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Onoma Jun 2018
it doesn't matter where

i am anymore--off in what's

being made clear...

over and over and over.

riding these *******' waves...

everywhere occurring to itself--

head tilted to the side, i smile in welcome.

it was always supposed to be this way...

the sky too needs to be freed up--

don't you know?

as a bird pulling air to its heart to

fly on it...don't you know?

look through anything you wish...

it can handle it--see exactly what

you want to see, after all...it's okay.

with that sung--i've come to know

she's looking my way.

it's all on end...a yogi sleeping on a

bed of nails.

i have forever to wait out her mind.

i can feel her falling--rushes of space

tightening around her body.

she's already been torn asunder.

inside she's answerable to no one--

i am empty enough, i am full enough

for just that.
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us’d,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam’d. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death’s harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d;
Or Neptune’s ire, or Juno’s, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea’s son:                        

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem’d chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign’d; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon’d shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall’d feast
Serv’d up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem.  Me, of these
Nor skill’d nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress’d; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
“twixt day and night, and now from end to end
Night’s hemisphere had veil’d the horizon round:
When satan, who late fled before the threats
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
On Man’s destruction, maugre what might hap
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
The space of seven continued nights he rode
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
Found unsuspected way.  There was a place,
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
Considered every creature, which of all
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
Him after long debate, irresolute
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtlety
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
In thee concentring all their precious beams
Of sacred influence!  As God in Heaven
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
Of creatures animate with gradual life
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
Rocks, dens, and caves!  But I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven’s Supreme;
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
To me shall be the glory sole among
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
Continued making; and who knows how long
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
More Angels to create, if they at least
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
Determined to advance into our room
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
Exalted from so base original,
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
Into a beast; and, mixed with ******* slime,
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to?  Who aspires, must down as low
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
To basest things.  Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
With act intelligential; but his sleep
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
From the Earth’s great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
The hands’ dispatch of two gardening so wide,
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides
Tending to wild.  Thou therefore now advise,
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work, brought to little, though begun
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
How we might best fulfil the work which here
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study houshold good,
And good works in her husband to promote.
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labour, as to debar us when we need
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet *******
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the ****** majesty of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth’s Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
If such affront I labour to avert
From thee alone, which on us both at once
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
Subtle he needs must be, who could ******
Angels; nor think superfluous other’s aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
When I am present, and thy trial choose
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met;
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
O Woman, best are all things as the will
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
Of all that he created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm.
But God left free the will; for what obeys
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
But bid her well be ware, and still *****;
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not fre
Ochiogu Kevin Feb 2010
Medical preys;
unwanted grasses
on female pasture;
yet over determined to exist.

Victims!
to pleasurable sins

Murdered!
by we who bekoned them.
To save faces

and intergrity;
To erase footprints
and outcome of our sins.
but you never cease to surface,
at any ****** call;

Never afraid of the death
warrant
nor the murderous act.
Brave unborn souls,
sacrificial lambs
of human immorality,
''cleansing off our sins''.
Yet answerable
to any ****** call
wishing it sinless
by matrimony.
Beauty of a marital love,
essence of a matrimonial
act.innocent
of all innocents,
One with God!,

Wisdom of the ancient!
The first measures
of purity.
But; where goes
the astral wisdoms
after the humanization?
where you compelled
to be born,
revoltless of the ******
of your unborn kind?
was it karmic purposed?
Andrea Jan 2014
being in the presence of a person who must know everything

is drastically different than being by myself,
     because I want nothing more than to obliviously exist
            to only know what I have to

I have a hard enough time processing what happened years ago

and it just amazes me that you, who has been through so much,
      who has seen and done and survived all these things I can't even imagine
              that you still ask questions. that you still don't hide from these things.

You make me feel like a coward with all of your questions

But you also make me realize that maybe
       I should start hunting my own monsters actively
            maybe I should ask more questions

and maybe the answer to your ever pressing question
of how oil and vinegar became such fast friends
is that we needed someone completely opposite
                                                        to keep ourselves afloat
He questions, he is not questionable,
He answers, he is not answerable,
His questions are not answerable,
His answers are not questionable,
He questions when there is no answer,
He answers when there is no question,
He questions and answers,
And answers and questions,
Till none questions or answers him.

He dominates, he is indomitable,
He corrects, he is incorrigible,
He takes respect, gives no respect,
He is dependent, not dependable,
Your success is his success,
His success is his own,
His failure is your failure,
He has all access, not accessible  

He quotes to unquote,
Your unquote he quotes,
He is quite open; you keep quiet,
Your optimism is his pessimism,
Your pessimism is his optimism,
He comes up on others shoulders.

He loves his paradise of power,
He is the boss of his domain,
His realm of religion is bossism,
His sadism is unique and universal,
Arrogance is his lasting cup of tea,
His blood group is A-, Always negative,
He is the incredible boss in your life.
Hanna Mae Mata Oct 2015
Do not ask me
why I am hurting.
Do not ask me
questions that are
answerable by
your very existence.
I am only hurting, because you are.
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
a minor amnesia - nonetheless it happens,
there's another word for it...
skleroza: spontaneous forgetfulness...
this fickle creature that's memory...
thankfully i have a stash of about 5 major memories
that i like to revisit...
play them over and over in my head...
since... i'm not on the crux of death...
well... since i'm not...
i have become more prone to exercise
the freedom of memory than i might want
to watch a movie...
trouble comes when i'm not my own d.j.,
in a car... heading toward... ******* IKEA...
in Enfield... where the phlegmatic crew of
dodo are this close | | to learning the arithmetic
of time...
a song on the radio... Belinda Carlisle...
circle in the sand...
in between talking with my father...
                  nothing metaphorical about that...
- so you know how old bob marley was
when he died? 36...
- you think he would still be touring?
well... he wouldn't need the money...
**** jagger does it for the joy...
          
i can't write narratives...
it's not like we're estranged...
but... it's complicated...
i think this is one area of my life i will keep
off-limits when writing...
i can be as honest about ******
as i can be about horses...
the narrative never took place...
believe me...
we talked about a range of things...
morgage

then when we came home an hour
later than expected...
she (dearest mother)
was probably drinking alone...
throwing little tantrums of me and father
alone time...
well... not to mention he was absent
from the most crucial years of my life...
from 4 till 8...
how does the ugly side of immigration
look like? brain-drain...
we: the diaspora members...
away from the motherland...
for the "better life"...
i too am playing catch-up...
how did ol' Leo frame it?
every happy family is the same...
but every sad family is sad uniquely:
in it's own unique way...

   get Wittgenstein to sort this
tautology... i'm not going to bother...
come to think of it... it's not even
a tautology... a tautology would be more
focused on thesaurus rex...

we had a conversation about football
and music... re-mortgaging...
even Bowie remained true to music...
he probably didn't tour...
but still made new content...
singing about mortality and ****...
i think i'm having this playback moment
in my head...

but then this song came on the radio...
magic fm... belinda carlisle...
circle in the sand...
all of a sudden i had this urge to listen
to a song, that song reminded me off...
oh hell... exactly: what was it?
the search began with: 'the message'...
mc-****-fartery...
      round and round...
jokes aside... i had to listen to belinda's
song on earphones once more
before the "revelation"...

  it seems obvious... "now"...

nik ******* kershaw - the riddle...

exactly... how did i get "the message" wrong?
two strong arms... blessings of Babylon...
blah blah: toe-tying-riddle...
almost like good luck is expected...

come to "think" of it...
a revelation... even though there's that monotheistic
focus on the patriarch...
puppet... strings...
missing *******...
i'm having a hard time not thinking
that ha-shem... the nameless father of hey-zeus
and the ha-ha-mighty blah-lah-al
are not... primarily... feminine gods...
well... conjured up from a ****
rather than a working 'ed...

they're irrational... and can be reduced down
to... the three heads of Cerberus...
they are never really depicted...
worded sleuth pulp fiction harlequin traps...
most artists?
oh **** me... even the ****'ites would agree...
get your eyes to focus on something...
that's how much i dare to admire Islam...
from the ****'ite perspective...

what ******* topic is this?
i was about to pour myself another drink
and this thought like a blitzkrieg came
flushed from a ******* in the universe
where all the gods and nothings
congregate from indigestion and
constipation...
a ******* miracle: a diarrhoea moment...
of sorts...
the monotheistic veneer... of "patriarchy"...

what?! she wants a ring of gold
and my ******* too?
how about a tent's worth of a kippah
on my ******* tonsure?
a man would require a screwdriver...
a hammer... nails... screws...
it would make sense to have many
involved... than this pressure of solipsism...
vampire... succubus... leech...
a ****** hail mary...

**** speak...
                    so great... the technological advances...
atheistic secularism...
but there's a ******* grid-lock to mind too...
no a ****** dam...
a rich cognitive custard...
it's just that: a cognitive custard...
like Moses rekindling a belonging concept
along the lines of being lied to:

monotheism hardly serves man...
i can find appeals to the illusion it presents...
but... hardly...
looks like the "plenty of fish in the sea"
metaphor is drying up the concept
of a "catch"...

the conversation with my father are
off-limits in my purpose of writing in the first
place... unlike a Knausgaard...
i'm the drinker... he's the teetotaller...
he's the workhorse i'm the... chicken-scratcher:
if i had ink...
but i'm also probably ten beaks pecking
resounding at this... grand... oh my god...
******* piano of QWERTY...

genius idea... what?
qwerty... because the orthodox memory erosion
of the alphabet is of any use?
suddenly everything has to **** me off...
it has to be dipped in still water...
it has to be believable...
monotheism is concretely a religion
designated for the preservation of women...
why my *******?
oh... because if you don't have it...
i can... ******* at a leisurely pace?

that a woman can ******* without inhibitions...
while i have to be shamed?
*******, *******...
i don't even have enough slander to express
what my heart reacts to these days...
i don't have "hurt" feels...
i have... agitated feelings...
thank you for waking me up from my numb...
apathy...
but what do i hear? "hurt feels"...
****'s sake... those people don't even recognise
what feeling is supposed to feel like!
they're all french footballers... "hurt" all of a sudden...
wow! so...
"hurt" is translated into the parameters of:
feeling per se?
imagine my shock finding out that
apathy has dulled "i.q." to so little that...
you must be hurt to feel...
you can't be spontaneously agitated...
you must be hurt...

bring out the hot horseshoes...
let's have some fun branding these *******-waggling-
***** aside...

just wait for the breeders to wake up
to having children that turn into freely-arranged
agents of will...
i'm passing through a decade where there's
boasting...
but sooner rather than later...
there will be some hidden mention
of those... pickled-cabbage:
why do the 'indus find pickled cabbage
"funny"?
not eating beef sounds pretty funny...
or like that "proverb" from Morocco:
there's no water, in the desert...
then... what... the... ****... are... you...
"doing" in this, here... land of replenished
roots?!

******* camel jockeys...
what do "they" call them, proper?
sand-*******...
it would take a Bengladesi to get
smart notes on the caste "system"....
Aryan has no origin in Europe...
it probably originated in Indian when
they first came across Persians...
who are... oddly... "pale"...
but have not bartablondine aspects
of their ****** expressions...

ivory skinned like an Iranian or a ***-
without a suntan?
"you" wanted trenches...
here's my designated plot...
"you" wanted ******* to overshadow
real.. culprit-esque concerns...
the jealousy of a woman
knows not bounds...
most especially when a father-son
privacy is engaged with...

   if i ever encountered male jealousy...
it was always rare...
almost never...
         but female jealousy? anything...
everything to belittle the opposing "authority"...
ha-shem... the jealous deity of women...
blah-lah-al of...kept secrets stashed in the niqab...
allure of the ******* eyes...
come on...

****** ******* mary:
that matriarch of sold foetuses and
walking abortions...
at least there was something adventerous
in conceiving the existence of Loki...
of Thor...
there's nothing... original about the point
of monotheistic gods...
that there are three...
is Islam the truest of religions?!
they had a Sunni ****'ite schism... didn't they?
once again:
i want to believe in something:
to give me momentum...
give be a willing acceptance to excuse...
an overarching stressor of incredulity...
and a... "what life"?

well... existence is...
out of every instance: a persistence to:
instance... a persistence...
that's... existence... ex-
out of...
and stance...
dis-ease... a negation of ease...

there will be plenty more of those car
journey listening to magic fm...

an "original": whether mind, or thinker...
that mythology of evil that the Nazis provided...
******* Armani suits and boots...
or whoever designed them... Hugo Boss...
what are we left with,
to mind matters of collectivism?
the evil of censorship instigated by...
halfwits and ******* haemophiliacs?

a myth of evil that could be...
galvanised... momentum and emblem...
what's on offer... currently?
grey-suits and...
expectations: that it's the "21st century"
something magical is about to happen...
what's the difference between the 20th century
and the 18th century?
the 19th century...
so what's the difference between
a pebble, a cliff edge and a mountain?
don't know... a river? a lake?

that same **** different cover excuse
like some wonderful was going to happen
in the 21st century...
like there was a promise...
where is this **** coming from?!
oh yeah... but it's the 21st century...
i was hoping for gravity to ******* and turn all:
short-circuit awry...

i can pretend... for a while...
but after that while passes... i turn into a real mystery
of a door **** gone berserker...
are there these societal expectations
to simply **** **** the next...
blow the next... ******* origami of OXFAM
purple-fest whimpering "dead-doughnut":
although i'd cry... if it was a stray dog
from the streets of Seville...
******* camel-jockeys...

  it's not even a inhibited play on pronouns:
there's no: "they"...
i thought the trans-lobbyist covered the plug-hole
of cognitive-****...
there is not "us" or "them":
gender neutral is me...
armed with a strap-on ***** on my ******* forehead...
a bit like... that hebrew practice of...

so i had me a "friend: a fwend...
maybe that's cornish for something in velsh...
you know how word salad sounds?
on a persistence?
sure... a son of divorce...
what am i? his ******* uncle?
his mother undermined the concept
of al dente spaghetti...
we're talking fractions of people...

people eat ****... leave the universal utility
of pork aside...
mind you: not water in the desert...
and not piggy too...
the leather shoe... the belt...
it's not exactly kosher... is it?
i have this backlog of a peoples...
at least a priest only attracts confessions...
i'm not at knife point
easy... for this triad to work?

if my fwend mentioned cognitive custard...
but the concensus of word salad
is socially broke on the norm...
so blah blah boo'yah assortment...
enriched strawberries...
juicing much later...
i can understand cognitive custard... pie...
but a word salad?
that's.... what doesn't deviate from
solipsism... this solo "project"
of "you and i"...

                       psychiatry is persisting to be
deemed a branch of
the Hippocratic oath....
but it's not...it's pseudo-"medicinal"...
it's hyped-up... idon't remember
that junction in a life...
hardly worth lived... just lived...
of my 20s... what mea culpa stressor of
those psychopaths?
currents under the broken wheel of...
attempts at supressing..
momentum? this whole ******* "flake"
of barrage?

by word salad you're implying i
have, speak... low i.q....
    non-hieroglyphic suede...
non-answerable... past replica...
woe wow salad...
but how i understand it...
a cognitive custard...
well... thinking is messy:
you ******* dim-wits!
        ought-i: thought...
i don't like being ridiculed...
or expected to her a less i.q. than what's...
nuanced at a ****** favouritism... Balkan-esque...
seriously... *******: before i ****** someone...
ugh attached to that: wind... now there's a purpose...

yeah... so what's what?
this is the least of my "concern"?
well... as they say in the west...
as long as the brain-drain happens...
we can forget about keeping the native 9 to 5ams...
sort of... but hardly... justifiably...
less than expectedly...
capitalistically boast: not exhausted...
sort of...

i can understand cognitive custard...
meddle some more...
word salad?
your ******* ****- nig-
of sorts is speaking your language better than me?
******* sour crass of a native's ***!
*******...  and you deserve it.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.
Sally A Bayan Dec 2013
...when today,
we wake up, feeling everything has gone astray...
ask ourselves questions, not readily answerable,
at times, are unanswerable...

...rest assured that...

...a moment comes...we reflect on changes,
and then before us, a new path emerges....

there's this ever growing community,
where lyrical outbursts are a variety...
new faceless names we meet,
minds and pens, together we co exist...
from our muses, enchanting ideas, so to speak,
where every dash and dot, poetic...
every poem of I, Myself, Me,
slowly but surely become Thy, Thee, We.......

come...
be in this corner,
be one of those minds from various nations,
with diverse thoughts and convictions...
where every poem is written with passion,
life's lessons, learned and shared...

come...
restless souls.
seek refuge in this haven,
be eased, calmed, be healed, here,
where every poet is part and parcel
of a world within a world,
a microcosm we call
...Hello Poetry...


Sally

Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
A tribute to Hello Poetry and the person/people responsible for its birth.....
A tribute to all the poets comprising Hello Poetry...
Julian Nov 2018
The padlock on the continuous barnstorm of a transcendent time whose bunkum is transmuted consciousness aligning with parallax to a congruent worldview is not axiomatic but certainly a veridical property of reality. The universe is as much concept as percept and both properties of consciousness that lead to adaptive behavior are tethered to the eccentricity of the observer rather than the oblong nature of the observed where errors in prima facie judgments delineate the saplings of humanity to beaze under the proctored sunlight of an eternal sunshine that withers seldom to the whims of capricious arbitrage of those whose hubris exceeds the limits of the intellectual frontier because they are gilded with bricolage mentalities that scaffold the skeletonized worldview rather than apprehending the concretism and synthetic arraignment of interrogable reality in a manner that acknowledges the factitious intersection of pioneering understanding and the corporeal existence of realities both transcendent in spatiotemporal mapping and reversible propinquity to the sensible acquisition of tangible knowledge. I contest the worldview of many philosophers as a callow retread of basic logic whose ambition is underserved by a desire for prolix pellucidity rather than cogent succinct promethean formulations that dare to muster the herculean task of demystification even if the entropy of formulation is always flawed by the jaundice of the observers rather than the disdain of the observable consensus. We swing by a filipendulous thread that dangles speculation and reifies the blinkered piebald world of spotty concatenations among neurons recognizing that incomplete associations become the staples of philosophies that are precarious in some logical foundation but sturdy enough to weather the vagaries of the bluster of mendicants who verge on comprehension but pale in comparison to the monolithic edifice of so-called truth when the defalcation of figureheads supplants the clerisy as the new proctor of knowledgeable assertion. I contend that foofaraw is a primeval instinct of community ecology that expedites the balkanization of otherwise unitive properties of society and ravages them with bickering based on clashing predilections that are bellicose and combative rather than irenic and balmy. The acerbic fates of many leads to a rudimentary pessimism or a chary optimism that chides against the fortified exegesis of divinity that can be both proclaimed and stultified for its latticework properties of buttressing society in a permutation that is nimble in some respects but too turgid and rigid in others. The goal of humanity is to become a pliable instrument of a pliable universe that does not rely on buzzword dogmatism or the masquerade of hollow punditry but that relies on self-reliant principles for ascertaining veracity and impugning mendaciloquence with vigilant alacrity rather than casual sportsmanship that reaches finality only upon the handshakes of a battle waged that concedes the impotence of gladiatorial spectatorship as just a gambit of the half-witted cockney witticisms and shibboleths of sportive diversion rather than consequential and decisive reckonings with the subaudition that undergirds all events of any consequence with either a clinched victory or a callow defeatism of a futilitarian worldview that stoops to reconciliation only to propitiate antagonism and buffer against the truculent brunt of weaponized coercion to checkered flags that arbitrate the outcome of a binary polarity of humanized affairs. The majesty of creation is that reversible boundaries can be permeated in a bi-directional manner through the artifice of concerted thought rather than the orchestration of a linear traipse through the deserts of an inclement fate won immediately when projected upon the tangent of any given velocity at any point of acceleration away from the targeted impetus that grants only a partial vantage, a cantle of reality that is fragmented and piecemeal rather than circular and emergent. The most dire battle that humanity faces is the attrition of circumstance by the purposive declarations of imperious authority that seeks to muzzle the ingenuity of many for the deliciation of the few creating an accidia among the clerical institute of thinkers that imposes hogra that few people can grapple with that they are marooned into a cloister that reaps fewer rewards for an ascendant intellect than a virulent libido can clutch with predatory gallops against the also-rans that fight for carnality rather than the ethereal principles lingering within the grasp of many if it became a cynosure of worthy heralded acclaim. We witness the mass fecklessness of giftedness as a shackle of those whose plaudits come intrinsically fortified but sustain none of the abuses that the pedestrians would like to obtrude upon enlightenment to curtail and abridge the art of invention like the coagulation of blood to rob the vitality of throbbing pulse of importunate self-discovery of its macroscopic vista and its telescopic foresight about the future hodgepodge of a recursive fractalized reality besieged by the enemy of linear logical formulations implemented by ivory tower psychologists to muzzle the empowerment of abstruse language in order to make savory the nostrum of the apothecaries of delegated truth bereaved of recourse beyond certain leaps they cannot fathom well enough to flicker with even a faint transient wisdom that is designed to be amenable only to the supernal nature of ideation rather than the caprice of bedazzled humanitarianism. We need to forswear the -isms that flicker with doctrinaire dogmatism and flirt with forceful harangues that exhort a codified message and launch veridical properties of recondite etherealism into an immovable orbit whose inertia can broadcast a singular message of recoil against puritanism in science or skepticism in faith. The bedrock of this message is the deployment of useful extravagance without inordinate delay, the drivel of malcontent transmogrified into the prattle of estimable giants that have stature among the leviathan enough to recriminate against the autarky of self-smug simpletons that infest the world with barbarous indecencies and crude prepossessions that abortively crumple when met with the acerbic teleological gravity of ulterior consequence rather than blossom under the siroccos of manufactured wind designed for windfalls that always create a crestfallen aftermath from the anticlimax of understanding leading to the desiccation of consequence and the engorgement of precedence. These frangible realities become buoyant because the physics of the public dialectic insulates the creaky rickety vestiges of canonical knowledge as a sworn precedent inviolable and immune as a building block of all scholasticism, a retread of parchment recycled over and over again to entrench the past as the titanic vehicle that dictates the future of thought even though the porous inconsistencies of the vagrants of crude formulation make such a vessel less seaworthy than scientism and dogmatism of the monolith would have you believe to be true. The querulous quips of the uninformed predominate with such clutter that the armamentarium against useful idiocy is stagnated into a resigned accord with infernal subjugation of the public volition to insubordinate against a system of parochial enslavement rather than a catholic enlightenment whose universalism of principle ensures a steadfast society guided by scruples rather than undermined by the prickly thorns of abrasive contrition and the magnetism of empathic concern that sabotages the clarity of intelligence and provides a welter in the place of a well-arrayed code of peculiar but defiant distinctiveness that acts as the splinter that cracked the intangible but refractory borders of human inclination and demonstrated the sheer force of golden consistency rather than fickle withering resolve. I exhort and implore the world to heed the best minds that realize the syncretism is answerable to contradiction rather than scuttled from beneath by the impudence of its assertions against the common propriety when it stakes controversy as a gamble to aver the veracity of worldviews that violate orthpraxy with gusto as a brazen gallantry to rescue a foundering planet that seeks disequilibrium in harmony rather than an equilibrated sensibility that is proud to discriminate properly and honestly to clinch fact rather than kowtow to factitious slumber of somniferous kumbaya that is too deferent to maxims that are unduly polite only because charisma supersedes genius in its efficacy to mobilize people to fulfill their roles. With the miscegenation of justice that occurs because of expedience we find holes in many legalistic precedents because they anoint pettifoggery over sensible jurisdiction and face a leaky and ramshackle fate to foment paternalism and divide the clerisy among certain key considerations in order to save face rather than to impose a clarity of orderly supervision that seeks to dissipate the embroiled spiderwebs of dodgy prevarication and quacksalver logic to once and for all ascertain the truth that lurks beyond the primal jaundice of Kafkaesque confusion.
Christine Jun 2010
I am but a mad girl,
And you have taken my love song!
He is real, I assure you.
But my reality,
Flawed and inarticulate,
Makes questionable my answers
Rather than answerable to my questions.
I am but a mad girl
And you have taken my voice, dear Madam,
And created a world of flame and fancy!
My love song must be less
For surely I must be less.
Please madam, pity the poor mad girl
And relinquish my soul
So that the seraph and seraphim
Can once again bring my love to fruition.
Nidhi Chikkerur Sep 2010
Often I have wondered
What must it be like to die?
How does it feel?
Painful or painless?

What does one think?
- Of achieved glories and exploits,
Of debts unpaid,
Or of emotions buried?

Does one feel sad to leave the stage,
Or happy indeed in the final act of the play?
But alas! Who shall tell me this?
For I know none who's
dead and come to demystify this truth of life
Known to no scientist, answerable by no teacher ...

But one thing I know
A long life is not my desire
To be wretched and afflicted is not my way
With disease I do not want to sway

For now my friends, let us
Not choose our requiem
For we have books to read, and
Places to see
And miles to go before we sleep.
TERRY REEVES Mar 2016
EVERYTHING IS NORMAL, NOTHING IS RIGHT,
ARE SOME THINGS BEST KEPT OUT OF SIGHT?
I DON'T WANT TO KNOW YOU - I THINK IT'S
BELOW YOU, I CAN'T STOP WHAT YOU WANT TO DO;
ONLY GOD WILL DECIDE ON THE THINGS WHICH
YOU MIGHT LIKE TO HIDE - IF YOU BELIEVE?
IF NOT - YOU ARE BEYOND REBUKE, CAN
NOT BE TOUCHED AND ANSWERABLE ONLY TO
YOURSELF; HOWEVER, FATE CAN TAKE A HAND,
SCATTER GRAINS OF SAND TO FAR FLUNG
CORNERS AND HEM YOU IN LIKE ANIMALS
WAITING TO DIE - NO ESCAPE, NO MATTER HOW
HARD YOU TRY; REMEMBER, WE CARE FOR YOU -
AND WHAT YOU DARE TO DO BUT JUST WHO ARE YOU?
Wk kortas May 2018
i.

Such is their reward, then,
This graceful bridge bisecting the lake at Bemus Point,
Not far from the spot where Bishop Vincent
Parsed the geography of the holy land,
Narrow beaches fronting a higgledy-piggledy of cottages,
Most comfortable but staid,
Though the odd McMansion grotesquerie
Has sprouted here and there,
Courtesy of some frozen-food magnate in Buffalo
Or casino second-in-command from Niagara Falls
(Those more famous waters, apparently,
Insufficient to slake ones thirst for the gaudy)
In any case, likely no more than admired from afar
By those generations of boys
Who, leaving their spot on the line at Crescent Tools
Or fields rife with bumble-striped heifers,
Never returned, drill press unmanned, corn crib unattended.

ii.

You’d been on those waters once, however,
Spending an afternoon both bewitching and idyllic
On a dock fronting a relatively humble beach bungalow
(A friend of a family friend or relative’s place,
The whos and whys lost to the manila folders of recollection)
With a girl of ten, perhaps twelve at the outside,
Beautiful in an untrammeled manner,
Or at least primarily, unconsciously so,
And you remember her having green eyes
Which utterly belied description
(Though that was all long ago,
Such reminiscence likely no more than the rheuminess of memory,
And you have not returned to that shoreline since.)

iii.

Such daydreams are perilous, on many levels,
At seventy miles per hour even more so,
And you shake yourself back to the present
While approaching yet another bridge
(Humble span noting humble beginnings)
Honoring the region’s most famous daughter and her husband,
Who did indeed have much ‘splaining to do,
As you proceed eastbound toward Salamanca
(Wholly owned by the Seneca Nation,
Those non-native descendants of Mertzes and McGillicuddys
Paying rent and fealty to the tribe each year)
And thence to the slump-shouldered hills
Which shelter the sauntering Allegheny,
The pines thick, green, inscrutable,
Beyond our everday squabbles,
Answerable to nothing but time itself.
Divya Kaushik Sep 2017
Noble people question my identity
I am arrogant, not answerable
They say I lack human's entity
Something physical, sounds sensible
They are noble, I don't question

They do look at me with suspicion
Think I do not conform to the norms
Laugh at my unrealistic intuitions
Don't like my love for Thor and thorns
They are noble, I don't question

'You are more of a gawk' they say
That doesn't disqualify me from being exploited
It's saddening to see myself at bay
Avoiding my source energy to be safe
They are noble, I don't question

But my thinking gives me blast
Everything around, is just past
I am the truth, I will last
Who is noble, I need not ask
The one who exists
Aayush Vasudeva Sep 2015
In a world so crude and corrupt,
Our expectations are usually crushed, as people tend to be abrupt,
Who is there to look upto, in time of calamity and dire need?
They are the country's hope, uprooting all it's weeds

Army, a word that's short, yet demands respect,
From them, you can always expect,
Our lives, for them, are of greater significance than their very own,
Their brilliance and commitment are such, their every sacrifice is mourned

Days and weeks without food, water and family,
Be it a festival or a Sunday, they are never free,
They are answerable to none, for they are justice redefined,
For the country, they are equal to gods, never undermined

Pay your respect to the soldiers of fortune, stand tall and salute,
Let the patriotism flow within you, like the notes from a flute
I would prefer my solitude and gift of self , answerable to Randolph and no one else  ! I soulshine alone with the Earth , Wind and Sky as my trail with undying love and affection for all creatures .. Plastic ******* I've long since melted , molded into splendid candles that light my quest for guidance and direction .. Surfing the bell curve free of the pack instinct , armed with abundant memory , opposable thumbs and a mountain of creativity !
Copyright November 15 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
aniket nikhade Sep 2015
Each one has got own opinion,
his own point of view about the outside world.
Listen to everyone,
since everyone has got his own experience about life.
Take there word of advice.
Speak with them, share your thoughts and ideas with them.

Since you have got a doubt there is nothing wrong in taking opinion of others.
Since experience comes along with time it's important to meet the demand of the present moment in time.
Now after listening to everyone it's time to think about everything that you have got in your mind.

Think only when you are absolutely certain about something.
Think when something positive and constructive can be ascertained about the future.
Think only if you are truthful, honest and answerable to yourself.
Undoubtedly, the right opinion makes a real difference in taking the right line of action.

Difference of opinion existed in the past and it remains even in the present
Different views on the same subject matter have always remained a part of everyone's life.
Everyone has to face a difference of opinion at some point of time in his life.

Still, even then at the end,
even before arriving at any conclusion,
listen to your inner voice.
Listen to the person inside, which always tells you something.
Listen to your conscious mind.

Definitely self-conscience plays a major role in solving the problem that you are facing
So, as and when, whenever it's possible,
always be yourself, all of the time.

Try as much as possible
Be truthful and honest to yourself
Definitely you will find the right direction
Once the right direction is sought, achieving what you have got as an aim in your mind will not be difficult.
Conscience betrays guilt.
Unknown Jul 2014
We all die. There is no escaping the simple fact that life, as beautiful and filled with wonders as it is, is meaningless. Earth. A spinning ball of life and light, so free as a vision, yet we suppress these things. Let's build a house that will stand for three hundred years, when I will be here for a fraction of it's existence. Let's build a city around this house, and grow. But for what? You can work so hard for an accomplishment based on personal ideals, but it will be torn down and replaced with someone else's thoughts. We are cattle. To ourselves. We wait in a line of jealousy, pointing red fingers to the pure ones, and the pure ones turn impure. We mill around as if there is a purpose. We create, we sing we write we love we laugh we cry we grow, and we die. A lifetime of, anything, cut down because there is no because. There is no answer. There is no divine entity who overlooks us. There is no afterlife, resurrection, free floating energy, or cells that live on. There is eternal unconsciousness. Nothing. Black, or white or grey, or nothing. And we'll never know. We live in a space so small compared to the rest of everything out there. Past our planet, somewhere in the farthest reaches of the universe(es), there is life, bounding and free, true beings, maybe like us. Maybe they looks similar, and feel the same emotions. Maybe their emotions are different. Maybe their technology surpasses ours. Maybe they are primitive, waiting to learn. Maybe they are us, in the past. The sad, simple fact is that we will never know. We continue to spiral towards our own self afflicted demise, unknowing, selfish. All the wonders of discovery beyond us is lost in the folds of envy and anger. And our own natural timeline. You will die. Your family will die. Everyone you know will die, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do to stop this change. We write poetry to staunch a certain emotion, or maybe to bring rise to one that we favor, but this is all nothing. Who cares about how your friend died, or how I broke up with someone, or how cute your cat is, or what boat you sailed on? It's pointless. Words only help to reflect the pointlessness of it all. We give voice to the sheer depression. Life is not a game, or a puzzle, nor is it an answerable question. It is, and always will be nothing in the end. I write to drain myself, to remind myself that I am in fact, a breathing, living human being, for the time. I write for the nostalgia of futility. For the embrace of hopelessness. Why do you write? Tell me, why bother?
Puspanjali Sahu May 2016
It was and is
not easy for me
I beg don’t make it harder  

You will not understand
and I can’t make you to feel  
how it feels
when your body can’t hold your heart

How it feels
when you know in your veins
what you feel
but barricade between your body and mind
will not let you
feel your feelings  

How it feels
when the world address you  
Dude
and you afraid
the girl  you are trying hard
to coffined in your heart
will show up  

I wish I could show you
my pain filled abortive trials
to push hard  
even the tiniest bulging meat on my body
deep inside into my skeleton  

I wish I could show you
Pain of pretension
  
Pretension of walking straight
Pretension of speaking loud
Pretension of being brave
at the time of drooping in fear
that you will be identified
and termed as a queer  

I wish I could make you realize
helplessness of being a public secret
anguish of dying out of respect
and living in agony
because your body  
is not answerable to anatomy  

When you all wanna prove your identity
I am begging you
please let mine go

because
my identity
can not be identified
by the tiny part between my legs  
Please tell me  
how long I need to beg  

to find the place
where my body will not be dissected
to discover
my hearts gender
  
Please tell me
how long......?
Is life is all about define our gender ? Is to so necessary to belong to a particular sexuality-either men or women. Why we can't  think beyond this to give ourself and others, whom we define as transgenders a better life ?
Before asking someone
are u gay, a lesbian or a transgender
just ask what a person want to do with his life
or what just what he loves to eat ?
which game he loves to play
etc...etc....
Please realize sometimes our words, our expression affects others deeply. After all we all are part of the picture pale blue dot
Ghazal Aug 2014
I realised that Life
was a scheming, vile *****
the day I felt the pain
of a sudden, shattering loss
Indifferent, and unforgiving,
you may keep questioning it
fervently, relentlessly,
but it won't give you an answer.

Life isn't answerable to you,
It will cradle you with the
illusion that you're in control
Then will suddenly wihdraw,
And watch as you fall

Whoever spread the notion
that life was a gift,
forgot to mention that the gift was accursed
You could relish it for moments
But when it would be time,
It would leave you to darkness,
And never look behind.
Steve Page Feb 2022
Extremists
tend to regard themselves
through a prism,
one of their own making,
faking exceptional,
answerable only
to their own scope for irrational
through which they see crystal clear
and consequently do not require
the inconvenience of relational,
the distraction of negotiational,
or those blind to their unique brand
of remarkable.

And occasionally, sadly,
they can sufficiently
fake credible to become
President
(which is not the same
as presidential).
The invasion of Ukraine is just the latest example.  Power corrupts.
Onoma Dec 2015
The sky is where
prayer purges--
returned to sender,
in a wink.
Given to an
inner space full with what
needs eradication.
To the astonishment
of the sender,
prayer returned as a
greater space for
realization.
Prayer was never
sent, nor returned.
Prayer being... beginingless,
and endless.
There is only One
momentous prayer,
relegated to moments.
Where question and
answer grow out of
one another,
in dualistic interchange.
Till question, questions--
answer, answers...
to indistinction.
As question is questionable,
and answer is answerable...
to nothing but everything.
Prayer as doing--
to prayer as being.
Onoma Oct 2016
White answerable
to white...black
the perimeter
sworn to silence.
Àŧùl Jan 2016
I start thinking about my mistakes,
So I think about what & all errors,
Those I made & the world makes.
Some special pattern is absent,
Fail I do to figure it out at all,
Prevent I do from letting the blame,
Shift on others for ruining,
What I did and what I do,
I am answerable to myself,
And no ****** **** else!!!
My HP Poem #1006
©Atul Kaushal
All I wanted was you
All I know is reality
And the reality is
I don't have you
And I feel like
I'm just dust
Being swept away
And the truth is
Too much is changing
Too much is wrong
But baby I'd do anything
To be yours again
Sweetie I'm trying
But that's not good enough
Nothing I do ever is
And I'm fighting here
All alone
Wishing that our love
Didn't keep me running
Around trying to prove myself
I wish I saw the monsters
So I can believe in them
So I can be motivated by them
So I can really fight
So I can yell at their faces
Instead of yelling at an empty room
I wish God answered my prayers
And saved me
I wish I knew if He listened
I wish I knew
If my prayers were answerable
Or that He'd show me
What to do
What's right
Oh sweetie
Why is life so hard
Why are you so worth
A million hard lifetimes to me
I just want the ache to settle
I want to be safe
Baby all I want is you
And this fight is insane
But I'd fight through
And do anything to be
Back with you
My dearest husband
I will find a way
And it will hurt
For all the days
All the months
All the years I'm unsafe
But I want to be back
In those arms
So I'll fight
I'll find a way
Because our love
Is too special
To give up on
So baby will you
Just take my hand in spirit
And guide me on the right path
And I promise to follow.
Mark Bell Apr 2017
My shadow is the evil one
It has a sadistic mind
My shadow is deplorable
Not answerable to mankind
My shadow is the enemy
We are always fighting war
Black stain on my character
Rotten to its core
My shadow really scares me
It leaves an ugly mark
I always seem to conquer it
I just now go out when it's dark
CJ M Apr 2015
Who is it that I see when I look into the sky?
Is it her? No, maybe it’s her. No, neither, it’s a blank canvas to me.
I can stare all I want, but the truth is that I don’t see a face, I don’t see an angel when I look into the sky. Does that mean I’m alone? Does that mean I’m not cared for?
Tears come to my eyes when I feel it, that loneliness that plagues my day-to-day life. But I don’t cry. I walk onward to the moon that shows me that I’m not completely empty, but alas, I am.
I have no love anymore, nobody would care if I disappeared one day, I’d be alone as I already am. But that thought doesn’t seem to shake me anymore, I mean, it’s been this way for years with few and short intermissions, so why fear the game you’re an expert at?
Let me generate a distinct response to the questions my soul asked me…
What is lonely? Lonely is that dark spot on the sun that sheds less light and hurts more than it helps yet gets no love from his bright neighbors for their own lights outshine him and therefore he shalt not realize that he isn’t the only spot and not the darkest, yet he still feels the desolation and isolation of what and where his position is.
Are you lonely? Am I? Aren’t we all a loner in some way? Yes, I miss the love that once flowed through my blood-thirsty veins, but since it dried out my blood hasn’t been as rich and warm as it used to, chilling my soul and bone to the core of my existence.
Do you need it? Do I? absolutely, I lust for love, desperate for the taste of it, the feel of romance is softer than that of fondue chocolate and even more sweet.
Yet it’s only a taste.
Imagine a bite of it, a bite out of love, delicious as it might be it takes up time, chunks of years, decades even, until you thrive for it in multiple lives. But I have no life to waste, yet I waste it on the search of it, why?
Not answerable by words, maybe by instinct. I love you, she said, I love you, I said, but did I mean it? Did she? My mind said no and my heart said yes, I figured that was all the answer I needed, but was it that my heart just ached for the fuel it craved? Maybe so.
Shackles on a freed soul bring problems of passed futures, new histories that have been altered based on the feelings of love. Romeo and Juliet, heaven and hell, heart and soul, All myth but with a mysterious air that brings its prey in by it’s grasps on the heart.
Loved once, loved twice, fowled heart flinging off the tip of a stadium that’ll never try to retrieve it from wherever it lands, batter shrugging and finding another heart to strike into the air making a home-run meant for her liking , but what about the discarded heart? What am I to do? I guess I’ll wait until life finds me again.
Where Shelter Apr 2020
the worlds illness so pervasive,
the pandemic horror stories are my-brain-endemic,
so pervasive, every ache, tremor, is now virally suspected,
proof that my customized angel of death has arrived, I’m seizing up.

the latest wave session of walking depression, conflates both sides
of my brain, the intersection at right, left, the intellect is mowed
down with woe-down, by the stark reality of emergency facts,
apex or art, looking at months and lives ever trembilzed.

don’t even bother like I did at early firsts, when?
by asking where shelter, the raison d'être of my existence,
the poetry no longer synapses, the currents loop over and over,
the intellectual processes neutered by sadness virus un-encountered.

once upon a time I thought, even believed, that my life’s inquiry,
was answerable, with customized solutions for each,
but now, don’t believe in shelter of any kind, no,
acknowledging I’m so lost, no recovery efforts,

will be attempted.
Whisper Yes Oct 2017
Be open to my closedness
Resistance comes in many forms
Fear – is my resistance fear?
Fear of opening up, fear of going too far
Write, just write it all down
How it felt when she kissed my head and thanked me
Thanked me for speaking, for sharing
How it feels having a blanket placed over me
How it feels to have found a tribe
How to stay with self?
Just like this – by doing it
Answerable to no-one
Nothing to prove to anyone.
Relationship with men comes from relationship to father?
Don’t let them see all of me
Keep the wild, the introvert, the poetic soulful side back
Fit in with them, how they want me to behave
Don’t ask the challenging questions
Don’t hurt them
Don’t bring up hurtful topics
Don’t leave him – it will hurt him
Is it hurting me to stay?
Still don’t know
The other is constantly there.
Think of the possibility merely the possibility of resistance becoming connection
Don’t have to understand that sentence – don’t make sense of it
Merely consider the possibility.
Resistance becoming connection.
Can feel my mind working out the time, thinking about food
It’s all fine, observe the thoughts, don’t attach
The medicine is working, it is working
Don’t have to do anything
Go with the rhythm, trust the inner rhythm.
I can feel me here – no past, no future, just me.
Ishani Behera Jan 2017
Tell me somehow , I earned it.
Tell me how my dress was asking for it -
Please explain how that Sunday it was okay for the church
Yet this Friday night it was way too "slutty".
Explain me how my eyes don't deserve to cry -
But also tell me , how it was their radiance
That drew him from the shades.
You can tell my smile not to return -
But explain how it betrayed me,
Made this villain justify that I was a friend.
Go on, tell my thighs to "get over it" -
Explain how these bruises are beautiful reminders
Of how much I "wanted" it.
Go tell my voice it is answerable -
Explain why not being able to scream is consent,
Ask how easily it left me when I much needed it.
Please tell my body it shouldn't have gotten so weak -
How not being able to handle that drink
Made this justified, made me an easy game.
But please, most importantly ,look at my eyes -
Learn how he destroyed me
And then tell me I was "asking for it".

— The End —