Some unworthy pieces of mine

[shud-shee]

Death and the harlequin (Obscure and flat verses)
Gentilhomme gest, soaked in reality,
Loses its charm and prompt “muscularity”.
When there’s nothing left but obscene farce,
Isn’t it nobler to just “pull off” your stars?
Death is the only worthy juxtaposition
To all what they call “social position”.
Illusion, swarming in harlequin’s mimics,
Is only acceptable to hideous cynics.

The Truth is a woman
Stiletto heels tearing his cheeks,
Mazarine magazine crumpling in her hands.
Poor, poor poet peeping at her underwear.
Pendant’s as it seems going to fall down.
That will be his only remedy…
When she leaves.

Storm which is called “Recidivist”
Flowers’ eddy tapering afore
Blessed child who is reaching for more.
Why not sufficient? - asking man’s lore
Trembling at lorelei’s song , wiping gore.
This would often inevitably recur.

Pathos Thales borrowed
Inconspicuously coming, gradually revealing
Its hollow limbs
And fragrantly shaking, and ruthlessly binding
Old world to change –
Apeiron – as more hopeless water I deem

Existentia is my preferencia
Wiped out lay my creed.
Here growth the sweetest weed.
Had I known the past,
I wouldn’t stand the blast!
Camus came crying, craving:
All conscience ate the Raven!
And leaves of grass I tear
So that they’ll call me Lear!
But in exempli gratis,
My soul is not of mantis.
Behold the largest Nothing –
Betwixt its innings passing –
Admit Her presence!

Very characteristic song
My haggard creed contributes to despair.
If man’s his will to reign then I’m not winner.
This tiresome way – my life and love unpair.
But people stare at me and laugh and see no
The difference betwixt Gogol’ and Leo:
They are just burping sheep with nasty shepherd.
Sometimes I feed my ego with delusion
Or try to put on mask of vices fusion

And do I need a baptism?
I’m a filthy don Quijare.
For I don’t let silly sophism
Nor Marx, nor Nietzsche nor Thomism
Nor other mind my heart to mar

‘Tis not what they call nihilism.
‘Tis one may deem as search of… ha-ha… truth.
But frankly said I don’t trust any -ism
Cause all and even greater chronops muse
So that they only sing their egoism.
You may not be content with blasphemy
Or heresy, my husky rebel spirit
But I gave oath and ‘tis my only merit!


Intellectual love for God with fanatique flavour
Your scrutinizing
Is galvanizing
My nerves

‘Tis so frustrating
And overwhelming
With hope

Heautontimoroumenos
I am
With luck divined
(Death is on my site)
I am

Privilegium odiosum is not my case
Your hand is my hand, your will is my will
And that’s my fate

I have my reason
Which is not Youreason
And is not dethroned

Where new-born Moloch
Roams with new abstraction
I know
For I am savored
With due sensation
And taste

[Silas Thorne]

Woh, that's a blast!
Like to hear you read these, action rhythm, skating without boundaries, love it.
Like a rough and broken glass which shatters silent spaces. Ride on, write on, and be proud. Though I'm not sure where one ends and the next begins, I read it out like a street poet and moved on.
This read to me, rhythmically like wild and free hiphop, unchained and devoid of the usual terminology of that style:

Existentia is my preferencia
Wiped out lay my creed.
Here growth the sweetest weed.
Had I known the past,
I wouldn’t stand the blast!
Camus came crying, craving:
All conscience ate the Raven!
And leaves of grass I tear
So that they’ll call me Lear!
But in exempli gratis,
My soul is not of mantis.
Behold the largest Nothing –
Betwixt its innings passing –
Admit Her presence!

And in this I love the rhyming on farce and stars, and the idea of pulling off your stars. great.

Gentilhomme gest, soaked in reality,
Loses its charm and prompt “muscularity”.
When there’s nothing left but obscene farce,
Isn’t it nobler to just “pull off” your stars?
Death is the only worthy juxtaposition
To all what they call “social position”.
Illusion, swarming in harlequin’s mimics,
Is only acceptable to hideous cynics.

And these two at the end impressed me too:

I have my reason
Which is not Youreason
And is not dethroned

Where new-born Moloch
Roams with new abstraction
I know
For I am savored
With due sensation
And taste

The dethroned and Moloch linked up well, and I love Youreason.

Play on, sail on and sack new cities, shud-shee. :) Hope to see more from you.

Respect,
Silas

[shud-shee]

I really appreciate your panegyric. It's so heart-warming when someone praises your labours. But the truth is - it's not labours at all. It just slips out of me, I don't spend more than 3 or 4 min to write a poem. Actually, I'm from Russia and writing poems in English I feel foreigner's insight to the musicality and figurativeness. These pieces are mostly my impressions or comments on paintings or philosophemas.

[Silas Thorne]

Maybe it's just the rhythm. You've got it, and there are some really fantastic lines in there. Keep going with it. :)
Do you listen to hiphop at all? I don't really, but parts of it came out like street poetry. Hope you don't mind, came out as fresh to me.

As a criticism of your work it was either too deep for me or I completely missed the philosophical points you were trying to make. Maybe you could write from your flow, and then spend a bit more time to carve and play with the words, so that more people 'get' it, as it were. Just my opinion.

Actually, I can sometimes write poems quickly, but I'm think I've improved them a lot before I send them away in front of others. Though if you can perform with a rhythm, making stuff up on the spot then you have rap, spontaneous 'beat' poetry, or are just 'jamming' with words.

Forgive me, your vocabulary use as a Russian learner of English for multisyllabic words is probably much richer than mine is as an English native speaker. I often write very plainly.

[shud-shee]

One can recognise it as automatic writing only without its purpose. When I was younger I used to listen to hh.

[shud-shee]

It's a song for artcore/metalcore band I'm willing to set up

Usual monologue in a tram which conveys you to the place called slaughterhouse, 8 am every morning

Nuit obscure has descended upon me –
What am I to do?
Alone I linger in its hollow limbs.
Is it all for You?
My gratia gratis data is too shoddy
Don’t You think?
It’s gaudy and assumes illuminating,
Right, St Johan?
Via purgativa, unitiva –
Where am I now?

Grace… come… Grace… I’m waiting…

[PrinceMyshkin]

I have to confess at times I was unsure whether I was in the presence of polymath brilliance - or unfettered madness! Either one made for an extraordinarily rich if, alas, only partially comprehensible experience.

It seems to me you must be fairly new here, in which case - welcome!

[shud-shee]

This song is projection of St Johan's postulate of nuit obscure (that is, atonement we must fulfill) unto philistine martyr routine amplified by distortion (see, they are irrational or seem so - I mean apparatus of their fetching) guitar waves and insinuating whisper-screaming

[blp]

Good stuff, shud-shee.

If you like, you could get into a couple of threads here where some of us pretty much burble out whatever we feel like poetically:

This one:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=30586

And, if you feel like bashing out something really cruddy, this one:
http://www.online-literature.com/forums/showthread.php?t=28437

[shud-shee]

Insomnia is my omnia,
LSD – lo, pogodi!
Birds are my words,
Strings are my lungs,
Wine is my crime,
Guess who I am?
[An average, mediocre contemporary poet]

[shud-shee]

Cacophony #1 Malpreaching (allegro vivace e con brio)
Verses verbatim and dim -
He is dwindled and distraught.
Hoarse and heavy his willows and pillows are.
But rivulets are raving, raging and rallying so - …
These verses, clad in séance daze, drain
Even the rain and Kain, let alone our canasson.
Dilettante enamorato with God – cochon.
But he goes on and on…

Cacophony # 2 Coterie côte craziness brazenly battaging my cottage (Anime et tumultueux)
Coterie côte craziness brazenly battaging my cottage.
There are broken viola, violently weeping;
Nußknacker howling in twangs which impose pangs,
Obviously this is some lover-boy blues;
Also: a clockwork poodle which is dimmer than méphistophélique
Clique-clique – his sinews crack, and eyes arch vile;
Cards flip and flop-off, the ballerinas of fatal,
To and fro, to and fro.
Ibid: books representing Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, Heidegger, Berdyaev –
They smite, they tear, and they die. Ha-ha.
Some filthy soot-black mice with little drums – ta-da-ta-ta-da-da-da-ta.

[a_little_wisp]

My goodness, what wonderful rhythm, and well-woven with words. I agree with Silas, very hiphop-ish.



‘Tis not what they call nihilism.
‘Tis one may deem as search of… ha-ha… truth.
But frankly said I don’t trust any -ism
Cause all and even greater chronops muse
So that they only sing their egoism.
You may not be content with blasphemy
Or heresy, my husky rebel spirit
But I gave oath and ‘tis my only merit!

COOL. :D <--- sorry for that, not very professional (I'm not a professional), but it's honest.

P.S. What's with the title of the thread? No more of this 'unworthy' business, Shud-shee, this stuff is more than worthy.

[shud-shee]

Principium causalitatis: a life accursed, blessed
(Sixpence consolatio blues)
Clenched fists of virulent fate –
My visage gruesome like October in stygian areas
Of Ruth –
It friendly jostles and with compulsory
Happiness
Steals timide kiss from your puny
Lips
Leaving no tips.
Because of it life is so strictly split –
You are not me, I am not you!
Surceases not a universal embrace
That touches my heart and delves into it.
Though one’s derived from its mundane effulgence –
Inarticulate, it impends sense on dilapidated days.
Days wasted away and lost –
“Golden coins squandered and still to pay?”
Therefore today I am sad and you are dead.
Alas!
Pity is not physica pura nor essentia.
How can it then save anybody?
I am, you are, that’s all or not?
Sum is the summa of atrocities, reticence,
Misunderstandings, debilitations, blacknesses.
Wherefrom sprouts deities debased
And bigots, bigots, bigots.
Me also?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Insomnia is my omnia,
LSD – lo, pogodi!
Birds are my words,
Strings are my lungs,
Wine is my crime,
Guess who I am?
[An average, mediocre contemporary poet]

Maybe so, but one with enough energy, passion and erudition to rise above the merely "contemporary"!