poems, no less

[sisyphus]

you're so hot.

[wayved]

Thats hea-vy thron!

I just feel like sharing some tonight. Its horrible so forgive me.


the stars above that light the dark sky all they can
they cant whistle a tune down to mortal man
i am so down so here I am
waiting for beautiful answers but nowhere man

charcoal night my soul is poor
i patiently wait but can wait no more
them bright stars cant show the way
but the loneliness in pale grey white day

charcoal night smeared with awake dreams insane
i never want to return again
the stars theyre there but they will always be
at league with waters that hold the key

a sophomoric poems that wants to express
gigantic volumes of duress
that is what I want to do
BUT this yarn is paper in the loo

it just needs more time. talent too.
no doubt it needs work.

[wayved]

i want to convey that the person feels small against the big things -- the stars at night, the sea--no matter where he or she lives. The desparation that one feels no matter how successful or unsuccessful they may be....Im just a HACK!

[wayved]

the people who just dont get it, you smile and wish them well while they mentally summon you to hell......I want to write something with enough venom and subtlety without pretension that can broadcast that.

[sisyphus]

wayved: i like you. that is all.

[sisyphus]

The Mark of the Bee
I trespass into sleep
head bent into table, book, and fable.

Lurking latent behind my retina
I find a projection-being;
a me-being,
being me, the way I see me,
in the camera obsucra of my mind hive.

This me-bee is lambent with laser honey,
holographic with hollow mass,
and she carries a lacuna between her legs--
her legs that are not there, but erased
between sun born yellow and moon dyed black.

her monosyllabic prick hangs--
suspended in the harem of the unborn,
until she sweats a skin of honey
and sets to work spinning a galaxy
of plurality
through duality
of atom’s
opposition.

She secretes the synapses that she sucks from the synergy of soul
and grey matter....

she stops...

she looks... she sees me looking at her; my me-bee.
she is shocked to see me peeping at her private minstrations,
to see me peering backward inverted through perverted eyes...

she lunges at my lucidity.
her sacrificial sting spills
purulent honey glue
from the cliffs of my eyes.

i cannot bend over redness.

i wake up with the mark of the bee,
three dents in my head,
sweating honey.

[sisyphus]

second half of a not quite poem called Solipschism

is this whole world of living and dying and fucking and birthing
and killing and crying and lying and flirting nothing, but

an elaborate ruse?

a distraction pummeling it’s weight against
a the far weightier issue of awareness itself?

or are such preoccupations of mind merely the
indulgent pastime of a guilt ridden bourgeoisie?

i don’t know. but if i were living 2000 years ago,
i would not be seeking to come to terms with
atrocities on the other side of the planet
because i would not be AWARE of them.
i would not be sweeping the shattered pieces
of my chaotic paradigm into a plastic dust pan
manufactured in taiwan. children in my own neighborhood
would not be disseminating themselves into images and crack-pipes.
i would not be writing this not-quite-a-poem
amalgamation of letters.

perhaps letters, perhaps the images of letters, perhaps the signifiers and signs of the signified

are the sperm that impregnated our mind into such a cell dividing fracture of alpha bet!

i don’t know what to do with awareness,
but i feel as if we’re perched together on the cusp
of a collective delivery, or hemorrhage,
whichever comes first.

through divine masturbation
buddha impregnated and gave birth to himself within
the belly of a white elephant, and now the legs of humanity
are spread wide. our cunt is dilated blood sky and
the contractions drum quickly in the zenith of polarization.

will we give birth to a monster or a god?

let’s call a doctor to localize the anesthetic,
and refuse to cut the umbilical cord with the icy
scissors of solipsism,

for we are god experiencing itself,
through a glass, darkly.

[wayved]

another day in the whew crowd
much ache as people breathe aloud
much unrest in careless hearts
application of lipstick and secret hearts shrouds

another day for the blue sky
that is just there and aimlessly wide
another day for the black air
for the chromium pain of unrequited stares

another day for throwing up of arms
human arms that are owned by people
in peril in sadness in frustration and terror
people who just seem not to know any better

the stars are all numbered but its daylight still
the dull nagging sorrow that takes peoples will
another day here another day gone
this poem is horrible its time to move on!

I TRIED!

[sisyphus]

protest unrest exasperation deflation.

i like ur stuff wayved...looked at some of the stuff on your website the other day, too. purdy cool.

[wayved]

sisyphus: excellent!

[sisyphus]

grazi and backatchya

[wayved]

I dont have a WEBSITE! I am still against the CELLPHONE!

I was gonna write some more terrible poetry!

[sisyphus]

ha ha! you are right. it was frag's that i was looking at...pardon. and many apologies. and good for you, cell phones are of the devil...keep writing!

[frag]

Things i am not But could be

sailor or priest i am not
but could be
for i've never been to heaven
nor've i seen the sea
a butcher or a candyman
too murdered or sweettoothed
hunter, parader. unkempt acrobat!
and yet i've desired, ungroomed
a bluejaywinged quite bland the dove
no trust in aviation
not pilot nor roughkeep
the batter at the batting plate
the knife once used to slit their throats
i am not the flow of vitality
nor a train uncoursed
a poet unversed
no speaker of any kind
not mechanic not doctor
not king and not actor
no chewer of fruit
piercing bitter rinds unfed
a carpenter, i am not
though i've built this quiet corner
the walls hear not and i say not
hence i am no forgiver
a handy phone, i've rung a bit
but i would climb no ladder
no message hid under my writ, i'm
not delivering this letter

Mine Paradigm

off-white but fuschia, trickling sideways -
left-of-center, but always within -
mining through this paradigm
to catch the spider, running
wild and spinning -
what a sophisticated web once
spun by awful and sedated
but sleepless intentions -
crouched from comfort
in a round-about way -
and built of line and angle,
as any good one might
be were it not for the night -
shuddering from a breath, but
drawn to the whole, of which
will not be spoken, but will
be weaved, umined,
in this, the spider's paradigm

[frag]

Migrant Joustings

the sqaure peg approaches as the round hole reaches
they smile as settling
determined to fit
and hoping the other breaks first

a shoe at my foot begs me to untangle
and to casually walk away
(much is the same, though nothing at all)
toward a cellar window
in the house unlit
every night brings a new shade of darkness

me, i am not particular
because i fell off of the wishing well
and screamed obscenities

but before i made my bed
i made believe
to see that she might hear
as expected, she did not
so i wore her armor as i rode away

some hawaiian city

the vast illusion
that is the ocean untamed
longs to be a marsh

if the fly observes
you who are condemned to lust
does he tell his friends?

what the bee must think
of brother's sting of death and
feel it as his own

the floating carcass
before undertow catches
sees soft rays of sun

watch the forrest as
it burns exposing the core
blindly disregard

the reptile wants not
to bear the desert alone
because the sand burns

you can kill one fly
and thousands will take his place
as if 'twere human

catch the spider in
mid-bite and you will only
give him a purpose