Long Pointlessly Poems
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Preponderance of dimensions perplexes with bliss string fervor
Lake mine previous
(stream of consciousness
imponderable) poetic efforts,
sans spiritus mundi, converse
sing a boot unfamiliar thread,
and ignored common
sense ne'er re: hearse
sing, asper William Butler Yeats,
aye went off deep end, perhaps
provoked at least une nurse
sis sear re: literary unlicensed violation,
and additionally one emphatic curse,
where mine poe whet
tick feet did immerse
for the methamphetamine time acid,
(I said to myself), why traverse
pointlessly imagining something worse
tread about, i.e. say...tripping
along head over heels, yet
nagging notion would not disperse
venturing blithely writing
plunging into terra incognita parallel
universe a "multiverse"
herewith also Ark
chew woolly Noah intent
for yours truly to drown while purse
sue wing abstract notion,
viz domain of science fiction,
never intermittently intersperse
sing following lines with "HELP, I need
somebody...", nor deliberately submerge
readers within a mini sea course
of confusion, but I feel confounded
gripped, lured...and will gladly reimburse,
should delving over my head diverse
if eyeing breadth, length, scope...
beyond realm of mom and pop verse
a tile theoretical physicists,
who casually identify ten dimensions
— eleven including time, nor averse
slithering thru worm holes
such more'n flight of fancy seems perverse,
whereat numberless whirled
wide webs presents obverse
to accepted paradigm reverse
sing scientific tenets describing
quarks, plus portal bellow much
room (See Alice in Wonderland) disperse
sing notions, where exodus
down the rabbit hole
into alternate self contained
separate cosmological infinitesimal channels
far more exciting than reality television!
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece. Tolstoy followed in 1890, with a novel.
He argued that matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
Oh No Mister Bill! Not Another Car Repair!
Aside from vehicular insurance, you
must be aware another
reason car ownership
finds me being privy
to possessing Hyundai Sonata (2009)
title purposelessness too
raising a futile cry and hew
stems from accursedly unexpected
mechanical malfunctions due
to arise unpredictably,
thus before bidding thee adieu
lemme share another source,
plus absolute zero clue,
how I will pay for necessary part
(linkedin with brake system)
exacerbates psychological glue
mean us - as addressed
in previous poems
wretched formative years I drew
majority of existence, now
lemme enlighten how a new
whistling noise detected earlier
by this gentile (actually atheist) Jew
(December 26th, 2018),
yea me Match Chew
felt his heart sink,
and mine key intuition knew,
there goes social security
disability - yepper flew
right out the window
good as flushing down the loo,
cuz acute hearing discerned
an unfamiliar sound which drew
audiological attention particularly
to passenger rear wheel,
analogous to bleating ewe
where without wooly sheepish
doubt, I smelled burnt offerings and heard
distinct noise unfamiliar and new,
which automotive distress immediately
altered my epidermal hue
cuz checking account still in ICU
(prognosis grim) like an
overworked choo choo,
thus emotional state now going
haywire hullabaloo
finding writing rhyming
poem meagerly sue
tub bull and wishfully, pointlessly,
and dreamily cross fingers,
and toes to rue
min ate ting winning
powerball jackpot and moo
hoove varying into lap of living
socially within human zoo
instead of feeling boiled
for cannibal stew!
No matter yours truly
(potential rising star -
analogous to ascending yeast)
bred for easy street
life of po' witless
mendicant nimbly,
pointlessly, and rhythmically
shuffles (think tramp)
along his poetic little feet
garden variety beastie boy
aimlessly, fortuitously, halfheartedly,
and mindlessly follows
one after another backstreet
revisiting, reminiscing, and relegating
lofty mollycoddled station bittersweet
birthright fame and fortune
teasingly did greet
finding twenty first century hobo
shack hulled with poverty
(think dirt poor),
I shoe cannot defeat,
which accursed fate socked yours truly,
where one after another failure did beat
once unassailable esprit de corps
near ready and willing to meet
exalted, fabled, gilded... seat
but woeful naiveté tricked with deceit
mine childlike innocence dripping effete
characteristics easily swindled for Pete
sakes since... young manhood, now wizened
old looking schnorrer marveling,
imagining, envisioning aggregating riches
coaxing, forming, hatching...
liaisons particularly romantically discrete
lavishing untold money during heat
of passion oblivious,
how ingénues with sweet
enticingly, ineluctably, luridly, beckoned
eventually no exit and other ploys
playfully blindsiding me with
one after another promiscuous tweet
barricades no exit wrought
with razor wire and concrete.
Sneezing again,
Somewhat lost control over me.
Again.
And now the seasons changed,
Summer’s walking out on me.
Again.
The nicotine chain,
Forcing down another twenty.
Again.
Wheezing refrain,
I feel the rain pouring down on me.
Yet again.
Reminisce again of the roof above,
Something that once held over me.
But the sky now drops tears,
Joyless tears,
Again.
Love washed over me.
Again.
Pointlessly in love,
Your eyes never hold on to me.
I’m just pointlessly in love,
Washing my memories with golden relief.
The gold shines above,
The sky sing songs bittersweet melodies.
Now,
Again.
Lake previous poetic effort,
sans spiritus mundi, converse
sing a boot unfamiliar thread,
and ignored common
sense ne'er re: hearse
sing, asper William Butler Yeats,
aye went off deep end, perhaps
provoked at least une nurse
sis sear re: literary unlicensed violation,
and additionally one emphatic curse,
where mine poe whet
tick feet did immerse
for the methamphetamine time acid,
(I said to myself), why traverse
pointlessly imagining something worse
tread about, i.e. say...tripping
along head over heels, yet
nagging notion would not disperse
venturing blithely writing
plunging into terra incognita parallel
universe a "multiverse"
herewith also Ark
chew woolly Noah intent
for yours truly to drown while purse
sue wing abstract notion,
viz domain of science fiction,
never intermittently intersperse
sing following lines with "HELP, I need
somebody...", nor deliberately submerge
readers within a mini sea course
of confusion, but I feel confounded
gripped, lured...and will gladly reimburse,
should delving over my head diverse
if eyeing breadth, length, scope...
beyond realm of mom and pop verse
a tile theoretical physicists,
who casually identify ten dimensions
— eleven including time, nor averse
slithering thru worm holes
such more'n flight of fancy seems perverse,
whereat numberless whirled
wide webs presents obverse
to accepted paradigm reverse
sing scientific tenets describing
quarks, plus portal bellow much
room (See Alice in Wonderland) disperse
sing notions, where exodus
into alternate self contained
separate cosmological infinitesimal channels
far more exciting than reality television!
The moon was big and lit-up,
so of course, some local dog
was barking like crazy.
I got up, it was half past the tic of time
and way deeper than any sunken face.
I was a little wasted;
I get mad at such times
when the night cracks open in my head.
Outside, the backyard was fractured by silence
and an unpredictable yammer of sound.
A full-on moonlight had crapped shadows
all over the place.
I yelled pointlessly at the splintered sky
both sky and dog seemed to listen,
then the mutt yanked-up the volume
and really began to howl
I guess it was upset.
Back inside I turned on the laptop
and quietly typed out a lot of
bold, loud expletives -
perhaps considering
it better
not to disturb any more dead-eyed gods.
Capsizing the Costa Concordia
Divers wreathe silently through
the submerged corridors of a
140,000-ton wreck. Little fish
dark haphazardly through
the juxtaposition of tilted ballroom,
granite bars fixed in place.
Black waters lit green by headlamps
provide a surreal spotlight
for a loveseat drifting by
A vase of Chinese dollar plants poised delicately
on a marble counter.
Across the underwater tomb,
toppled chairs, tumbled together,
wait patiently to be repositioned
outside the dance floor.
There was nothing graceful about the dramatic demise
of this giantess,
listing to her death.
She was fatally wounded, being coaxed
too closely to the coast.
A hidden reef stood ground to gore
a 70ft gash, portside.
There was the moaning of mangled metal,
the shrieking of splitting steel,
as dark torrents were unleashed into her belly,
extinguishing her light.
“Go back to your cabins!”
and corridors flooded
“Go back to your cabins!”
and pumps failed.
“Captain! The passengers are making their own way to the lifeboats!”
echoes pointlessly through the abandoned bridge.
“Vada a bordo, cazzo!”
The Coast Guard thunders across dark waters
and the captain is stealing into his own lifeboat
to listen from the safety of shore.
Listening to the chaos,
interrupted by the agonized silence of passengers
too terrified to scream.
They hold their breath and try to calm each other
in the absence of authority.
“Vada a bordo, cazzo!”
But it’s dark, he pleads, and I can’t see anything...
A rope ladder is flung over the bow,
drowning passengers slinging, and
crawling crablike to Coast Guard boats
as the ship sinks to her side,
gripping 37 passengers in a horrifying embrace.
Scuba clad stewards of the dead
open the possessive clutch
of an atrium elevator
to extract bodies
protectively closed and sealed
in a grisly pantomime of protection.
The remains of the deceased
are floated to the light
to break the surface one last time.
The Costa Concordia shudders heavily,
sliding into her death repose.
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece with this title. Count Leo Tolstoy
followed in 1890, with a short novel of the
same name, in which he argued that
matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
If forgetting is to life as remembering is to death; my fate is uncontrollable.
I can wish to erase memories and detach your existence from my mind pointlessly if I dare.
Though id much sooner give my breath up to have spent the last one reminiscing on everything you are to me.
If moving on is to forgetting as being stuck is to remembering; consider me comfortable in my place.
Accepting the idea that our story together has ended, that I should speak of you in the past tense.
The soul built on hope and bittersweet naivety that soaks up and creates my being wants to believe that this isn't permanent.
Given the opportunity I don't have faith in my own capability of seeing past all the pain I've been left to relish in.
Knowing you, the chance won't present itself.
A bridge I'll never have to cross, only one I can stand solemnly at the end of.