Long Without aim Poems
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A new day perhaps, of immeasurable tin, sound of din
A hurricane noise, a thrall of riotous cuts, although thin
The blood-curdle choke of rage from before
Now purchased like plasma from the needle store
Go hump yourself, If you want my schtick, you vampire whore
You’ve had enough since the Garden, Lillith, you’ll not get more
Now the ratio between human, vampire, dragon and other dead
Has been cast with fair radiant echo against the nuclear thread
A shroud sewn with Alcubierre’s hand and Teller’s eye
Will re-write the laws of your time to die
Not forced by the forced prison of your local priest
Or enticed by Babylon to take part in it’s wicked feast
The work that was promised to Adam and re-framed unto Cain
To un-curse the valley, glen and land: to filter Acid from Rain
With thorns o- the rose coming loose from the Bush
And snakes running hither or thither in scintillate Rush
The Oracle of Satan found new charms to spread in perfect Cube
Could be the shape of Sound Maynard or Max’s Cubic Rube
The Time of Orwell Now and Jobs spelling Apple at his Side
And Sting writing programs for the Cops, whom along for the Ride
the Bladerunner checkin for humans among the technical horde
Huxley detected the separate spirit, lobotimized souls, Model T Fords
And Harrison checked again with electric sleep on the Brain
A tear for Summer, or a vision for Canticles, a wave almost Inane
With countless ages past since the Dust of Sumer lent
It’s hell-bound rasp of gutteral destruction spent
The awful wave of gas, a riotous nuclear blast
In the once Green land where sage grew fast
The dim spectre of time has given up the ghost
With markets bazar and material plenty, yet consider the cost
From Alabaster bone the Ocean’s a-shallow
The Mermaids remember the times that were fallow
Year upon year the bi-peds walked without aim or deed
That could count for fullness, even yet upon steed
Even in those ages of lore when upon horse they’d trot
Or with Gasoline chariot to the park like Mel Ot
None could account for the empty space of land
Or like Kieth Stone, bend down and till without turning into sand
The eidolons of time, immemorable: drooping, eternal clocks
An echo of murmurs, drogue and sorrow, indifferent as the rocks
Whom would not cry out, with refusal of price
None could garner their strength or bleed them twice
Tribute to “The Day Before You Came” * by Bjorn
in the first 1982 ABBA version
The day before yesterday
You came together to play
To lift our hearts in joy
Belting out in convoy
The day after he came
We celebrate whose fame
You wailed through self-pity
But ne’er called it Beauty
‘Infinite suffering thing’
Would that Eliot could sing
Pre-dramatic event
Your breaking-up you meant
“Pretty sure it must have rained”
”…rattling on the roof” hearts stained
The day after he came
Most songs seem sound the same
“Knowing you Knowing me”
Never meant to be free
“…my life…its usual frame”
“…sense of living without aim”
Yes “Some one is crying”
No some one’s conniving
At noon must have left for lunch
“…usual place…usual bunch”
The sad journey on rails
Must break hearts crammed in jails
Due at eight in the morn
Back at eight all forlorn
“And turning out the light”
Curled safe in bed at night
For the day after he came
My life burned on a flame
The paradox of joy
Is that it makes one cry
‘Parting is such sweet sorrow’
Better still safe routine in tow
“…I hid a part of me…”
“…in heaps of papers” for fee
And let the world pass by
Not knowing what is joy
Is joy carpe diem
Was day before he came
Now my life’s over due
I’ve met my Waterloo
The train’s an ugly monster
Dragging its hind legs after
Frida’s howl pack of hounds
Benny's sound track train pounds
Anna’s swan tones lament
Bjorn’s lines uptight breasts rent
Beauty’s not only content
It’s also the way you vent
Conceit’s the ermine cloak
Rattling skeletons croak
Bjorn’s true lines exquisite poem
Sung in sweet pain What’s its name
Notes
Words within inverted commas are from the song.
Single quotes indicate other well-known words.
*Rhyme scheme: 4 stanzas (3 of ten lines with concluding quatrain) in rhymed couplets of varying syllabic count.
1st stanza: aabbccde ff
2nd stanza: aagghhii ff
3rd stanza: ddggiijj ff
4th stanza: kk ff
Not all in perfect rhyme: rain/came (for instance)
The syllabic count (more or less): 14 (with the exception of the 4th
line at 18 and eighth (exception: 1st stanza at 10) and tenth at 6.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
I stroll through life, a passenger in my own body, without aim or purpose
My feet touch the ground but there’s no feeling, I’m numb to my senses only my consciousness remains
I’m lost on my journey, no path appears before me, though I search tirelessly for the hint of one
Days, months, years roll by and I’m stuck floating through life, annoyingly trapped in tedium
I try to make a choice but there are too my possibilities to select from, worse yet I lack a purpose
No drive, no zeal to push me forward, no waves to ride, so here I reside, wherever here may be
One might think me lucky to have endless possibilities, such capabilities, success assured
But with so many things to do and so little time to do them, I’m struck prioritizing, not doing
Parents often lie to their children saying “you can be whatever you want to be”, but that’s fallacy
You can only be what is within your capabilities, you can only achieve what your intellect will allow
Everyone is, or should be born with limitations, that which cannot be surpassed with effort
But as fate would have it, mine are non-existent, or simply outside the realm of human understanding
My potential, my intellect, has hindered my progress believe it or not, everything is such a bore
What do you do when you have the ability to do anything, yet no interest towards anything?
I try to take a step forward, but yet here I remain, still unfocused, though I lack nothing
A very perplexing and annoying problem, though I’ve from the beginning found the solution
It is quite simple really, so simple in fact that it would be overlooked by most
I will go against the norm, create my own path, and blaze a trail no one can or would think to follow
Instead of doing what I love to earn, I will earn so I can do what interests me, problem solved
Most will not understand or will misunderstand what I mean, but that’s fine
Since this is a problem only I have, arrogant as that may seem, a fact nonetheless
Though I’d prefer if you’d call me a narcissist, narcissism can be sexy after all
No need to take heed or even seek meaning, this is simply the ramblings of a genius
filled with emotions hollow, forced to go through the motions, never caring for the commotion. Fairing like a flame in the marsh, no hope to claim. wandering without aim. are my parents to blame? How many people feel the same?
Feeling so harsh, so brazen, hatin the flow, life feels too slow, eyeing the hope like a crow. Future like a tree fell, as the tears well, and they call our final bell, Too painful to tell, filling up every cell.
Waiting for the reaper's scythe, pondering this life, watching my only friend the knife. Will they mourn the lost life, the worn spirit? Was this my destiny since I was born, to feel forlorn, to be so torn?
So why, why not die, why continue to try?
Are you afraid you'll fry? Can you not fly? Is it too soon to say goodbye?
Let's be sincere, we don't belong here, our best possible career is to serve beer. Go home to our dear, live in our house of fear, and when the end comes well silently cheer.
And after we pass, some believe that will be met by 72 a lass, some think we will simply meet our end, nothing around the bend, a few believe that saints await at the pearly gates, but no one is ever sure about what waits behind the fates.
Feeling so harsh, so brazen, hatin the flow, life feels too slow, eyeing the hope like a crow. Future like a tree fell, as the tears well, and they call our final bell, Too painful to tell, filling up every cell.
We go through our lives, presenting Broadway with a faux smile, half-hearted foes, just waiting for the close,
Is this really the life we chose? Filled with more cons than pros. Please let it all be some sort of hoax. Each morning coaxed out of sleep, and we weep. The sadness creeps into our hope. We lose our ability to cope.
And as the knot slides, the death of a thought Tears caught, soon we will rot
The Wandering of a Dead Man
I move slowly, like a lost soul, a walking dead,
My vision, foreign, no longer belongs to me,
It is merely that of a human animal, an unwitting heir
Of Greek culture, Roman order, Christian morality,
And all the illusions that weave the civilization in which I live and feel.
Like a dreamer in a sea of shadows, my mind wanders,
Each step an echo of ancient temples, each thought
A reflection of the extinguished lights of the past.
In the flow of my consciousness, waves of faded memories
Crash against unknown shores, carrying me
Through labyrinths of marble and silences.
My soul was sculpted in the cold marble of Hellenic thoughts,
But Roman order raised walls around my heart,
In rigid laws and stone structures, chaining my freedom.
Christian morality painted contours of black and white,
Splitting good from evil in a world without nuances,
Where the light of day swallows subtleties.
My heart, an ancient relic, pulses slowly,
A museum of dust-covered ideas, of illusions lived and felt,
An empty temple where the echoes of lost beliefs
Mix with the whispers of melancholy.
Advancing slowly, like a wandering dead man,
Through a world of shadows and ruins, a stranger
In a civilization that lives its agony before my eyes.
In this dance of shadows and lights, my vision fades,
Leaving behind an immense void, a memory of a world that was
And of illusions dissolved in the eternity of oblivion.
I am a traveler in a universe of unrealized dreams,
An echo of a falling star, lost in the void,
A wandering soul, without aim or destination,
Just an ephemeral dream in a fleeting world,
Where illusions dance on the stage of our transience,
In a dance of shadows and lights, in the infinity of melancholy.
The moons and the tides
Strongly coincide,
Pulling up and away,
Tugging the sand from the bay.
My mind is a lot like the sea in that way.
It dips and it falls,
It falters and it crawls,
But then sometimes learns to just be.
To exist in my mind is a paradox you see,
An absurd conglomeration in actuality.
The grace of the waves and the glow of the moon,
Hold their cosmic connection betwixt their midsummer monsoon.
I tell my tired thoughts that they exist as a metaphor,
As a final weak attempt just to breathe.
To find some purpose in these days is the truest tragedy,
To wander this world without aim.
Your words sweet like honey tell my mind not to worry,
To find comfort in solidarity.
They take place in my head,
Turning from sound to shape,
Spindling their fingers over my nerves as I shake.
How I wish that I wasn’t born this way,
But what could I quite possibly do?
Every soul I’ve ever known has abandoned my side,
Taking my absence in grace and in stride.
I’m not a loss to them but they are to me,
A piece of my wrist hosting a new seam.
These are the days in which I wish not to breathe,
To push my head underwater and let my tired lungs squeeze.
I wish to struggle for air,
My body not willing to let go,
But to force myself to slip into the unknown.
For my lips to turn blue and my blood to go cold,
Would surely be better than the scornful gaze that you hold.
It surely must be better than my sliced wrists bleeding,
Dripping as I clench my white teeth, seething.
O’er the rainbow is the place in which I’ll go,
Even if the rainbow is black.
For black is better than living with myself,
And one day I’ll finally take the road less travelled and never turn back.
Between spacetime ripples
lurk dark energy waves,
emanating from the void
strange forces hold me slave
I mean! What type of creature/
flies a kite in thunderstorms
One searching for answers
carrying Cain’s multiple forms?
Left to roam earth’s surface,
blind man at the controls,
Free will: a human delusion,
designed for plugging holes
Filling up wishing wells
that possess no walls or gold,
If angels once flew here,
torn scapulas failed to hold
Inconsequence yields potential
for those without aim,
Living in guilty dreamland,
faking the conscience game
Fate’s not predestined,
broken paths bifurcate the way;
Either side are minefields,
where decimal points blow astray
Catatonic medication
seeps into my mind
Light speed slows down
bringing stability of a kind
I stare at open ripples,
stretching ever far apart,
reflecting chronic heartbeats,
flatlining from the start
Can barely make an effort
to clear my cluttered desk;
paperweights grow heavy,
the inkwell more grotesque
Time — time is endless
when prepping a final letter.
No sense quoting scriptures;
makes the flood outside seem wetter
To hell cast this world,
gamble away life’s coffers
Nothing left but truth
that only entropy offers
Chip the tip off a bullet,
Russian roulette my head
Peep inside the hole dum-dum,
you can always bank on red
Question marks hang over Cain;
mine has proven true
Decimal point erred again,
later resurfaced askew
Left to bear its blunder,
I send my kite into a storm tonight,
To hear the heavens rage,
“That decimal point was always right”
By
David Kavanagh
Leave free agents alone
Bully
For they’ve got no time to be the clone
You hurt truly and deeply
In games without aim
Where you torture and suture at will
Treating victims the same
Way happiness you steal
To boost your roost
Bereft of sympathy
Milking hearts reduced
To torture telepathy
Leaving them reeling in horror
At the reckless manner
In which you unleash terror
Brandishing the indifference banner
Spelling and selling in no uncertain terms
Your manifesto
That regurgitates your germs
Spread and read pronto
As with gangrenous glee
You lick your lips
Watching victims flee
From your wanton whips and trips
Knowing not whether you love or hate
Folks whose bliss blocks, clocks and stocks you break
In your haste to waste the best
They offer you morning and night in the trek
You undertake to swell your ego
Diminishing and squashing their self concept
As to their detriment your alter ego does undergo
A transformation in which your favourite precept
Condones wantonness and abandons happiness
In favour of sadism pushed to the limit
Where you grow sadness
As you ascent to victims’ destruction when they approach your ambitions’ summit
Where destruction becomes inevitable
Hope and comfort grow weak
Remonstration becomes redoubtable
And prospects for solutions grow rather bleak.
“Fear Mongers”
Newspapers yelling,
TVs screaming,
Radios blaring.
Is this what we want?
Is this what we need?
Politicians lying,
Preachers ranting,
Black men dying,
Mothers crying.
Is this what we want?
Is this what we need?
Breaking news,
More breaking news.
Shootings here,
Robberies there,
More mothers crying.
Is this what we want?
Is this what we need?
Fear mongers
Marching, Marching, Marching
They’re coming to take you away
Hey! Hey!
They’re coming to take you away.
Battalions of mongers
Armies of mongers
All painted red,
Coming to take you away.
Cool it down,
Take it down,
It’s getting hot down here.
It’s not all that bad
It’s bad for your heart,
It wrongs your soul.
We aren’t like that.
It’s time to say goodbye,
To these days of spitting vile,
To these days of ugly words,
To these days of vulgar thoughts,
To shooting arrows without aim.
We’re not like that.
Too many mothers crying.
Cool it down,
Take it down,
It’s getting hot down here.
It’s not all that bad.
It would do my heart good,
For you to find some good
In this disease infected world.
Take a trip I say,
Take a trip.
Spin your wheels to
Mount Rushmore
Listen to what those
Four have to say.
This is what we want.
This is what we need.
All by myself, alone, I softly chant your name,
Own up for our defunct weeping bond and I take the blame.
It was our love very pure and not lusty lure,
Unsure, kaput and insecure I thirstily quest for love’s cure……
Will not otieously shed another vainful tear
But in earnest long for you my Dear to be near.
Messed up our bond with blatant, glaring guilt & shattered our own heart,
Guess that’s the only reason we in our lives drifted apart.
Cannot truly imagine that I let you go,
But for us to be happy I did so,
I own up and take the blame,
To silently blow off our love’s flame…..
My heart I am sure you did not know,
Was tattered and torn from the time I let you go,
Ours was a bond carefree and Boehme,
I Own up for our broken weeping bond and take the blame.
I wish our bonds could have fondly stayed on,
Woven intertwined with emotions, enameled with love’s lacquerers firmly bound.
But I still take the blame,
And not dampen loves flickering flame with a sense of shame……
Now that my love, its end seems so near,
Sense its icy claws draw up and stealthy steps I hear,
I own up and take the blame……………
And fling my heart’s longings up above without aim again and again…till our laden guilt we overcame….