Long Loveless Poems
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My mind is as fascinated with investments and divestments
as my body is attracted to healthy and beautiful vestments,
and haunted by prospects of naked loss of home
and integral identity.
My vested interests emerge issues and concerns about nutrition,
as opposed to malnutrition.
Nutrition, whether economic or political,
pursues ecologically systemic complexity.
PolyCultural nutrition can be consumed and produced by a healthy cooperative ecosystem,
while a monoculturally disturbed and aggressive absence of balance
harmony
grace
perpetuates internal v external systemic trauma.
We would all prefer,
regardless of cultural history of our vestments,
avoiding Other's aggressive win/lose values
without win/win cooperative body-health/mind-wealth merit
as effectively democratic,
confluently inclusive,
peacefully compassionate
as possible
through clear polypathic discernment,
multiculturally resilient wellness
passion/pleasure co-invested,
economically and politically co-arising
enlightening and empowering
compelling
spacious and timeless
harmoniously cooperative wealth
overwhelmingly vested
in nondual co-arising
mind/body
passion/pleasure climaxing
wealth/health co-infested experience
Whether the pantheistically connected mind of an ant
or polypathically EarthMother nurtured human,
whether the soulful voice of a river
or polyculturing choices of a rich forest,
or the SunFather enlightened spirit
of EarthMother's empowering cooperative nature
My mind invests in
and divests of
anthropocentric economic and political
monoculturing monotheistic history
Of healthy bodies and beautiful minds
spaciously and timelessly
haunted by monoculturing prospects
of sacred EarthMother's loveless loss,
homeless absence
of cooperatively organic
panentheistic Gaian integrity.
EarthTribe's co-empathic
beautifully invested mind,
fascinating co-empathic body-divestments,
where curious polypathic nature's nutrition
cultivates spiritual-mental health diversions,
spaciously enlightened and timelessly wealthy
co-arising authentically enlightened
and integrally empowering
bicameral left/righteousness
Polypathically organic minds
fascinated with investments and divestments
of panentheistically sacred bodies
attracted to politically healthy
and economically wealthy
creolizing Gaian co-infestments.
Civility and Man: A Historical View
Since man began to populate the earth,
And feel the pull of Satan’s evil ways.
The angels came to teach the fallen souls:
Proposing righteous ways to live earth days.
Decorum had been taught both then and now.
Man, Adam and his wife with death had played.
The badly chosen fruit waylaid their plight.
Enlightened, but from loving God they strayed.
Significance and consequence brought death.
The mortal two began to populate.
So rules of etiquette began to grow.
And man’s new fate embraced their mortal state.
Before too long, grave envy showed its face.
And Cain did not obey the rules, as taught.
He chose a rock and struck his brother dead.
Civility was not wrought in that rock.
When Moses led his people through the sands.
And Father carved some rules upon a stone.
Uncivilized, they bickered, played, and sinned.
Respect for God and His great words had flown.
When Socrates and Plato came around,
Civility…philosophy was deep.
The Ten Commandments were the reigning rules.
And politics gave zealousness a hold.
George Washington and others wrote some rules.
These rules were social rules, not civil laws.
Civility back then meant manner’s guide.
Respecting one another, yielding self.
The hundred plus ten rules, then set in place.
Fell prey to proper conduct’s judging ways.
And judgment for their lacking could be cruel.
If down the nose one’s self-worth found a sneer.
Dear Harry Truman taught a civil dream.
Of unity within the scope of men,
Together working for the greater good.
All brothers hand in hand respecting each.
The world today is filled with hatred’s fray.
Mankind now turns away from loving ways.
The common man believes all shall be well.
Surprise! Civility is on the road to hell.
Good actions are respecters of all men.
With energy beget not violent ways.
Or great travail shall overcome mankind.
Civility to me, most surely means:
Loving one another, there and at home.
Willfully revising loveless thinking.
Rebuking darkness with the light of love.
Unity and freedom…let us ring.
United wisdom drinking of love’s well,
No longer greeting slaughter of lost hope.
But civilly, rethinking plights of man.
© Name withheld for the contest
March 21, 2010
Poetic form: Free Verse
PLEASE PRAY FOR THE WORLD AND FORWARD THIS AS INSPIRED.
Goodnight to our Rome with all your garrisons
and your streets that have become
as loveless as empty barracks.
For you I will never weep.
After all,
your Senators
Who made the deals
To keep the last
Last
And the first bored
and lost in ennui,
govern the burning ruins
of the human city which evicted the cobbler
and used the electorate as a weapon
With unforgiving recoil
Which guarantees
that
the bottom will stay at the bottom
and dance to the music of the
midnight carousel.
2
Now that the middleman has been cast
To the prairie grass
With his own middle cut away
His fate was decided over lunch
The legal apparatus has fallen from its hinge
Leaving only the greatest felony
Unnamed.
And who are our neighbors
When we’re sentenced to the
Four year winter hotel?
Will they be the nameless ghosts
Evicted from their bodies by those
Who are afforded the right to escape the tombs
With kept wives in cheap furs
And Upper eastside penthouses.
And in all those apartments
All the beautiful people
Wash down oxycodone with fine wine
While bitching about the junkie below.
“Send the cops to clean up the drug
Problem,” they cry.
“All addictions should come with a ‘scrip.”
It takes a truly trained country
with few alternatives
to put a knife to its own throat
or hand it over
to an orange buffoon
with a poor hair cut
in a loveless room.
He always
lines up his bets
on what con will turn the American heart
into just another dead
theater
where it was all the show of shows.
And when the decision is made
The worst one is chosen.
The decision has certainly been made.
For what other country
Choses a landlord so crooked
All self-respecting cons
Walk past him
Never stopping at all
For fear he will pick their pockets clean
For he is the biggest con of all,
Who now has to do a sometimes honest man’s job.
Those he loved the least
Ignored all the papers
Who for once
Didn’t celebrate
The game of chance
But cried out
With the urgency of a siren
During an air raid
to pick the other.
While he spoke as one of the mob
His heart was that of a landlord
Looking to evict
All his useful idiots
From their lots.
For now he can expect nothing in the end
But to stand on the stairs
Or escalator
When all your Senators approach
smiling
with drawn knives.
“Et tu Sessions?”
Part Two of the Fun Series...if you haven't read Part One, Half-Fast Fun, please do so! Thanks~ #JWE
Constantly, I am trying…
Not to cry and die away inside…
Quit lying and replying
To my sighing that I can’t hide
Jealous of me? Why you mad at me?
Oh please…don’t even...
Sia gave me chance to dance…funny?
I’m a tease…saw you leaving…
I won’t grieve for your front door slamming…your shame spamming…
My thrills are priceless and you keep acting a pill
Let me breathe and unwind…sick of society's deceived programming
The piling bills on the table were left unpaid still
Stressed, hardly anywhere to go and no one knows
Release me from this rut with sympathy that shows
God tells me to start again…
Sins erased seven times seven…
Where have you wandered off to?
Have you gone astray too? Is that true?
That’s right…don’t be a hypocrite
You make mistakes as well as me, we do choose
So, quit being mean with wicked wit
Bring up good topics without any further issues
I listen to music…yes, you heard me regardless like a beat so sick
Music does, for real, heal…
A torn, forlorn soul and therapeutically provides fire to the wick
Helps me to feel and deal
Don’t make me low when I am high
Because you are low and blue
Be nice and so will I…and so will I…
Afraid and ashamed, who knew
Was pretty mad,
Now, I’m glad
Not sad
Not, not anymore
Sorry you and I were bad…
Sore – no, no more
We had
Times so rad
Vanished like ad
I listen to music…yes, you heard me regardless like a beat so sick
Music does, for real, heal…
A torn, forlorn soul and therapeutically provides fire to the wick
Helps me to feel and deal
This time, I'll eventually sleep away
My problems tonight, I have to say
Don’t hurt me so like you done in success…
Or you’re next with future sadness that is of the abyss
Instead, I will repay you with forgiveness
I'll never hold grudges, forget it
Some people can act loveless and careless
Live with it and deal with it a bit
I listen to music…yes, you heard me regardless like a beat so sick
Music does, for real, heal…
A torn, forlorn soul and therapeutically provides fire to the wick
Helps me to feel and deal
Full-blast fun – for real…a filling meal
It’s hard to conceal it, so I will reveal…
Turn the wheel as you and I appeal
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Depression vol 13 ~ Loveless
How dull I feel, writing of the same
eternal misery like all those before me;
All my fellow poets, or the regretful
artists lyrics, that forever seem to plea,
As fickle as a coin toss, as
rare as the solar eclipse,
If you happen to lose, the
agony as brutal as warships,
Still no matter the price, I still yearn
desperately to gain the magic promised in this prize,
However, I can't help but doubt that
its all nothing but naively held lies,
The concoction of soul mates and love
at first sight; just whimsical, misplaced hope,
Still wishing of knights in armour,
whilst modern men just cuss and grope,
Such an alien concept, watching all the
connections others seem to effortlessly make,
Maybe I should be grateful my delicate
soul doesn't dare risk this stake,
Yet, feeling the even slightest of
butterflies, it instantly quells my nihilism,
Ignorantly forgetting disastrous past
attempts, the causality to my cynicism,
But reality eventually always kicks in,
brutally extinguishing my daydreams,
Reconfirming this simply will never be,
slipping me between the two extremes,
Either miserably longing for
the simplest of attention,
Or drowning in loneliness,
isolated like in permanent detention,
Forced to absorb the suffocating
joy paraded around by other couples,
Knowing for me this shall never be,
bitterly unclenching my knuckles,
Like my demons would ever allow
me true happiness to ever take place,
As if I would ever be ahead,
in this or any other rigged race,
Maybe I'm just never to understand
the complex torture that is romance,
Doomed to continously be
discounted at any first glance,
Turning stupidly, jaded with envy,
I still attempt to appear remorseful,
Hearing friends petty quarrels,
trying not to be too forceful,
I guess it shall remain an unsolved mystery,
whether I will ever grasp it,
Leaving the question for my psychic,
but doubting I shall ever ask it,
Trying my best to wish all those
happy partners well in their peaceful bliss,
But just attempting to forget the
trauma of my dreadful first ever kiss,
Wondering if I can find meaning in
my life without this missing part,
Striving to find contentment,
even with the gaping hole in my heart.
There has always been an inter-outer over-under tender balance of loveless socio-equations as they super fit the psychosocial sexe-endices in this modern garner of pluses/minuses/bytes and scribbles mostly incommunicado inexperience and parental impreciseness as to, "anything planned", which in tomb leaves us doth a deranged desperate captive of that all inbibed prisoner **** of nun conformist adventurerers and that really, that there are just too many organic integers making for really bad math.intuitations/attributes and all of the familio do's and don'ts that creep bastardy across the years to inculcate, interfere, incase all of the hoped, promised integrity of just 2 people in love? with all that makes it their potential, not all of the hopeless, ne'r do wells, dead driven dud marriages that hoped to promulgate their failures onto the newbies totally unprepared, but willfully negative implicit on that new, and should be uninterrupted, all naked, seeing alter intense emoexplosive journeys to that wait waits, some supposes, everybody entices, everyone enthralls, quired questions, problem perplexes, initiates initiated, complexes complete, duty deforms, eerily exacts a viscous value, on properties promised a forever coexistance, but not at the expense of selfish selfness; can it be to an us award of a faceoff fervent fever, that WE, can coincide an opposite internal presence that allows us to be a universal component undeluded, underived, unpolluted by the natural wonders that are our genetic cohesions, so they can further their total promise to lead a connected life of copious love, desire and plentitudes of us-ness, disavowing all else in a socioinvasive parental wake of them vs us in all things blood/emo crass cursive? Leave them, the future lovers of us alone, let it flow and keep your, non orgasmic, loveless failures to yourself, old/tainted people of relations, lovers of social inhibitions it plays to an ill-at-ease, stubborn Igor-ignocompliance. Yes, we had Summer Love/Woodstock, but then we grew to be livestock, waiting for the senior-socioseniorslaughter pill mill. You must have some small, tinder, macromolecule of what it was to be standing in the bliss of universal underware; a long time ago in a universe far, far, away. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! the neighbors.
The only thing I still see going in you
is a small piece of your heart
That love for one another
left behind for your own dart
Where all you knew of love
was a simple plan
Just to love a man who loved you
and a fold of land
While you never stopped to wonder
what of love unplanned
Where the others all around you
were the grapes you fanned
And the wrath of God who'll tell you
that there's other men
Who you opened up your heart to
Who included then...
Were the brothers of your heart
who you'd kept it for
All when dating your own man
that you left for more
When your love was never worthless
and was meant much more
And your trust was never faithless
as you're worth much more
As the love for who you loved
was never meant as sure
When your love for all your God
is a love you're sure
And he'll take you to a man
when he's filled you sure
That your love for only one
means your heart is pure
And the one you chose to love
isn't meant to match
But see through you for the loveless
where your failure passsed
And to take you to the higher ground
where you won't ask
Does he love me for the moment
or is he cost task
For your love to flourish mostly
from the knowledge dear
That your kept by love who'd rather
see you free to fear
When the love that you are feeling
is a love quite grand
All encompassed by the lord
and his holy hand
So you go on to his living
in a world to stand
For the love of one another
where your love is fanned
By the flames of all the others
who would see you pale
To the love of only one
who can see your tale
Where your love is all for him
in a package frail
And you stand up for the wind
in a love he'll sail
For a love for one another
where your sure to be
Just the only one who loves him
just for being he
And you go about your business
being all he has
When the love you feel for others
is the love he'd pass
Every moment that your with him
for a love to last
For the moments that he loved you
for all you are cast
And you're solely loved for you
up until you're clasped
By the love you feel for others
filling him with bast
When you know all love's for others
when you hold him tight
And you know no loves a man's
till you see him right
DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE EMOTIONAL ISSUES
I was born in a land far, far away called... home.
Not yet still-born.
A place of iced mountain mazes,
that were once warm, like an oasis of blessings,
featured.
Life, overlooking question marked plains,
where the grass is green and the wind, wild
and unfiltered.
Where adventure and path was half-balanced,
teetered.
Hung on the Horizon like the Moon in High Holy Day
in shift phase-,shifting phase-shift,
of the nurtured.
Still, a Banshee Howling; a Temptress-Whore,
lifting all protocol of the Hunt, "About Face."
Her *** breathe,-iced gossamer-
lining a sarcophagus
below the succession-chain pyramid
of gathered slaves', witness.
Whipped foam in sheet-layers
of emotional-strata denied
by iced Earth and Zombie Tomb.
Society will have its sheep and its shepherds.
Voices do cry in the Wilderness.
Echoes cracked in the darkessphere.
None. The less. The lesser.
An hourglass-of-open-window- shards,
the- daylight-stained-looking-glass-
piercing-the-veil-of-dusks-Sovereign-Sentencing.
The chill of my spine, her memory.
A promise of reunion as she smirks back
with puzzle-encrypted messages.
My Home went away from me,
to re-address ceremonies' garb.
With flinty eyes that bore witness to an empty womb.
Was it me?
The Banshee Howling:
I lived in a house of glass
in a place forbidden to ever be seen. To ever be..
The mirrors promise reflected a lonely,
loveless woman.
Her beauty was too perfect to be real.
She was the one who left me.
To search for better things on these Streets.
To a place called none.
She was gone, but her memory lingers on. For me, the Sonic Howling. The memory of her...
A Banshee Howling; The memory of our union,
reunion, re-toothed in cold steel.
Of ritual, undoing, dung.
The premise : I was unborn in a far-away place
where the grass has never been.
Never was real. A holo sonogram. Life's hologram. The mirror's tear.
Just a shadow, of one teasing shades
of cruelty of what could, has, not wanted. Here?
There? No more? There there. No more tears.