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Isobel G Jan 2011
The night,
So black and long,
When sleep decends,
I do not indulge,
In the luxury of dreams,
I merely collapse,
Into unconciousness,
Waking with heavy lids,
No sense of time,
And dreamlessness
©Nicola-Isobel H.      25.01.2011
Mary Ann Osgood Jul 2010
not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.
Kassiani Apr 2011
I see the side of morning
That mere mortals leave alone

Unlike them
I never find myself wrapped safely in a dream
My face covered in silken strands of subconscious
Safe from shining stars
Instead
I’m wide-eyed and wide awake
My mind dancing with the kind of energy
That first set the Earth into orbit
It’s thrilling
And maddening
But mostly exhausting
1 am tugs on the consciousness like an eager puppy
And a sleepless mind doesn’t have the strength
To stay put
So it scatters
Sets itself adrift in swirling darkness
To relive all the memories sparked to life by starlight

Tonight is particularly maddening
For you keep running my thoughts aground
My poor brain keeps bumping into you and faltering
So I can’t help but feel
That your absence is more conspicuous than I’d like to admit
Silly boy
You’ve gone and made me fall too fast
But your desire to keep me didn’t spike at the same rate
Our slopes are all off
Yours a gentle incline
And mine slippery steep like the dreamlessness that traps me
I can’t help but wonder
Why you swathed me in soft kisses to keep me safe from shining stars
If you didn’t mean to see the night through

2 am has a Siren’s song
Seducing my sleepless self
And the rare nights I manage to plug my ears
I dream of dragons
I dream of kings and queens and knights of old
Of chivalrous swords wielded for a lady’s honor
Here
My fears breathe fire
And are cut down by Sir Knight’s steel
It’s a welcome change from my own daily jousting
To have someone notice my tired helplessness
And come to the rescue

I’ve found that’s all I need
Just a little rescuing
For the morning always seems so much softer
When cushioned by a warm body
A knight to close my eyes against the darkness
When my past is breathing fire in my ear
You had seemed so earnest when you whispered
Please tell me you don’t want me to leave
So when I let you stay
Was I a fool to think you were more than just shell-shocked?

In truth
I only have myself to blame
For if I had no expectations
I would never be disappointed
I know that the moon can be dazzling
Especially when reflected off a glittering girl
So I’m sorry if I got sparkles in your eyes
You have to understand
One cannot dote upon the night sky
Without gaining a layer of stardust
I can see how you might have mistaken me for some
Ethereal creature
Some glimmering goddess of old
And so perhaps your absence means you realized
That I’m just another Earthly human with bags under her eyes
Or perhaps it’s so much simpler
And you just got tired of the shine
Either way
It’s 3 in the morning
Sir Knight is nowhere to be found
And I am disappointed
Written 4/2/11
Onoma Jun 2018
an unmade bed

captures an out of body

experience.

the marbled habit of

Bernini's: The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa of Avila.

whether in a lover's arms, ones own arms--

are the arms of sleep...held by the only Lover.

pillow case, bed sheet and blanket...

crease an inescapable faith--where you

for all the world, and all the world for you...

disappear.

faster than peopled dreams, losing their mark

and place...off they-you go in dreamlessness.

therefrom to rise at your fixed height, warm in

the cold light of day--looking down at an unmade

bed.

parallel and perpendicular rungs stripped

clean with a stretch.
Ghazal Apr 2019
A tiny bundle covered in teddy-printed pyjamas,
He fidgets restlessly on the panel of the giant machine,
Preparing him for the scan is my most basic task of the day
Yet the most annoying one, because I cannot get away
Till he is asleep enough to not be afraid
Of entering into the mouth of that daunting cave,
Treating a child is so very difficult I feel,
No matter how detached you try to be and see
him as a "case", how do you neglect the truth that,
A being not abled enough to even climb out of the cradle,
Has to parent a disease that gnaws at him day after day?
I shake off such aberrant emotions and join his coaxing mother,
I know what she would really wish for at the moment would be,
To scoop him into her arms and lull him off to sleep,
But she has to be the rock she never wanted to be,
The baby had moved the last time, this one has to be error-free
So, allowed by her to take his cannulated hand in my gloved one,
I give the magic drug a carefully measured plunge
Into veins that are too little to bear such brunt,
Yet have been forced to endure this pain that can never be considered
Fair!
We two women watch over him, transfixed,
Noting his every sigh, his every twitch-
The Mother, anxious, cupping his now limp hands only with
The embrace of her eyes,
And I, the Doctor, though following my medical instinct, watching for
His breaths, with each chest rise,
Also find myself enchanted by the mysterious state this child is in,
Is it a state of dreaminess? Or of dreamlessness?
Is he floating into a dark endless sky? Or is he navigating between
Silver-illuminated stars?
What is the meaning of the half smile on his face?
Is he envisioning a world where he is happy,
Sans needles making insensitive designs into his vulnerable skin,
Sans masked doctors promising they wouldn't make him cry,
Sans missed school days and birthday parties,
Sans heated fevers creeping into his bones each night?
Minutes pass and we are broken out of our respective reveries
His fingers have started to weakly trace the red beams of light,
His voice has begun to coo indistinct chatter still unshaped by civilisation,
Its tone and urgency getting louder and surer,
And before he begins to frantically search for his caregiver,
A little more magic will be needed before completion.
I re-enter the glass cabin and inject again into his system,
A last few moments of painlessness and oblivion,
The gaze becomes dazed again, the smile reappears,
His mind comfortably wanders back
Into a calm nothingness and silent, numbed peace.
"The scan has concluded without event", I make a file note,
While the images on the screen begin to light up with disease.
Isobel G Feb 2011
I wake from emptiness,
Another day awaiting,
Pulling me from dreamlessness,
But this is not,
Just another day,
It it the day,
The one where the phone,
Screams from the wall,
And the voice,
Over the humming of static,
Whispers the words,
I've dreaded for so long,
It is that phone call,
It is that day,
That I wake to,
The day when existence,
Is aimless,
And tears accompany,
The morning rain,
Full of sorrow and regret,
All the while,
Hopelessness comsumes me,
As I think of all the words,
I never said,
And pray,
That the cruel sun,
Will have the decency,
To remain hidden,
Behind the clouds
©Nicola-Isobel H.      05.02.2011
The ship docked on the small jetty by a beach of white sand
lining the front of a jungle full of horrid noises and every shade of green.
There were a few huts that had been constructed by the natives
in anticipation of our arrival in this hot new land.
We were informed by the ship’s captain that they had been paid
with small gold coins that they would likely trade with other natives
for exotic fruits and sharper weapons and a few weeks’ peace.

The first night was a struggle, the air was as stifling during the day
and I don’t think any one of us managed much sleep.
The morning came as cold comfort as the sun blazed unobstructed,
beating relentlessly on our heads, feeling much closer than it did back home.
Gloria Noone, a middle-aged woman who had boarded in Cork,
had a look of perpetual fear on her face, the look of someone
who had experienced nothing but ultimate terror during the night,
and I had assumed it was just because of a lack of sleep,
but she soon informed us of something far more sinister than dreamlessness.

After a couple of hours of nocturnal turnings and curses,
she left her hut during the night and walked along the beach,
away from the jetty and out of our makeshift village.
Not long out of the village, she had the unnerving sense of being watched
and expecting to see a native by the jungle’s edge
she looked towards the mass of trees and saw horror.
An unearthly creature stared back at her, she told us.
All black fur glinting in the moonlight, teeth as large as great knives.
She swears it spoke to her, in English, repeating her name
with a deep, gruff voice that seemed to come from the whole jungle.
She ran back to her hut, silently, terror paralysing her voice.

Gloria stayed in another hut owned by a couple who had an extra bed
due to their only child dying of disease just before we set sail.
I could not sleep, as I assumed correctly that others could not either
because when I left my hut in the night, others were on the beach.
A man called Ivor, a giant from Cardiff, called me over
and said that he and a couple of others would walk down the beach
to where Gloria had spotted the creature and they would wait for it.
He invited me and I agreed, four of us leaving the village behind.
Ivor, Daniel the ship’s captain, Robert, a forester from York and myself,
a former teacher from a small village not far from Edinburgh,
sat down on the sand in silence waiting for horror to arrive.

We did not have to wait long in that tropical heat for terror to invade our hearts.
We heard the growling of a jagged throat and snapping branches,
all turning our heads in unison as two blazing orange eyes scanned us,
a tongue licking its nose and an almost human smile spread across its face.
Hello, it said.
Lovely night, it said.
I am hungry, it said.
Ivor, it said.

We jumped to our feet and ran as fast as we could,
screaming for everyone to get on the ship, and hurry.
I could hear the muffled steps of the beast behind me
and although I could not see it clearly when I glanced back,
I could make out just how massive the creature was.
Its shoulders were at least as high as a thoroughbred’s
but it was built like a massive cat, like a panther I had seen in a zoo.
It laughed and kept repeating Ivor’s name, putting in little effort
in keeping up with us, toying with us as cats toy with mice.
I could make out the others in the village running for the ship,
and as they reached the gangway that entered below deck,
Ivor screamed an awful scream as the creature brought him down.

The three of us stopped and turned, unsure what to do.
Ivor had already gone limp as the creature crushed his skull
and bit through his spinal cord, launching the top half and his head
into the air as the creature turned his attention to Ivor’s legs.
He chewed the meat ravenously, occasionally looking up at us,
standing completely still, mesmerised and horrified at the spectacle.
Run, it said.
Run, they said behind us.
We ran.

As we reached the ship, the captain unwound the ropes from the bollards
as the rest of us ran into the ship, grabbing the gangway,
ready to slide it back in as soon as the captain was on board.
He came running in, shouting at us slide the gangway in
as he continued up to the deck towards the whipstaff.
The hatch closed, we all went to where the captain was
but I left the group to keep an eye on the creature.
It was standing on the jetty, next to the hatch,
the top of its head so close to the railing I was leaning against.
It looked up at me and the smile returned to its face,
the blood of the Welshman smeared over his huge teeth.
No wind, it said.
I am hungry, it said.

I turned to face the captain and the rest of the group,
tears rolling down my cheeks as they creature jumped over my head
and ravaged the rest of my friends and villagers.
Legs and fingers and heads and arms and bones and meat.
All over the deck.
All over the deck.
All over the deck.
The creature stared at me, smiled.
Run, it said.
I am hungry, it said.
Richard Smith Jul 2021
Will the soft dark take me
To slumber so sweet
The oblivion of dreamlessness
Wonderment of sleep
A dream so close to take me
From my painful daily world
And wrap my mind in velvet
Till the dawn reclaims it’s hold
Mindlessness empty me
into the environment.
What is this heaven
where I rest easy?

Unconsciousness dissolve him
into a solution. Were he to bathe
in delta waves then perhaps
we would be cleansed.

Dreamlessness obscure us,
Our mind is hidden
from the 'I'; how
does self cease?

Emergence, order
from chaos, resumption
of the gestalt. Why do I continue
as a process that runs wild when I am lost

to those enthalpic thoughts.
Though part of me remains
connected to the Entheon
as the rest of my being
drifts off

-禪

Searching for a quantum of metaphysics
(i.e. what constitutes an act of cognition)
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
i sat hunched like a crow...
await the usual cue...
a star burst into life,
          then shrunk
to something akin to being
part of a constellation,
and moved...
across the sky...

i was walking from one
supermarket to
the other,
drinking a cider...
a black couple were
about
to pass me,
    i intentionally
moved
across the pavement
to ease their passing...
smoking a cigarette...

i was coming back
from another
supermarket
with the whiskey in tow...
about to pass
two... giblets worth
of people...
namely...
two, short, white,
lesbian, lovers...
one was moving
her lover: arm in arm...
to almost make
an impasse of my
hermitic route
past them...

oh i believe
in the nomadic people...
like i believe in
the hermitic people...

purposively...
to claim attention
worth of macht...
i just about missed
having to be shoved
into...
  what could have been...
a perfectly calm
night inquiry of:
the volume of traffic
for pedestrians in
the cool crisp night...

i wasn't slighted,
i was, more akin to:
'*****, please don't
make this difficult...'
  i wasn't slighted
like dostoyevsky (wow...
i can spell that surname
drunk, just imagine)...
when he wrote his:
notes from
          the underground...

i've just seen a star explode
into life,
then dim itself
to a star worthy of
a constellation,
and move, i mean move
across the sky...

          back on earth:
a black couple can understand
that what rules
obliges me to drive
a car on roads,
also applies...
for the common courtesy
of having to share a pavement...

giblet twin-*******
lesian-lovers from hell?
no... the "thing"
just passes them...
        i did shy my right
shoulder from making contact...
but... come on...
    
so i drank the third cider
while taking a ****
and reading a book...
   clearly...
  for some the bureaucratic figures...
highest authority emblems
as described with
such... benevolence as...
those, described by krasznahorkai...
i once made a shelf
become bound to the existece
of three clocks...
stacked...
one didn't work:
keeping the pernament hour,
while the two were out-of-sync.,

trouble is... once perched
on my windowsill...
listening to speak...
youtube videos...

       i have to though...
i have to listen to these:
bland day-robbers...
   work... yeah...
and if i was to be paid reading
some hungarian novel
from 1985...
rather than regurgitating
internet spew & news...
imagine!

        - but i have to...
perched on the windowsill...
finally the wintry air hits
me...
with a ***** of eager buds
waiting to sprout on trees...
magnolias...
             pear tree blossom on
the eastern avenue (A12)...
   the flower prior to the fruit...
many a cold winter night
i have walked...
clipping off the pear tree
blossom...
   one night white flowers...
another night plush
   cosmopolitan pink...

but i hate the pedantry of
that certain class of people
who can't understand
pedestrian traffic...
whatever their liberation
gave them,
they have to convene themselves
to gloat...
  how much of an obstruction
is a man drinking a cider,
at past 10pm
   walking in the opposite
direction?

               just petty instances
of the most trivial farce...

so i position myself on
my foot, one dangling,
on the windowsill...
drinking...
                 listening to these
youtube videos
thinking
   (at what will i speak?) -
comment?
    none...
         and then it hits me...
ah...
           harmony...
the unison...
something resembling
being synchronised...
   the void that is my thought
feeds from
the rigorous agitation
of... made music...

and then...
it comes...
              something as
basic, but thrice as fundamental...
akin to rotting christ's
זה נגמר

                    i close my eyes
and begin...
   the nodding mantra
of the 3rd tier of silence...
not the 1st tier
of not speaking...
not the 2nd tier of thinking...
but the third tier...
of...
                    being absent:
yet... im-zeit-und-raum-intakt...
or... simply...
not thinking...
             accompanied
by a reduced empirical awareness...
eyes shut,
   ears blocked by the pulverising
sound of music...
        tip-toeing
on a wish for frost...
             itching to feel
the burrowing night
   ease me tonight from
dreamlessness...
            reduced to saying...

of man, my former...
he could conjure a mythology
with the quiz-snap
flick of the finger...
        what ancient man was,
and gave, via the membrane
of mythology...
     modern, man, kin...
       is as easy to conjure
a polytheistic venture into
pathology, as the ancient man
did into the realm of mythology...

gradations of melancholy,
or the sense of humor,
with a wasp's take on
the biting tongue turned agitated
sting...

to have to break from
feeling,
yet unable to think of
all the Taj Mahal constructs
of thought, conclusively,
into & preserving action...

          to have felt,
honestly...
   and not have to hide behind...
these thought-out-constructs
of logic...
      to think via a quasi-plagiarism...
if i were to shackle
myself to the irrational heart,
and feel, me!
   i would do so...
and thrice learn to curb
my tongue from uttering itself
louder than
than medley of an oyster
towing a heart...
                
           i wouldn't want...
to be dictated not feeling...
   and being reducted to
regurgitating...
                   a plagiarism...
or some... auxiliary argument...

but it is february,
and the nights are cold...
but only in these nights
can you take a walk,
and see such sights...
of pear trees in blossom...
or of magnolias...
like church bears
and uvulas became fused
together...
          
            and the congregation...
forgot to whisper...
instead... astouded everyone
with choir practice...
   unless of course...
you have ever heard
the recitation of the creed
in a catholic church,
and thought it, being unlikely,
to have the comparison...
of a mumbling satanic
cult...

                   can i do away with
prayer...
and merely think of "him"?
  i'm not going to provide
answers for a pronoun juggle...
i've left school,
and in school...
none of us were taught grammar,
to leave school,
and be forced an education
in grammar?
        a bit... beside the point:
would you say?

           perhaps "he" is the infantile
leasure activity of morons...
but... you see...
    nothing is...  
      a gargantuan glutton...
         nothing doesn't exist
in nature...
  even the vacuum that allows
for the motion of the planets
is brimming with anti-matter
discoveries...
            there is: no-thing...
only nothing,
   in a conversational passing...
casually...
                    almost unintentional...

what sort of "god" is an impasse
if "he" only occupies my thinking?
no... no mumbling prayer,
credo,
    or a crescendo of orthodoxy,
litany...
              a whisper...
                      like:
thinking - with a surprise at the end
of whatever thinking ever
solved...
              
    how much is it a delusion...
to simply think of "him"?
   and not having to compensate
that idea with prayer?
        oh... but i can think of nothing:
i just stop thinking...
since i am being pulverised
by "things"...
  primarily nouns,
   then atoms...
      and then...
               a plethora of:
         at what point am i to attach
myself to these, "depths"
of utility, for the service of,
                                         tongue?

winter, though:
   in the nights...
magnolias
and pear tree blossoms.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
perhaps i was looking for the over-man:
a man that could be a way to overcome man:
per se...
forever the riddle...
impossible feat... esp. when nihilism was
stressed as something to overpower...
i don't have a problem with nihilism...
i can make a visit to the brothel on moral
grounds...
well... between the 3Ps...
priests, psychiatrists and prostitutes...
with the latter i can stretch an hour's worth
into... a dry period of... years...
i'm not bothered about nihilism...
something "new" came up...
                     fatalism... fatalism:
i will be married to death... however i like it...
my "concern" began with:
the limited number of living souls...
moving in between a zombie horde of flesh...
now... a lamb madras makes sense...
a chicken korma makes sense...
the Hindus have yet to attract me with their
reincarnation... monstrosity...
parasite souls looking for dead-end
zombie cull of hosts...
perhaps i had enough of body to compete
at something worthy of exercising my body
to its full potential...
i tried exercising my mind by studying
chemistry... that didn't go so well:
when i hit the rock bottom in the branch
of physical chemistry...
if you... took me to an only organic chemistry
corner...
some people still believe i could have
been a decent police office... a detective even...
because of my photographic memory...
me... and the police?
oh... i'd just love to... fill in the shoes
of Sherlock Holmes...
but now...
               right here: now... jetzt! hier!
me and my mediocre... counter paragraph
bundles of: anti-lyricism...
                  why the letztemennsch?
the "last man"?
                a common saying among people
who have yet to or have
suffered a minor injustice:
the usual excuse is: and it can be heard
publically: but it's the 21st century!
no one... expected the misgivings of the past
centuries to be... persistent in this one?
well... so much for looking back
for nostalgia...
so much for looking forward...
oh sure... i look forward: i'm only certain
of one obligation: that i am to wed death...
or if not death: meet her plough of giving birth
to absences: of shadow banquet to be eaten:
eaten later regurgitated...
i'll drink a bottle of Argentinian red in
the form of a kalimotxo...
and it'll feed me: feelings of being in the ownership
of a spine... and two legs to stand on...
enough for lulu- the lullaby before
i plunge into the abyss of dreamlessness...
when... in the vicinity: people are woken
by my agonies in my deepest of the deep of sleep...
a bit like bemoaning the fate of
Germany... when... the people are so well
entertained by the football team...
it's almost impossible...
to pity a resurrected Germany...
it's easy to brush aside a resurrected Russia:
somehow... pit them against the evil genius
that... they probably are...
would do the "job" at half the price:
simply for the exaltation of self in
the undertaking of... said "job"...
everything in the west becomes... overpriced...
brain-drained...
but of course... a celebration of an Afghan refugee's
success story... you only later learn that...
he only became a... radiologist...
i am: die... der... i never know which
definite article the german would use...
letztemench...
but at the same time... i'm not somehow last...
idle talk of alpha males and beta-orbiters
taught me something...
i don't want to be either...
however much i don't like his cannibalistic
metaphors i'll agree:
if he can be the alpha & the omega...
well... i'll be last...
i'll watch the dolphins... pretend to watch
dolphins... i'll most certainly watch the crab-bucket...
a mound of ants...
i once watched how a dobberman of mine
bit into a ****... a **** that was filled
with crawling parasitic worms...
i smacked the dog in the snout before he
had a chance to swallow what he chewed off...
yes... i hit my dog: right on the snout...
but then as any eager child...
i inquired into this...
**** filled with wriggling worms...
i was... sickened with a fascination...
like now, i am...
concerning: not concerning...
the idea of reincarnation...
         limited number of living souls...
while all this harvest of zombie flesh....
i am the last man because:
i find no inspiration in the eastern thought...
i find nothing worth of clue
to succumb to given...
Buddhism or Zen or Tao...
or Hinduism...
although...
         there's a big although...
                 King Sejong is no myth...
around the year 1443... he invented: "invented"
the Korean script... he's no myth...
enough time passes and the credentials of a story
become... foggy... did Romulus reinvented Greek
into Greek?
concerning the scales of temporal concerns
within what's written and in what guise:
history takes into account year, decades... centuries...
journalism... takes into account days...
hours... at best weeks...
poetry? takes into account...
what best can survive: the longest...
a day here: a day there...
the terrible truth of not lying...
then again:
             the terrible lie is that of telling the truth...
a thing so mundane so obvious...
i am the last-man... but i'm not the last-man...
i'm the last to see how well the understudy point
of overcoming-man has come
to fruition...
but unlike a focus on man having to struggle
with nihilism: with the condemnation of existence...
fatalism... the "argument" follows:
well... i'm here (already): might as well get
something "done": since what i'd like to "be"
will never become truly available...
nor if it was: this writing wouldn't be either...
given the position of having achieved
such a lot that: writing this would be...
laughable... but since i'm writing this little scribble
over 'ere... well...
an hour's worth in a brothel with
a *******... can extend into years of not
wanting more of the corporeal feeding glut &
suckling mouth...
no more than... 10 hours with a priest
or... 1 hour per week with a psychiatrist might solve:
if i just talk: but never touch the tender parts
of the: being spoken to... ember of body,
eyes, tongue...
this is all mediocre:
one thing that self-deprecating humour
was taught me is that: the best is the waiting...
which is... something of a surprise...
but better to undermine yourself: your esteem...
than... create a falsehood associated with it...
while i condone self-help gurus
and all that jungle of motivational speak...
listening to too much of it: no wonder i too have
succumbed to some of the honey-trickle
pomegranate juice squirting!
- the same reservations my mother had
after the aftermath of the Chernobyl "incident":
where i was left as the forced... only child...
have managed to translate themselves
into me questioning whether to have children
at all...
i'm still looking for a zenith of my libido
expression... 16+ years since...
wait... 18... 2 _ 10 + 5... 17 years since first
encountering my thirst chance
at a leech of a **** at that oyster cushioning
of... the one and only: uncircumcised phallus...
from a muddle of red wine mixed with
coca-cola to a sip to another sip
of... clarifying water...
god: the epitome of mediocre on my behalf!

charlie big potato says: no go
to ***** envy... match-up on beard envy...
then we're properly: proper: go-go...
but no yo-yo...
if **** and **** where all the rave
concerning similar scrutiny of a "forseeable
futures"...
then i'd be reading a newspaper: from
tomorrow...

alpha... malaise: too much responsibility...
added the fact that...
once you're richer: the ******* cost stacks
up higher...
it's no longer paying for an hour's worth
that can stretch for years..
it's... paying for student debt...
sugar-daddy-oh sighs...
beta-orbiters don't, pay,
for... ***... such pristine attitudes...
and... "honour":
honour implies having...
            being expected to do... or be...
i don't have honour because
i don't have... a reputation...
honour = reputation...

i'm a freefall:       ロニン
                               ろにん...

past the ideas to match-up to be borrowing
a crutch of an idea to stand on:
just give me the ways these people encoded...
how: there's an F to resound
within the confines of
surd-H... theta through to pi & phi...
      F... stands... menacingly... runic...

i can steal a kiss from a *******:
i can stretch an hour's worth with one:
to allow the fingers the fingers to speak...
the hands to touch...
to hell with speaking:
some... variation concerning the depth
of the original plight of animation...
to hell with Darwinism being: nothing
more than a conversational vogue:
hell... away with the Copernican revision:
if i need to read a map...
if i need to get from point A to point B...
the globe of earth travelling
in... the squashed encircling...

a "flat earth" will get me from point A to point B...
to hell with all that fudge, smoke and mirrors
of imagining myself:
the subjective-eyed presence of feet
on the moon... i will not be this... myth...
nor will you...
but i heard that some people
have had trouble when being guided-misguided
by their... satellite-guiding pin-pointers...

this day's worth didn't owe me as much
that became so little to rush forward and nonetheless
write...
that it came, nonetheless...
will forever be a welcome surprise...
this mediocre day, this Sunday...
i further my life...
with... the dream of speaking through
my fingertips once more...
for an hour's worth that might stretch me...
camel-******... satiated...
into half a decade's worth of...
fucklessness.
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2019
eternity as endless sleep
       no joys, no fears, no tears to weep
           dreamlessness, unconscious Deep ...


        but could there be a Quantum Leap?
Rachel Upton Oct 2020
Her voice like an echo the tolling of a bell ringing over and over. Every flaw and doubtful moment she drones on about. She echos your words alot but locked away behind my eyes you don't see the torture that comes from within. Most days I keep her quiet I can find something to bring a smile but when times are quiet or if times are hard she flares up to bounce the same words you throw at me tell I feel near nothing anymore my only wish to be gone. No more pain and torture from life no more rotting from the inside out. Then like a blanket covering me i pass into dreamlessness nothing but darkness as I shut down.

— The End —