we enshrine our lords
do we not call them Lord?
the lords giveth and taketh
they are the amalgamation
the supreme product of history
that is why they are sacred
why their divinity is everlasting
or so it is thought

gods are born, gods are killed
the only truth in them is order
and to the ordinary that is divine
their dreams start and end within
the lord's domain breaths life
it dictates what is allowed to be
it cuts the branches off

young dreamer, knowing this
do you still desire The Dream-God?
is it not past time its death?
shouldn't its corpse nourish life?
and the many branches-to-be?

© 2014 u/ebonGavia

Love

Love's sweetly poisoned darts

Are wasted on this heart

Inerrant though they fly

My shielding gives them lie

These centuries-builded walls

The keenest edge forestall

Thus armored sit I here

At siren's call do sneer

By hours, years do toll

And cold becomes my soul

That blackguard, Love, I spurn

From treach'rous Hope I turn

At length my vigil wanes

Naught but ennui remains

With apathetic sigh

And dry, half-lidded eye

My senses, weak, are dulled

To fitful sleep are lulled

Thus primed for artifice

Undone by artlessness

A 'doring glance unlocks

My bitter heart. A shock —

A shining word, a koan —

The fatal shot is flown

Each quick'ning touch, now soft

Our scales, forgotten, doffed

Bewitched by winsome eyes

We don our honeyed ties

Yet venom's stings presage

Our bittersweet malaise

But how is it that we

Bemoan this malady?

In love — by Love, lovesick

Yet, healed, we poison pick

No Cupid bends a string

We prick ourselves, willing.

Born in the wrong family
It left me a gaping void
Stole from me my charity
Burdened me with worry

Born in the wrong district
It showed me the savagery
Darkness that lurks within men
To untrust the ones of normalcy

Born in the wrong city
Filled my soul with mundanity
The unbearable banale
Empty of all wonder and beauty

Born in the wrong culture
Learned to hide my reality
Lest I be killed or maimed
In the rein of traditionality

Born in the wrong country
Flayed from me my future
Gutted sense of commonality
It branded on me misery

Born in the wrong system
Chained me to slavery
Feeding some malevolence
Corrupted my destiny

Born in the wrong time
Hurled into moment of history
Trapped within rotting remnants
Couldn't do away with the elderly

Hereby I declare to all
I reject my humanity
For no matter the causality
But only in a handul few
I see nothing worthy

we recycle our emotions
the foundations

dread, despair, the nothing
the isolation of it all
these are all mine
and anger poured on top
disgust inbetween

told by soil to extinguish
sealed them all away
left adrift and devoid
unable to feel the whole
afraid that it would crush

despairing everything
i fed the void
it bloated and festered
putrid without a voice
it would swallow all
so i bestow it mouth

eight-pointed star
the father-mother
bear my witness
i am heartsore
and loathe the creators

we recycle our emotions
i accept it all, the

denied your own tragedy
fun and cheery
held back by ancient rites
good sport and jolly
these unspoken wounds
banter along all day
festered and putrid
dish it out and take it
marred by shallow's tyranny
here's to another round

In shadows cast, a serpent sleek,
With bands of black and white.
In self-encircling, fate draws near,
A moment tense, a future unclear.

Yet, ere the bite, a raptor bold,
Descends with grace, a tale unfolds.
Its talons clasp the serpent’s plight,
A dance of choices in the fading light.

Two paths converge, in present’s hold,
Humanity’s tale, a story bold.
Betwixt self-will and forces unseen,
The dance of fate, on history’s screen.

The concept

It's a box that contains a receipt printer and an interface with several buttons. A user would press a button that reflects their emotional state (happy, sad, anxious, etc.), then the machine prints out a more-or-less appropriate poem on a receipt printer, beautifully formatted and embellished with simple artwork.

It could be occasionally repurposed for certain themes, like Pride Month to print out queer poems.

I want to place it someplace public and well-trafficked, like Dolores Park or on Castro Street.

Feedback

I like poetry. The idea of a (free) vending machine that gives me a poem to uplift my day excites me. But I wonder if this appeals to others enough to be worth fully realizing. I don't want to spend time and money building something that'll go totally unloved.

Also curious about anti-vandalism measures or ideas. I'm sure some jerk will try graffiti-ing it or peeing on it.

Lastly, anyone interested in collaborating?

I sang her name in words forgotten
Rough bellows of lost yearning
A hurt hound without path
A sorrow meaning without an end

I heard the rain, heard the ocean
Lick the sand without defect
The water, where it falls
Is always beautiful all the same

I saw, my God, that you made her
Carefully crooked, imperfect
And inside her deep mournful eyes
The tears that I could never shed

The sky is clear
except for some
soft grey clouds
beyond the hill

The early setting sun shines orange
on the woods
and the houses
that sit atop the ridge

Not a single bird crosses
the pale blue sky
though I can hear
their chorus
and a gentle wind blows
cold
on my face

I can smell the traffic
from the road behind my house
mingling with
the earthy smell of trees
from the field in front

Neither my hot black coffee
nor my dressing gown
are enough
to keep the
cold
at bay
on this
the first truly frosty day
of the year

Occupied by the primal cries of democracy and its dying eyes.
Ain't no reason to keep pushing some days the infighting the outfighting the needless highlighting of differences in ourselves and others, not some injustice just arbitrary maladjustment.
These words ain't here to minimize or demoralize but to quantify and qualify the true enemy.
We are cannibals, our self absorption and self adornment lead to self consumption and our mutually assured destruction.
As we consume we forget we need to resume what we started, we assume that we’ve done enough and that the movement will carry on without us.
It’s too late, in the death throws of Democracy we choose a different path, without occupation, preceded by preoccupation, we now find ourselves the subject of this new occupation.