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GfS Jun 2015
I was like every other scientist
for love to me was just
a neural reaction to a certain
stimulus presented to an individual,
just a hormonal response of a person
to a certain situation laid out to them
Like a configuration of ****** muscle
tissue of one results to an increase
of serotonin, dopamine, and for some,
oxytocin of another
At times, one would affiliate this
****** muscle configuration
to that of pentahydroxyhexanal (sugar)
and that was discombobulating

I could not understand how
a smile becomes sweet

and yet at that moment
when I saw you smile
I immediately understood
that science
science cannot explain this

This feeling I have when I see you
raingirlpoet Jun 2014
Someone turned off the moon
I searched high and low
Someone stole the moon out of the sky
How? is what I want to know

It was a funny feeling, to look up that night
To see the night light gone
A magic ladder that reached the heavens
The stars couldn't sing their song

Someone took the moon and ran
Snatched it without a sound
It was a very discombobulating night
Without the moon around
Daisy Hemlock Nov 2018
Here is a poem I composed for you,
Like the ripples in the laces when I tie my shoes.

Discombobulating bobbleheads,
The knobby knuckles,
The seat belt buckle.
Introspeculating lobby beds.
The bumps in the road were on my head,
Disconnecting me from the thread.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Joe wants to know
how'm I doing?

an innocuous query,
little can he know,
bye bye is my merry,
marooned on a skerry,
noxious fumes in the aerie,
currently inhabiting  my foreheady,
worry waves, rolling thunderous tides,
have myself beside

thus the answer to your toll,
something bad, on me, got a hold

Joe,
life is,
more than a tad
concerting

concerting?

surely you meant
converging, or perhaps,
concatenating, or concaving?
discombobulating, or more likely,
plain ole disconcerting?

indeed, all of the above,
fit like a glove,
but best combinated in steaming mug of
concerting

"to contrive or arrange by agreement: to plan; devise"

the world is secret contriving,
the world is secret devising,
a plan for my demising,
forces are concerting re me...
most concerning,
as trends converging,
concave hollow chains clinking,
a concatenating chorus
voicing their displeasure,
at my happy existence,
which now gone,
its loss, wept for, in great measure

life dissing me, in a manner
concerting and dis-concerting,
my composure,
decomposing,
the ides of depression,
hip hop discombob-
(undu)lating throb
but then again,
what's in a word,
what's in a rhyme,
jes that old timey R&B;,
rhyming and blues,
of a verbal kind

so, Joe, how'm I doing?

now that you are knowing,
as men of distinguished letters,
students of history,
part time poets,
Your Reply
must only be:

"Oh no, Natty,
say it ain't so"
http://www.thisdayinquotes.com/2009/09/it-ain-so-joe-actually-wasnt-so.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shoeless_Joe_Jackson


Skerry: a skerry is a small rocky island, too small for habitation; it may simply be a rocky reef.
Aerie:   any habitation at a high altitude
Concatenating:  to link together; unite in a series or chain.
Combinated: poetic license
Concaving: hollow and curved
Discombobulating: to confuse or disconcert; upset; frustrate
Dissing: to show disrespect for; affront. to disparage; belittle.
Djs Jun 2013
naive and stoic and heartless
nothing but a mess
stressed and melancholic
depressed and psychedelic
but how this is discombobulating
once so happy now i'm grieving
like an owner losing a puppy
a mother losing her baby
only that i didn't lose anything
just my sanity

*-djs
Onoma May 2017
Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll ****, burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.
judy smith Mar 2017
There is something discombobulating about feeling a shudder and a tilt, the models in front of you apparently moving slowly sideways, as the stand with your show seat starts to move in circles.

At the same time, the models at the Céline show seemed to be going off in all directions. Popping in and out of the black holes of space were models - young or older - wearing a smart green masculine trouser suit, a striped shirt, a white belted raincoat, something furry and - unexpectedly - a tunic and trousers printed with black wheels and checks skittering before your eyes.

All this and the bodies and arms of shadowy people behind the plastic backdrop. I rushed backstage to try to make sense of the show chaos (sorry: artistic intrigue), but designer Phoebe Philo did not want to talk when I asked her the point of her dramatic presentation of her Autumn/Winter 2017 collection.

"Just ideas coming together with lots of ideas," said the designer. "Just lots and lots of ideas and how they impact each other."

Around me, Phoebe's team were hugging and sobbing and clutching each other, as if this show were their last. Overview notes provided by the public relations people seemed even more confusing, apart from telling me that the installation (that required more electric cables and wires than I have ever seen above a fashion runway) was by French artist Philippe Parreno.

''The Céline AW17 collection explored Phoebe Philo's storytelling design process of how a collection is created and the notion of how changes result in impact," read the statement. "Further, the collection relates closely to the interconnected nature of women's lives and possibilities for women."

Before I read this, I had thought of Phoebe as the English designer who has her children running around backstage and who made practical but classy clothes for today's woman. She threw into the mix a few charming pieces like the fluffy flat sandals that have been picked up by other designers across the world.

With all that on offer, why did the new Céline collection have to complicate things so much?

Take away the moving seats and impossible-to-follow criss-cross of the models and there was the Céline look that any woman would crave: the bold, floor-length tailored coat; a tuxedo with its hemline sweeping right down to the ankle. The tailoring looked bigger, oversized even, which is in tune with the Eighties-style square shoulders that we have seen elsewhere this season.

Phoebe seemed to be offering a hardened version of the serenity she once found in streamlined clothes. An example of the new severity would be a plain, long sleeved dress with a hemline at mid-calf. Its softer side was a blue shirt elongated to the ankle and worn with trousers.

Ultimately, Phoebe offers 21st century elegance with the smooth lines disrupted by a tangle of fringe at the hem or what appeared to be a big blanket over one arm.

I received an overall impression of longer - to the ankle - length, a sense of sobriety and a few fanciful things for evening. What I missed in the hurdy-gurdy of the presentation, is, as yet, unknown.

With exquisite workmanship and Victoriana melded with pop, Pierpaolo Piccioli had a new vision of romance for the digital era.

Prudishness and pop - can the two really meld together? Yes! If the Victorian-style cape is in a vivid, sugary, postmodern pink and the dress underneath a colourful geometric pattern, recalling the Memphis era.

At Valentino, the 1880s met the 1980s with sensational results as designer Pierpaolo Piccioli dismissed the feminist vibe that has reverberated through the Autumn/Winter 2017 season yet created a collection that was respectful to and joyful for, women.

Just looking at the designer's four moodboards was a history lesson, as Pierpaolo whizzed me through dark Victorian carved birds, bright Memphis furniture, coral with a religious connection to Medusa - so much from the past crammed into one collection.

Yet on the runway, the result was far from overloaded, as the history of coral was subsumed into the necklaces all the models wore and the deflated Victorian silhouette - long and high waisted, but slim where a crinoline once was, seemed perfectly acceptable as a romantic vision of the 21st century.

"I wanted to add deepness and romanticism to the modernity of the shapes, so these are absolutely items that you can wear separately - a white shirt or the skirt with your own sweater," said Pierpaolo. "I think fashion is made for dreams, but sometimes you want a dream that is daywear."

The Valentino studios are at the heart of the matter, apparently finding it as easy to toss off a tailored coat with a mid-calf hemline nudging Victoriana bootees, as it is to make a soft, light dress to flow underneath. The detail and delicacy of the dresses seemed like an extension of the haute couture, but the designer was eager to point out that the clothes came from the Italian factory dedicated to Valentino.

Whether it is so easy visually to mix a sorbet pink top with tiny ruffles down the arms that flowed into a cherry ripe panelled skirt, the result was surprisingly calm. Even the dresses patterned with Memphis pop blended in with the plainer, pleated versions. And just when you thought that the show's high romance was over blown, the designer would slip in a black top over a pair of sloppy velvet trousers or calm a Memphis patterned dress with a tailored coat. A severe black jacket could be worn with anything already in the closet from an LBD to blue jeans. Like the tailored coats, it kept ripe femininity in check.

"For me it is important to keep the lightness, otherwise it doesn’t feel confident and if you don’t feel that you don’t feel beautiful," said Pierpaolo. "I think if you feel confident you can even be able to show your sensibility and really feel stronger."

However you rated the clothes - too fancy, too froufrou, too historical - there is no denying that Pierpaolo has created a vision that is respectful to women and which makes them feel beautiful. In a churning political universe, Valentino offers a small, still voice of calm.

Demna Gvasalia revisited Cristóbal’s silhouettes with surges of modern colour, print and volume.

Balenciaga haute couture has been revived for the first time since Cristóbal himself closed the house nearly half a century ago. The last nine outfits shown by creative director Demna Gvasalia, on the huge carpet patterned with the word 'Balenciaga,' had their roots in the legacy of grandeur left by the noble Spanish-born couturier, who died in 1972.

Demna, who started in fashion by building street-smart, unadorned clothes, deliberately named just Vetements (the French word for clothing), has turned towards the grandeur of the original designs that are part of the Balenciaga legacy.

“I thought 100 years was a good reason to make couture available again,” said Demna backstage. “We're not going to do a couture line or show during couture, but these pieces will be made to order – basically for people who want to buy a couture dress from Balenciaga.”

The grand offerings – the polka dot dress with bustle back, the layers of dark pink taffeta, and a slim black gown, all with large back bows, were not the only historic links. The show opened with tailored coats which were worn with a drape over the left shoulder, reminiscent of the way that the models of an earlier era would walk with their heads up, shoulders rounded and stomachs sunk in.

“I studied how the pieces are worn and I found these images from old mood boards of Cristóbal where women are standing with their coats like this,” the designer explained. “The idea was to bring this kind of elegance, the gesture of wearing those pieces, but take it into a kind of cool and make it more modern. You can also wear it in a normal way, but it is constructed so that one part is larger and then you can also pin it up. And this is what you see basically in all these books.”

Demna's way of rethinking with his brain what he had seen with his eyes is exceptional – and the reason why he seems able to update the house as if he were growing new shoots from existing roots.

The arrival of vivid colour signalled a change of pace, as every figure stood out in the farthest reach of the enormous sports stadium. The hosiery especially perhaps, in grass green, and cut-away waistcoats like harnesses in pastel colours, took the image of Balenciaga back to the early days of Nicolas Ghesquière and his futuristic period at the house.

Demna is also drawn by the flowers that were a part of the Cristóbal Balenciaga look; by showing a patterned skirt with big, bold, brightly coloured sweaters, he gave print a modern feel.

The show was not perfect. Mini dresses in the floral patterns and bright hose looked out of place. But the overall effect was precise but theatrical, with the couture creating a dramatic ending.

Choosing Demna may have been a gamble by François-Henri Pinault, CEO of Kering, the luxury group that owns Balenciaga. But the designer has turned out to be able to answer fashion's most difficult challenge: finding the balance between old and new, tipped towards the future.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses
Icarus M May 2013
I am a pretender.

Looking through a window that is slightly open,
so that a breeze winds in
with gathered memories
of subliminal pain.

And I'm lost
partially wandering on a plot of unknown sand.
With the sun no longer reflecting,
refraction.
A reddening burn
and a quickened pulse
aching *****
and held breath.
I know where I am.

I am a fake.
But I cannot go through with it.
If I do not in the "real,"
why lie online?
Why hide myself
and view myself
criticize myself in comments with names that aren't mine,
not even who I want to be?

Why do I ignore myself,
and let fade into lingo.

Because I am human
and I don't want you to know me.
Even when I want you to feel,
I want you to share this moment with me.
And that is why
I post these
discombobulating pieces of no reckoning,
non-entertaing, ultimate **** "poems."
Because I want you to understand this
                                                                        me
in this instant.
I don't like to reread. I don't like to rewrite. I like to keep it pure, so I can go back and look at who I was and what I wrote.
Sean Pobeda Jul 2016
Discombobulating eerie day  
left me asking on some matter.  
Like how the unreachable sky is so gray  
even if the day is really a flatter.  
  
Far-stretched lines I drew  
in a fine piece of silky flat.  
I smell the essence of tingling blue  
creeping on the edges where I sat.  
  
Far-flung hopes he seek  
with different approach and time.  
Ended well in a mountain peak  
gushing he came to be, he waited to climb.  
  
Discombobulating ambiance  
in the room somehow disturbs.  
Prepares the writer into dalliance  
so he forgotten all the verbs.
Ignatius Hosiana Mar 2016
Last night was hard for everyone, for all of us
The moon noticed your obvious absence and lit bright trying to trace you from every corner of  the universe
the stars were sad and they tried so hard to blink back their tears
even the nimbus clouds detected the heartbreaking melancholy
and tried to blanket them from the chilling cold of solitude
but the twinkling stars still struggled to peep through
the blanket cast between them and your absence
like little children afraid of the dark until the clouds gave up
for even they ,no matter how strong they pretended to be
the weight of despondence got the better of them
and they subsequently expressed their pain in burdened tears of rain
the roof tried to hold the tears from my unconscious sight
but my ears sadly caught the pattering sobs
darkness whispered some advise but my ears were too sad to hear
and my brain numbed by the scintillating thoughts about you
I tried to kick out the emptiness through listening to the radio
but my fingers were too frozen and weak to turn the ****
so I gave up and just sat quietly inside the net listening to a silence
whose eloquence was labyrinthine and discombobulating
because weaved within mosquitoes did their best to sing me a lullaby
but in anger I violently swatted as many and as many did die
it still was hell hot with my limpid Heart ice cold
yet I still hoped against all odds you would appear
I waited for you like Santa waiting for Christmas,
like anxious Jews waiting for the coming Messiah,
like the Mediterranean sea patiently waits for waters of the Nile,
like a Groom waits for his Bride as she walks across the isle,
I waited for you like a lass waiting for a Telenovela...
or a staunch catholic waiting for a positive eventuality to his Novena,
I waited like the minute hand waits for the second hand of the clock
like the dull pulse of the heart waits to happen after the loud one...
I waited for you like an insomniac waiting for sleep,
sadly sleep never came... so I gave up to wait for the next day
like the invisible sun through a night knowing in the dawn my voice
might reach you like beautiful rays and whisper
to the far that is near how I wish you were here
in a message right into your small pretty ears
I missed you like a baby misses its mother,desperately and in tears
black crushed pupil tipping at its
  peak with a mild sheen
  discombobulating words
  to their own contained madnesses
  putting an apostrophe
  on everything
  it lays sight on

  a salvage of disrupted vision
  wrings true wind blowing through
  the white steel of dangerous contraption
  in the hand and takes to leaping
  of faith, a restless voyage:

  a volute image lightheaded
  still with the passing to and from—
  nomadic breath still splendidly
  penetrating through all sound
   and silence and words
    like fire wily without intent,
      the moon. only there. without a name.
Azariah Feb 2021
I think I write best when my heart is physically sound and emotionally unreceptive.

That's when my heart usually drifts, carried by winds of anger,
anxiousness,
bitterness,
callousness,
And more discombobulating feelings like emptiness.

...it drifts until it lands on the zenith of either apathy or peace.

And I write.
How does a 22 year old handle unwanted emotions?

Poetry🖤😊🖤
Lisa Mendoza Sep 2016
it wasn't writer's block, i decided,
not even my lack of ideas can
steer me away from producing
something, anything
my skill to make sense
of everything through written texts
that even the most discombobulating
thoughts and emotions and anxiety
has almost never failed to be presented
out for me, like my fingers
have their minds of their own

and i'm terrified that if i write
it'll make it jarringly clear
that what i felt
three years ago
are resurfacing again,
just when I finally thought I'm okay

but my god,
my fingers
just can't stop writing
--L.m., i may be a fiction
writer but my poetries do not lie
Jessie Schwartz Feb 2018
Journey…by Jessie 11/05

Entangled emotions, ball of string
End, connected to the beginning
Knots throughout
Super highway of events; create the maze of discombobulating
Weaving in and out of it’s self; until there is no trace of either end
One day I will attempt to unravel this sphere of confusion
This mass of braded calamities and happenstances  
Then I will lay the line with all of its imperfections and knotted recollections
Straight and true as any crimp line can look
Attempting to move forward… I walk the line back
One step at a time
Two steps in
I look at the line
My eyes follow the thin strand as it leads away
Sharpen clarity no more as it fades into the distance
Paralyzed to move
Fearful of what transgressions may be found
Quickened pulse, courage summoned
One more step to truth
One more step to reconciliation
One more step to peace
Hardest journey taken
Deep within one’s self
Recoiled line, remembers shape
Journey never done
Eliot Winkler Apr 2015
Working I hear,
"If I knew then, what I know now"
Women were talking near.

I continued to work,
Thought 'wow'
What if I did know more in the past.
Surely I wouldn't ever fall last.

But the last place offers the most room to grow,
Would life be so much better in 1st place?
I know 'no'.

The compromise of pain and gain,
The character growth of which my Dad so highly spoke,
And for the longest time I thought a joke.

A joke it was not.

A lady said something that caught my ear,
Made me wonder if I'd be better off here, or in a past with what I know currently,
And to answer this question accordingly I wish for so fervently.

My answer to such a discombobulating query was this.
This not as a solution, but an explored response.

I answer not today, nor tomorrow,
But yesterday my answer shall lay,
And if that makes sense not, then hey,
Ask me on a yesterday when I already know for today.
Marie Dec 2020
"Are you sure, my QUEEN, that you want to leave your throne?
Enter the prism of your mother's womb;
Raise your familial ghosts from their tomb;
Absorb their burden, make it your blood;
Risk Drowning in the waters of their emotional flood;
And incarnate as fragile flesh and bone.

Are you sure that is truly what you want, my QUEEN?
You will be wrapped in many layers of confusion....
Discombobulating illusion.

Your family will deny that which you speak,
To the point you begin to think
You do not know
That which you know;
They will poison you with the venom of condition;
Wrap you in a web of perdition;
Place upon you a veil as if it a mink;
And confine you to a future outlook that is bleak.

They will attempt to bring you to their level;
Break you to release your inner devil;
Pierce your armored mettle;
So with them you will settle;
And remain in the torture temple.

They will attempt to take you out by your knees;
Split your psyche in six degrees;
Cause you pain so overwhelmingly monstrous,
That your soul will twists in relentless...
Disastrous....
Chaos;
And disregard in disdain your mercy pleas,
As they do what they please.

You will engage in internal battle;
Cast upon yourself a dark night of your soul,
Where for yourself you be neither friend nor foe;
But instead consume yourself as if you are a jackal
Devouring a herd of cattle.

Are you sure you want to enter the prism of your mother's womb;
Live within the confines of your mother's ancestral house;
Where you will be sold as a slave to a man addressed as spouse;
And be considered to have value less than that of a mouse?

Are you sure you want to do this and risk losing yourself?"

Having heard enough of the gatekeeper's incessant rant;
The queen rose up from her throne, walked up to mirror;
Confidently adjusted it's unappealing slant
As if she nothing to fear;
Glanced her reflection dead in the eye;
And spoke in a tone the gatekeeper could not deny.

"Step aside gatekeeper,
You are merely my own reflection
Playing a recording from my fear collection,
Meant to cause me anxiety in distraction
And keep me in my place.

My mother's prism
Is no different than the mind prison
I currently face.
It is not of my benefit to participate in denials race.

I cannot avoid that which made me.
I cannot avoid being like she;
For she is within me as me;
and so is everything in the projection I see.

There is no one to fear but me,
For I am the only monster that can annihilate that which I be.

To truly heal my spirit
I must allow myself to see the wound of my fragile bone,
Under the roof of my ancestral home,
So I may within myself alter it's tortured tone
From one of a fleeing, to one of a freeing lyric.

If I do not risk losing myself, to save myself,
Then I have already lost myself.

Now step aside gatekeeper and let me cross the gate,
Before it is to late.

Let me cross the gate before self-annihilation be my fate."
--Marie Moldovan  ©️ 2020
Antonyme Apr 2018
Sitting, watching, waiting,
the waves roll by
But a haze in the sky,
bags like jellyfish, patches like whales,
accumulating, discombobulating,
But a haze in the sky,
choking, killing,
maiming the sea,
slaughtering by the dozens,
But a haze in the sky,
simple to do,
hard to fix,
but a mere crew
could do the tricks,
But a haze in the sky,
Something, I fear,
could **** the earth,
the tumbling mirth,
and all that is here,
Something, I fear,

Alas,
But a haze in the sky
#earthday #care #save
multi sumus Jul 2022
im so tired of reading bad poetry worn out cliches with rhymes that doesnt remotely match meters that just drop off out of nowhere leaving you wondering why it was written at all the me me me i i i you dont understand what ive been through as if Your the only one who has had trauma themes that do Not make A lick of sense whatsoever or the ones where how many times can you say the same **** thing over and over and over again its just too long then there's the hole misspelling of words where the Writer is either to frikken lazy to proof read or just trying to be and and i use this word loosely creative poor grammar with no punctuation or capitalisation leaving you out to figure what the hell is actually meant and let us not forget the egregious use of big words discombobulating the reader in an inefficacious attempt to impress and by the way shakespeare is dead so the thee thus thou shant be missed there are a few presumed outcomes of you reading this either a comment below detailing your egotistical outrage of what has been written with what i am sure is to be a riveting display of your distain with private conversations with others on the pompous *** who wrote it and how you gave him a piece of your mind and in what manner you told him or a passive aggressive poem written in a not so discreet manner in which you will feel better about yourself but all the while thinking you should have said more then there is the ones that in their im not like that attitude will refrain from any discussion on the matter so as to prove a point as what has been said will stick in their craw for quite some time for those who have continued reading i would like to thank you for your time and let it be known that this piece has been penned deliberately so as the aforementioned statements concerning poetry are actually in fact observations of my own written works as many of you know as writers we are our own worse critics and with that being said if a poem is to incite emotions then i do believe it has done just that
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
the bane worse than death
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder
and aggravated, jump/kickstarted, triggered...,
when body electric
of mine experiences duress.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arm's length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG  Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arms' length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.
primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arms' length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.
i, havE..sOme diffiCulty
with senten-
ce
structure an"d./
pUNCtuation*""!
Thrutched up with
LanGuage////>
whIcH iS mos''t
DiscombobulatinG?<
And also
quitE
KerfufFling!!!"
          Especially
When my Words
fallllll......
D
O
W
N
into;;;;;"'
            b i t s and!
p i e c e     s'
This is when i know no nows
And no longer know
What the onus is with nous
Crag swaggering on the rocks
With my words
Abseiling
Into mountainous
Momentous
Moments!

by Jemia
I dream of wandering
Grab me by the mind
Dream of my body and imprint my soul
Apart from the lingering flickering light
Of the moonlit sonatas and sunny winters, among chartreuse ruins
Pale as the moonlight and deafening thunder-like overtures of Beethoven's oeuvre
I dearly love your indecision about the disease and minor achievements
Minor and major Fortuna, and capricious discombobulating spirits of the wild, that I can affix
My mind on the twinkling stars and flickering lights
A thousand lives later, I might remember looking down on yonder

— The End —