Unincorporated Insights XII
In the hysteria of exertion,
We become moribund and bellicose—
Buoyant with undulating derision,
Palliated by a ravelment of woes.
Our muted, quiescent panic twinges,
Cascading over the peace we pretend.
Our intuition tears at its fringes
While we berserk, bicker and condescend.
The lacuna, the bedlam, the terror bursts
Like stampeding, bionic wildebeest.
We receive a chaos that seems rehearsed
Rather than a real entropy released.
As these trappings bellow in the still night,
The grays of thought trail to the blacks and whites.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Unincorporated Insights
What context contributes toward meaning?
What illusive patterns outline our thoughts?
What process prevents mindless careening
Into tangles of intangible knots—
Into the depths of deeply-rooted seeds
Of imponderable definition?
And what flower does theodicy breed
By the threat of holistic omission?
What cryptic mysteries do we express,
Though in traces of vagrant memories—
Perhaps causing us to hide and repress
Them beneath our transient reveries?
What codex—so voiceless—do we create?
What emergent grammar elucidates?
What emergent grammar elucidates
The syntax of our juxtaposition?
Why must we meander and gravitate
Toward the pull of blank exposition?
We speak in indefinite articles,
Communicating as a formality?
Our dreams are overlapping particles,
Transposed over strips of reality.
Our intellects are woven by conflict,
Disproportionate threads that braid our lives.
Ideas coalesce to contradict
Where what we call logic attempts to thrive.
We design ignorance, always preening
The language that has been intervening.
The language that has been intervening
Interrupts the words we would like to say,
Mercilessly and stringently cleaning
Our voice, removing what viewpoints convey.
Therefore, we conjure the chiffon lexis:
A vagary of coded expressions
That dilute our colloquial axis—
Our terminology of discretion.
We relinquish comprehension and
Dilapidate whatever we might learn
In the grip of the Invisible Hand
Which guides us to our tenuous concerns.
All the while, idiocy saturates
With our illocutionary mandates.
With our illocutionary mandates,
Why does anyone make sense anymore?
Verbally, our tongue only translates
All the talk that has been spoken before.
We erase our culture with social platforms.
Our lives are forced to conform to the contours
That more often confuse or misinform—
Drawing images we ought to ignore.
We are bound to the art of artlessness,
Secured to an emptiness that lingers—
Taught that obsession will lead to success,
Explaining ourselves through index fingers
That point to nowhere (nowhere completely) .
For what reason do we speak un-freely?
For what reason do we speak un-freely,
Relegating ourselves to elision?
Our motives are spoken clandestinely,
Enshrouded by baseless omission.
As zombie hoards packed in a ballet box,
Groaning for a persona non grata,
Our disheveled culture carelessly stocks
Its thoughts of banal desiderata.
We replace facts with comforts and patterns.
We substitute our fate for the future—
Devoured like the many sons of Saturn,
Relinquishing our delineature.
We dismantle our bloodlines and unions,
Cauterized by divergent opinions.
Cauterized by divergent opinions,
We remain stagnant as our lives progress,
Similar to the hipolimnion—
With its waters still, aching to express.
The erumpent and sluicing fluids
Of understanding and dialectics
Flow in a stymied, wholly languid
Way when we need something apoplectic,
Something fluttering with violence and
Roaring with rage and swooning with romance.
Let us not pretend that we understand.
Let us be carried away as the advance
Cavalcades, washing out redundancy.
Are we blinded by irrelevancy?
Are we blinded by irrelevancy?
Do our apotropaic impulses
Blacken our natural radiancy,
Fading each ray of light as it pulses?
Why do we sous rature our honesty? —
Filtering it through the media's veil,
Fearing the release and the amnesty
We want, letting resignation prevail.
Why do we design newer deities
That deafen the voices that long to speak?
Why not relieve pressing anxieties
And articulate meaningful critiques?
There is no reason to be a minion
In the realm of persuasive dominion.
In the realm of persuasive dominion,
We are grinding in mechanized fittings,
Smashing in the roll of pressing pinions,
Watching as our heads— crushing and splitting—
Massage into a rouge polish for gears.
Our thoughts slowly gloss over orange rust—
Now crusting with our suppurated smears—
As the accruements shift and readjust.
Why do we pancake our skin and our bones,
Flattening our pursuits and our passions?
Why melt each other to produce clones
Portioned to consume commodity rations?
As we instill and install these values,
Fallacies that we believe in argue.
Fallacies that we believe in argue,
Challenging each other—conflicting lies.
Veracity wallows out of our view—
In either a subterfuge or disguise.
We become confused, trying to translate
The coded hieroglyphics that carom
Over lofty expectations— to spate
Our process like a gyrating maelstrom.
Glabrous, fulgurated electrical
Strikes beam through the core of the whirling storm,
And the skies rain an antithetical
Slathering as the dry climates deform.
The weather is forced— through harsh coercion—
By the Holy right of their assertions.
By the Holy right of their assertions,
We permit more for a selective few—
The few that would live by their dispersion;
The few that dispel, for others, virtue;
The few that show an eidetic éclat
In our too-nictitated memories;
The few preaching their secular Salat,
So that we may bow to their glories.
By the Holy right of economics,
We accept their pure Word as Biblical,
Building pietistic ergonomics
That subsidize on the unnatural.
They pardon their afflatus as it spews,
Disseminating what is maybe true.
Disseminating what is maybe true
Causes us to scatter ourselves like seeds.
Our promulgating ideals will strew
Themselves, rooting within our pseudo-needs.
We watch them knot and snarl beneath our feet,
Disheveling the ground on which we stand.
We watch the branches, gnarling with conceit,
Above our heads as they shadow our land.
We watch the ossified stem sprouting out,
Latching onto the world with a vice-grip,
Standing firm as cement, both thick and stout,
Causing terra firma to bust and split—
And, yet, it withers by our desertion
In the hysteria of exertion.
In the hysteria of exertion,
We become moribund and bellicose—
Buoyant with undulating derision,
Palliated by a ravelment of woes.
Our muted, quiescent panic twinges,
Cascading over the peace we pretend.
Our intuition tears at its fringes
While we berserk, bicker and condescend.
The lacuna, the bedlam, the terror bursts
Like stampeding, bionic wildebeest.
We receive a chaos that seems rehearsed
Rather than a real entropy released.
As these trappings bellow in the still night,
The grays of thought trail to the blacks and whites.
The grays of thought trail to the blacks and whites
As if they were catfish crawling through dirt.
Sprawling though they are, they are out of sight,
Pressuring the mud to remain inert.
They prevent an untold calamity
By refusing to sift their skin forward,
Relaxing where there is conformity—
Though fear makes them thrash about and wayward.
Their quaking tremors of brash distemper
May break us from our rachitic foothold,
Hushing our antinomian whimpers,
Showing us that control is uncontrolled.
We tremble, not knowing we are their might,
Forming unincorporated insights.
Forming unincorporated insights
Makes us define ourselves by dramatics,
Inundating our mind's durable lights
For the tenebrae of post-pragmatics.
Our shadows shape like parabolas
Over the structures of our ignorance.
We provide each other a blank atlas
That maps the pathways of disappearance,
Landscapes of the nervus probandi—
Whatever we have lixiviated.
We compose in dissonant glissandi,
So all notes can be asphyxiated.
The whole time we ask: What is redeeming?
What context contributes toward meaning?
What context contributes toward meaning?
What emergent grammar elucidates
The language that has been intervening
With our illocutionary mandates?
For what reason do we speak un-freely,
Cauterized by divergent opinions?
Are we blinded by irrelevancy—
In the realm of persuasive dominion?
Fallacies that we believe in argue
By the Holy right of their assertions,
Disseminating what is maybe true
In the hysteria of exertion.
The grays of thought trail to the blacks and whites,
Forming unincorporated insights.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Never Bellicose
From likeness to loveness,
From loveness to intimacy,
From intimacy to veracity,
From me to you of course,
From you to me it is
So parallel but never bellicose
From friendship to companionship,
From companionship to passion,
Our days so spaced,
Our lives so placed,
From opposite ends we came,
So parallel but never bellicose
She was modern, I was traditional
She was uptown, I was downtown
She was rich, I was poor,
Never promised her haven,
So different but never bellicose
Our hearts were different,
Our lives were so distinct,
Our choices were zig zag
Yet our love an equilibrium
Never bellicose, never bellicose
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Quiescent
The feat,
Your feet,
Quizzical!
But the quiescent of this muse is from the eating.
Quiescent, tin, tins, in, it, is, queen, queens, sue, teen;
And like a dead bird on the road,
But the quiescent of your muse is in the making.
Quiescent, sent, scent, set, sit, quiet, quest, quite, teens;
And like a dead cat on the road,
But, you have to appease your friend with the muse of love.
Quiescent, cent, ten, net, nets, see, seen, tie, ties, nest, use;
And like a dead dog on the road,
But you need love to carry on this mission.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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When I'm saying hysteria, I'm referring to Freud, because all the women were coming to him with symptoms and seeking help, and he just called it hysteria.
quote by Cybill Shepherd
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A flame once burned
hidden
invisible
irreversible
choked flames
quenched fire
crushed lyre
sparse daylight
muted bog
creeping smog
dying memory
closing wold
emerging cold
infinite reclusion
elusive distance
moribund resistance
pervasive silence
predominant nothing
abandoned feeling
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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The action of hysteria.
Automatic assertion of body and tongue
In the name of God is an outcome of hysteria.
Realization of God through meditation
Is the opposite of hysteria; that’s all..
22.07.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Dadi
oh she was miserable
she is always crying
her handkerchief is dirty
with her tears
and make up
i told her there is no reason to panic
everything here
is temporary
i assured her
her woes are much milder than the woes of those
who are here
and listening to her
and i let the other four who were with us
speak about their mess
they tell their own sad stories
how they escaped from hell
and then Dadi starts to smile
her handkerchief is dry
and she leaves us with a happy heart
to comfort her
we have to concoct miseries much
greater than hers
and then we start all over again
back to chapter 1
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Clock Sojourns
When the Clock Sojourns
The grandfather's clock
Defunct, senile, and silenced
Loomed like a vertical demise
Rising in the muted corner
Or rather the clandestine core
Of the disembogued hearth
And I can tell in its scathed varnish
Of weary and eroding mauve
That it had once vied to emancipate
From the providence's dictates
And that was probably when
Its hands stopped from moving
The pendulum was now a lissome
Unwavering string to the grave
Of the clockwork's very soul
And although it never swings
Its phantom was undulating
Into the sloped paths of impasse
Swelling and bloating inexorably
Without beckoning the rousing
Of the prismatic night lights
Perhaps it was consumed
By the darkness of the hour
And in this unholy instances
Of the suppressing nights
I can still here the diurnal ticking
Of its moribund arms
And the infinitesimal gears
And their asunder whirring
Billowing in a haunted echo
Sojourned, like how it was once
Smoldering in zeal and alacrity
And the memories sank
Into the capricious sea
But not of the forgotten
Rather, of the evocative forgotten
A bandwagon of phantoms.
Halted but never liberated
The clocks never stops
It never even started
And you will realize this, flat and hollow,
When you understand that the clock
Only stirred when you had handed
Time, in your unbolted callused palms
And no one ever took it
As the nights will never permit
Nothing ever ends
Even when the clock sojourns.
poem by Norman Santos
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Gullible
The Black Bird portents the gloom
As he drives home the night...
Muted tones of grey accent his shadow
Conjuring up visions of panic and fright;
As a drought of a hundred years
Where the Earth wrinkles and cracks
The Raven bodes poorly for this day
As the muted grey tones now turn to black;
Fashionably correct or understated...
The less is more philosophy-
Sophistication is borderline-ice cold-dry
As the Raven has gotten the better of me;
Lacking-oh so lacking in any warmth...
Driven to a dark chill of regret and woe
The Black Bird has shown its true colours
Ironically, telling me, what i needed to know;
poem by Theodora Onken
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Unincorporated Insights XI
Disseminating what is maybe true
Causes us to scatter ourselves like seeds.
Our promulgating ideals will strew
Themselves, rooting within our pseudo-needs.
We watch them knot and snarl beneath our feet,
Disheveling the ground on which we stand.
We watch the branches, gnarling with conceit,
Above our heads as they shadow our land.
We watch the ossified stem sprouting out,
Latching onto the world with a vice-grip,
Standing firm as cement, both thick and stout,
Causing terra firma to bust and split—
And, yet, it withers by our desertion
In the hysteria of exertion.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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What Panic Showed....
do not misconstrue
panic
or hysteria
do not underestimate
schizoprenia
what is buried
come out as a set of hands
looking for
the pair of eyes
so it can see and feel
do not underate
that laughter or scream
it was that big boat
and behind is that volcano
erupting
your silence was then at the loudest
the answers
to all the questions sit on the bench
at the dark kiosk
proud like a pillar
dignified like the bust of the hero in copper and lead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Did. Did You Do A Panic
Did. Did you do a panic.
With a frantic...
Undoing panic?
Did. Did you do a panic...
Frantically?
Tell me did you do a panic.
With a frantic...
Undoing panic?
Did you really do a panic...
Frantically?
Or...
Did you feel romantic?
Or...
Was it really panic?
Tell me did you do a panic.
With a frantic...
Undoing panic?
Did you really do a panic...
Frantically?
Or...
Did you feel romantic?
Tell me, tell me now.
Or was it really panic?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Exultant Song Of My Undulant Heart
For you my heart is but a humble harbinger
I dedicate to you
The exultant song of my undulant heart
replete with its fountains, hiccups, and fangs
the cascading chorus of rushing river currents
the meek sough of the sated nursling
the tormented howl of the hunger stricken wolf
swift timid ravenous
these words however
merely sink into a
sepulchral gulf
of grave blindness and moribund silence
only when captured in the heavenly aeries of your ears
do they rise to the surface to join
the passionate roar and foam of the waves
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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I was caught up in the hysteria during the Vietnam era, which was brought about through Marxist propaganda underlying the so-called peace movement.
quote by Jon Voight
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happenings
A transient smile lights up a moonless
landscape, catalyzing the woes of
labour of hot arguments. A fragile
peace prevails. When the plot thickens
let me count the bodies in the domain
of a wasted god.
Meanwhile I will get an interim sunless
day to find the mystery of believers.
A bridge had ultimately collapsed.
In the panic room, no image filters.
You continue to draw the nudes of goddesses
and distance yourself from the rubble of axes.
Battle-scarred earth throws up
a severed head of a patriarch
who refused to open his eyes.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Gas Panic!
What tongueless ghost of sin crept through my curtains?
Sailing on a sea of sweat on a stormy night
I think he don't got a name but I can't be certain
And in me he starts to confide
That my family don't seem so familiar
And my enemies all know my name
And if you hear me tap on your window
Yer better get on yer knees and pray panic is on the way
My pulse pumps out a beat to the ghost dancer
My eyes are dead and my throat's like a black hole
And if there's a god would he give another chancer
An hour to sing for his soul
Cos my family don't seem so familiar
And my enemies all know my name
And when you hear me tap on yer window
Yer better get on yer knees and pray panic is on the way
Cos my family don't seem so familiar
And my enemies all know my name
And when you hear me tap on yer window
Then you get on your knees and you better pray
Cos my family don't seem so familiar
And my enemies all know my name
And when you hear me tap on your window
Yer better get on yer knees and pray panic is on the way
Panic is on the way
Panic is on the way
Panic is on the way
song performed by by Oasis from Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Panic In Detroit
Ah oooh
He looked a lot like che guevara, drove a diesel van
Kept his gun in quiet seclusion, such a humble man
The only survivor of the national peoples gang
Panic in detroit, I asked for an autograph
He wanted to stay home, I wish someone would phone
Panic in detroit (oh oh oh aahh, oh oh oh aahh)
He laughed at accidental sirens that broke the evening gloom
The police had warned of repercussions
They followed none too soon
A trickle of strangers were all that were left alive
Panic in detroit, I asked for an autograph
He wanted to stay home, I wish someone would phone
Panic in detroit (oh oh oh aahh, ah ah ah aahh)
Putting on some clothes I made my way to school
(oh oh oh)
And I found my teacher crouching in his overalls
I screamed and ran to smash my favourite slot machine (oh oh oh)
And jumped the silent cars that slept at traffic lights
Having scored a trillion dollars, made a run back home
Found him slumped across the table. a gun and me alone
I ran to the window. looked for a plane or two
Panic in detroit. hed left me an autograph
Let me collect dust. I wish someone would phone
Panic in detroit
Panic in detroit
Panic in detroit
Aoo
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weapon
They build arms
To defend nations
They war! To achieve peace
They kill! To save populace
They choose bloodbath
To baptize the world’s youth
These born-bellicose
Are too callous to use
One weapon that can defuse
All the tensions on this Earth
Love! The indomitable means! A boon
The Maker had bestowed on humans
That can conquer any domain! !
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Sonnet 16
WHEN I remember with what buoyant heart,
Midst war's alarms and woes of civil strife,
In youthful eagerness, thou didst depart,
At peril of thy safety, peace, and life,
To nurse the wounded soldier, swathe the dead --
How piercéd soon by fever's poisoned dart,
And brought unconscious home, with wildered head --
Thou, ever since, mid languor and dull pain,
To conquer fortune, cherish kindred dear,
Hast with grave studies vexed a sprightly brain,
In myriad households kindled love and cheer;
Ne'er from thyself by Fame's loud trump beguiled,
Sounding in this and the farther hemisphere: --
I press thee to my heart, as Duty's faithful child.
poem by Amos Bronson Alcott
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People Panic
Tripped out,
Over their finances.
Doubts begin to cloud their minds...
With a suggestion to breathe deeply.
To prevent a panic to exist.
And if they don't breathe deeply,
That's exactly what they'll find!
That's exactly what they'll get...
Panic!
But do people listen?
No!
Is common sense from them missing?
Well...
I don't want to pass,
That as harrassment.
But if I'm allowed,
I would choose to brag.
I don't want to pass,
That as harrassment.
But people seem to get,
Just what they ask!
And everywhere you go,
You'll see them in their stubbornness to give!
In 'fits' like spoiled little kids.
And everywhere you go,
You'll see them in their stubbornness to give!
In 'fits' like spoiled little kids.
But do people listen?
No!
Is common sense from them missing?
Well...
I don't want to pass,
That as harrassment.
But if I'm allowed,
I would choose to brag.
Tripped out,
Over their finances.
Doubts begin to cloud their minds...
With a suggestion to breathe deeply.
To prevent a panic to exist.
And if they don't breathe deeply,
That's exactly what they'll find!
That's exactly what they'll get...
Panic!
People quick to throw a fit and...
Panic.
One's finances will do it!
Cause a panic.
A lack of money will do it....
Cause a panic.
There is no benefit in it,
But people panic.
People quick to throw a fit and...
Panic.
One's finances will do it!
Cause a panic.
A lack of money will do it....
Cause a panic.
There is no benefit in it,
But people panic.
People quick to throw a fit and...
Panic.
One's finances will do it!
Cause a panic.
A lack of money will do it....
Cause a panic.
There is no benefit in it,
But people panic.
People sick of taking risks,
And so they panic!
People sick of taking risks,
And so they panic!
People sick of taking risks,
And so they panic!
People panic
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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