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Jeremy Betts Apr 2018
I abuse words verbally like my voice is Bobby and the dictionary Whitney/
Like a literary hyperbole properly arranged to explain this deranged brutality perfectly/
Force the English language to work for me like a particularly dark time in history/
Optimistically take the tongue twister trickery and aggressively attack a vocabulary vocally and personally/
Not physically but a barrage on your psyche, almost psychedelically/
Use words medically, like a surgeon I expertly plant thoughts whispered softly but assertively/
Moving letters like chess pawns to express thoughts masterfully and creatively/
Gruesomely grotesque but gorgeous thoughts written down beautifully/
You can't help but hear the perplexity of mythoticly placed words with comradery/
An oddity with the audacity to raise the bar and up the capacity/
Because what comes out of me has to be exactly what you see because it is me/                
Not just a part of me but all of me/
I'm not a fallen tree sitting in the forest silently, quietly all by my lonely/
It's just the opposite actually and factually/
I will attack with a dialect so violent you violently retract causing you to react cowardly automatically/
I don't even have to lift a pinky, leave it stinky/
Let my words linger there in the air like **** smoke, thick and sticky/  
Periodically come back to peek and see if you've figured out the mystery and found the key/
One that'll decipher decisively what it is that I've let out of me and spread to all humanity/
I could never have planned it, see, it had to happen naturally, organically if you will/
And not to build it up falsely but I honestly, back then, didn't have the ***** to let it out of me and it cost me considerably/
So now this mastery I hold of word delivery bestowed to me gets jotted down feverishly/
With an intensity equal to none inside of this ******* century, can't censor me/
Got a consistency that forces me to constantly cross the border of insanity repeatedly/
Time only to watch my talents as they literally wither away for all of eternity/
Such a tragedy to see such agony but please, no apology brought on by sympathy/
Just let me be as I drift farther out to sea to a place you'll never see/
To let these works mold me into someone you could never be/

©2018
Max Neumann Sep 2023
How the lights are straying inside
Watching, floating, seeking
In the gaps of inner walls
There the ghost lights are glowing

They are from the red shores
Where I used to bury child's photos
Among the waves of wishes
Ghost lights within my pupil

I swore that I am gonna come
You swore you would stay
An ancient man was our witness
Our oath turned into ghost lights

Welcome to the frantic train of life
The stops are our souls
What is the soul? What is the soul?
Are our souls ghost lights?

I trapped a chimpanzee
To tend it within my chest
For decades it has been waiting
In the thicket of seeking ghost lights
Ghost Lights
Ken Pepiton Sep 2023
Made your reservation fifty years ago,
we waited 'til today,
at the time,
it was so far away,
now we go,
long, long ago, back to when we guessed

this was where we'd seem today.

So far away, grinning still, happy as
the fool on the hill,
sees the story unfold, a thousand voice
choir of messengers going up and down
and back… this continuity in perifery,
ifery were, and ifery was, and ifery at all

times, songs we listened to high,
in the winter of '67, long before
the Eggman died.

When the band was so young,
when the world was younger,
but not much
we kinda
lost touch, after the scariest part.

It was a trip.
Not everyone found their way,
nobody had GPS back then, few knew
what the Grateful Dead were happy about

and nobody had coordinates…
for Blue Jay Way…
seems, we've been too long coming,
Yesterday is with us for constant review.

Critics believe it all leads here.

A hit before your mama was old,
a long, long time ago…

The tune inspired, da-did-dada, she
should call it all art, and we are
all together
after all these ****** Tuesdays,
assure us now that Fridays come.

Ordering chaos to line us all up,
getting reverb in return for echoes
after all's said now another way,
we laugh along with
jokers who do laugh at you,
to push you through the portal,
taking all your time apart in instants.

Noise of others, noise from then,
puke into this mic.
Black hole of best intentions.
Good bye and hello, across the decades,
did we not meet once on the street?
I caught your eye, you smiled,
a long, long time ago…
remember?

I smiled, yes, as I passed,
you did not notice, I passed, it happened.

I smiled. hey, la, ha-hahaha, and took
Kesey's invitation, goodnight, Irene.

I did do the dive into the sea,
with drowning on my mind, going down
beyond the buoyancy, of anyone in my tree.

Realizing nothing since we lost touch,
I thought you all realer than me,
as my shape lost its original intention,
time distorts from
formative decades conforming
affirmational automation, to corporate
clean machines, still a source of pride.
Meanwhile,

we find it easy recalling toe tapping
impulses, now that you know who you are,
have you traveled
very far… further than any magic school bus?

How does if feel to be,
after all this time, to find today, the same old songs.

Never got rich beyond the satisfied mind
I found in a sack behind the opera house.

Nothing you can do that can't be done, it's easy,
say it true, believe it true, prove it makes long term

sense, after fifty freaking years, the laughing trombones
continue laughing at the simplicity past essentials.

Love needs a better definition,
all together now,
everybody, repeat the mantra,

or grow old and never get famous, rich and miserable,
live on with the will to grow older
still, knowing better and worse, at once...
one more time.

Made your reservation fifty years ago,
we waited until today,
at the time,
it was so far away,
now we go,
long, long ago, back to when we guessed

this was where we'd seem today.

So far away, grinning still, happy as
the fool on the hill, and nowhere man
see the story unfold, a thousand voice
choir of messengers going up and down
and back… this continuity in perifery,
ifery were, and ifery was, and ifery at all

times, songs we listened to high,
in the winter of '67, long before
the Eggman died.

When the band was so young,
when the world was younger,
but not much,
we kinda
lost touch, after the scariest part.

It was a trip.
Not everyone found their way,
nobody had GPS back then, few knew
what the Grateful Dead were grateful for

and nobody had coordinates…
for Blue Jay Way… or Penny Lane it
seems, we' were too long coming,
Yesterday is with us for constant review.

Critics believe it all leads here.

A hit before your mama was old,
a long, long time ago…

The tune inspired, da-did-dada, she
should call it all art, and we are
all together
after all these ****** Tuesdays,
assure us now that Fridays come.

Ordering chaos to line us all up,
getting reverb in return for echoes
after all's said now another way,
we laugh along with
jokers who do laugh at you,
to push you through the portal,
taking all your time apart in instants.

Noise of others, noise from then,
puke into this mic.
Black hole of best intentions.
Good bye and hello, across the decades,
did we not meet once on the street?
I caught your eye, you smiled,
a long, long time ago…
remember?

I smiled, yes, as I passed,
you did not notice, I passed, it happened.

I smiled. hey, la, ha-hahaha, and took
Kesey's invitation, goodnight, Irene.

I did do the dive into the sea,
with drowning on my mind, going down
beyond the buoyancy, of anyone in my tree.

Realizing nothing since we lost touch,
I thought you all realer than me,
as my shape lost its original intention,
time distorts from
formative decades conforming
affirmational automation, to encorporate
clean machines, still a source of pride.
Meanwhile,

we find it easy recalling toe tapping
impulses, now that you know who you are,
have you traveled
very far… further than any magic school bus?

How does if feel to be,
after all this time, to find today, the same old songs.
Knowing I'm a rich man, who never cashed out.
Never got rich beyond the satisfied mind
I found in a sack
behind the grand old opera house.

Nothing you can do that can't be done, it's easy,
say it true, believe it true, prove it makes long term

sense, after fifty freaking years, the laughing trombones
continue laughing at the simplicity past essentials.

Love needs a better definition,
all together now,
everybody, repeat the mantra,
The peace you make is equal to the peace you find...
living longer than children can really imagine,
growing old, never famous, not too rich and miserable,
to live on with the will to grow older
still, knowing better and worse, at once

-------- who are you to ask of me a reason to be?

Run the numbers, inquire costs and benefits.
Rest in peace today,

every child knows tomorrow and yesterday
are not simply more of the same aimless instant.

-------- who are you to ask of me a reason to be?

Run the numbers, inquire costs and benefits.
Rest in peace today,

every child knows tomorrow and yesterday
are not simply more of the same aimless instant.
During a first time in fifty years binge of Beatles after Rubber Soul, this developed when I got to Magical Mystery tour and recalled the fact that Kesey called his place strawberry fields, because of strawberries. Sublimely simple.
Tiana Aug 2023
satin black robe, maroon nails,
my cold palms on a colder marble balustrade,
the moon soaked rose garden,
and crying angels of that medieval fountain;

Beethoven creeping in the background
but still my heart didn't strung a sound;

All I did to find inspiration
still I'm going blank for years
words won't splendidly fill my unfinished fiction;

But still I'm here
grasping onto the midnight smoke
trying to give colours to my drunk imaginations;

My tired sighs now wished
that it'd be easy
to come up with words,
a missing lover
or a ballroom ******
or a heartbroken maiden
with empty goblets filling her scars;
anything would do now;

As long as this melancholic sonata goes on,
And before this cooing midnight
disappears into a blinding dawn,
You would find my impassive face
and desperate gaze
capturing floating words
to give a meaning to this new found romanticism;
heavily inspired by Beethoven's moonlight sonata first movemnt
irinia Aug 2023
time has a savage chemistry
it flows in silence in the depth of life
stolen or borrowed, hidden & fluent
and I am this space for time
to learn how to love itself &
the transparency of mystery
irinia Aug 2023
his words have the beauty of sirens
his eyes the depth of a flame
the dawn is unsustainable sometimes
his fingers are looking for the edge of darkness
fragile as a new born thought
his dreams are characters in a play with the invisible
hidden in the stones of the sky, in unwritten books
and unfollowed dialogues is the voice of his time
he struggles with the unseen rule of the world
like a priest without a church
the darkness inside kept in mutable particles

he will unlock one day, all of a sudden, the mistery
of light inside the deepest darkness cause
his feet carry the craft of wisdom
irinia Aug 2023
I have ships in my bones they carry me
somewhere else like a misunderstanding cause
the I of the world carries the evening
over the mountains on misterious ways
a nasty habit the imagination
sometimes I wonder if the ancestors are stalking these walls
to see if we can be happy
against the sacrifice of song
cause we die without thinking about it
a little bit every day from this stride
to put everything in its place
inside
leeaaun Jul 2023
in the darkness of the night so deep,
i wondered why your heart won't sleep,

my soul spoke up, a question sown,
to your heart's mystery, unknown

stars above, they twinkle bright,
but your heart hides in endless night,

my soul implored, with a gentle start,
why's your heart, dear, keeping apart?
SpiritHeart67 Jul 2023
You find the truth
when you look
in the places
others
have not.
irinia Jul 2023
as I am trying to learn as much as I can
from the self of trees, wind, of bees and birds
of the unlanguaged child I still am, from
wise men and women through the arch of time
I am well aware that we can keep each other captive
inside the machinery of make-believe that makes lonely
bodies & sunsets bearable
I can't help feeling I am just this,
a vagabond in such a deep mystery
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