internet has morphed into a cage,
where stifled minds stagnate and disengage.
Hate and bigotry have gained a platform:
outrageous behavior is now the norm.
We're losing our ability to think
for it's much easier to interlink.
We're banning books, and we're ok with that:
letting the net filter what we look at.
If stupidity's something we can't fix:
try throwing common sense into the mix.
There is something wrong with people today:
AI does their thinking; what can I say?
Nonviolent designers
of Public Service Announcements
Like "STOP"
smoking
shooting up
drinking
trashing
burning
ignoring various morbid diseases
sinning
sundry mental/spiritual pathologies
unsafe behavior
And feeling ugly
smelling
bad sexing
eating crap
unsafe touching
Undeclaring vengeful killing wars
Straight White Male supremacy
ecofeminist confused agendas
greens
reds
whites
blues
browns
blacks
Lust
rust
greed
going to seed
All these STOP campaigns
seem to miss my pointed
loser experience
that aiming for what makes me right now happy
is, perhaps, a long-term disgrace
So, what I aim for
instead
is whatever lies
and hiddenness,
safe camouflage
behind
and beneath respectful society's
muttered under sour breath
"good riddance"ness,
I aim for saving face.
You can campaign
all commercial day
and consummating night
to persuade me that my health
is also our happy
absence of communal fright
and resonant,
perhaps even resilient,
brilliantly enlightened
and empowering wealth.
But,
in my heart
of hurt
addiction
depression
anxiety
remorse for an angry life
at least half dead
from fear
you may uncover me
in ways I can't pretend
to self-righteously defend
I need some campaign
even larger than anti-addiction
to thinking either bliss
or blues,
Win/lose
Earth's evolving
devolving runaway mission,
money exchanging zero-sum transmission,
inside a nonzero multiplying transmission
system
Not for peace,
or win/win health
is also wealth,
or whimsically precarious
happy nest
unrest;
not sure I tried
my best.
I want to join
Earth's Great Return
for self-regenerating
revolving annual campaigns
springing climate forth
summer's healthy maturation
falling harvest wisdom
wintering indigenous
sacred
nurtured meaning,
Theological enlightenment
ecologically empowering
in-between
co-arising Yang SunGod
and Yintegral
Matriarchal Earth
Tribes consuming public campaigns
green co-passionate
communion
saving Earth's most happy
sacred face,
warm embrace,
holistic place
divinely humane race
toward peaceful space
and pace.
J D Vance has such smoky, smoldering eyes, doesn’t he?
The way those baby blues coruscate, as if from the darkness.
Are those shadows natural? No, it’s eyeliner, of course, but on
a 40-year-old man it’s called guyliner.
Any teenage girl will tell you the kohl pencil is the gateway
makeup tool for self-definition, if not exactly self-improvement.
As an ex-teenage girl, I can picture the hours senator Vance spent,
hunched over his laptop watching make-up tutorials on TikTok or
Instagram, analyzing eyeliner techniques in overwhelming detail.
TikTok clips are today’s replacement for the Teen Vogue magazine
product pages of back-in-the-day. I recall watching these videos,
at 14 and devolving into a fog of envy and inadequacy.
JD began wearing guyliner in 2016, so he probably watched those
at age 33 and by now, he’s certain to have upped his game
by having them permanently, cosmetically tattooed on.
Of course, Trump himself has never been one to shy away from makeup.
His weird, orange, glazed-ham look comes from his preferred spray-on
concealer, ‘Bronx Colors,’ a cruelty-free makeup manufacturer in Switzerland.
If this all sounds too judgy, I’d like to say, “JD, I’ve felt your clearly adolescent girl pain, and I get your desire to represent a softer and more romantic republican political aesthetic.”
And let’s not forget that Kamala’s been known to wear makeup herself.
.
.
Songs for this:
It's All Over Now, Baby Blue by Falco
Gonna Get Along without you now by She and Him
.
.
Here are before and after JD Vance eyeliner pics - you decide: daweb.us/jdVance.png
Pocket-Gazes
Night depressed—
black spirits, spiders,
demanding, retorting,
an empty vessel, titanic with trauma.
A downturned smile, flagellate,
disillusioned, demoted, disinterested—
dystopian dysmorphia.
Dolls.
Masks.
Spills.
Blood.
Oxygen.
Water.
Decaying. Degrading. Devolving.
Despair, disaster, disappointment—
disappear.
The lexicon collapses inward,
a ladder whose rungs only fall.
Sand sighs. Water shifts.
Hands disembodied.
Faces detached,
checked out.
I flail,
a swimmer drowning in a teaspoon.
Watermelon empathy—
bloated, barren.
A clock face melting, Dalí’s sky.
I am Picasso’s fractured mouth.
I am Van Gogh’s shell-ear,
smashed on the rocks.
Amy Winehouse cries, hollow,
vodka-veined, restrained
inside a music box.
Maya’s muteness.
Florence’s failure.
Mary Seacole’s poverty.
Nightingale’s lamp guttering.
Angelou’s song stilled.
Seacole’s hands trembling empty.
Yet outward—
instead of inward,
instead of into my pocket-gazes—
there might be,
just might be,
a shimmer of stardust,
a touch of moonlight.
Hope, a dot of light
in a cavern of dark.
And yet,
it illuminates the sky.