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Nico Julleza Oct 2017
The grass was clear in the moist of the ruins moat
Twas dawn and all this hike, not even a city I could sight
The plains were sheer as the white satin coat I've seen

Clash, a clustering view from mountains down to hills
Shaking knees as I rise to pick up my bed of sheets
Then the breeze swept as I shivered to its grasping chills

Distant peeks; unbridled stallions are troubled free
The sunray spots the verge and brightens the darkest end
At lost in the moment, a nature's sage of imagery blends

A brown wren swiftly glides upon to rest at my tent
In the midst of the day like rain in June and blooms of May
Swans, Geese and white petals dancing to a bluish bay

Solitary to be, but with the rivers overflowing symphonies
We'd sing hymns to delight in an afternoon galore
A steadfast rhythm clinging as I walk with God alone

Euphoric army of billows cascading, a purple-orange scene
As I idle in the view of fields depicting a justful liberty
To smile and remember someone cared with all is please

Singing crickets and fireflies we're all a friend of mine
At eve I rolled endlessly, frolicking at the midnight meadow
Casting joys and crowns as the moon beams a silver line

To the hinterlands, life's a breeze and everybody twas at ease
An escapade I was wanting to get lost from life's reality
Meeting pauper's, gazing wonders, then we'd all fall asleep
#The #Hinterlands #God #Nature #Man

Sometimes I just wanna get lost in this place...

An Imagery of a New day cycling from Dawn, Mid-Day, Afternoon, Evening and Lastly Midnight..

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine)
for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.
Linkuya Nov 2017
Fifty seasons past, in times overgrown and abandoned,
Lived Hinterlands vast and wild, twice as unknown as fate,
Holding many mysteries both bewildering and unknown,
Lands wild, confusion and treachery all they would ever create.

A colony of spirits inhabiting the oak trees,
They would move in purpose and silence,
To and fro, the colony traveled as they pleased,
Killing under the moon, hands upraised in defiance.

The great wolf left loose,
He prowled through the land once again,
His mark found on every tree and every spruce,
Until a traveler sought the beast, and it was gracefully slain.

The sleeping foe was as tall as the night sky,
With every breath he would poison the air around him,
Thick stone-flesh covering his single ruby eye,
His foresight was still strong and true, tidings proved grim.

Hinterlands Folklore heard clearly and truthfully,
Untarnished by the seasons change, year after year,
Histories left both bizarre and beautifully,
Eloquently left in text, yet in history painfully austere.
Adam Apr 2020
To spring’s Rebirth we looked
For reprieve from Orange Men,
Black Mamba gone too soon,
And the grey skies of faded winter afternoons.

Instead of azaleas and cherry blossoms’ magical fraicheur,
And the societal balm of sport-
Greeted in the soft spring light by Pandemic’s frosted darkness
First in the East, did Calamity raise her call to war
But as Rome in Carthage’s destruction did Old Calamity head West
Yet again it was Italy to suffer and raise its alarm
The People were crushed by the vice of disease
But further did they fall through their own Vice
and ignorance of values dear and established Law’s precepts.
A return to communal Glory’s past, they tried-
Further did they wander into the Hinterlands of Humanity

Finally these diverse, united peoples
Began to trust
In the road to Lady Liberty
Through song that overpowered Isolation
Spring’s rebirth seemed possible
But Calamity’s thirst was not yet quenched
And to America’s shores did she travel -
With zeal and fervor for destruction

The gates were open to catastrophe
Indeed did we welcome fire and brimstone
Without the means of final Victory.

Much as we did talk, action came too slow.
Burning like the Bushlands
Fools continued drinking and gathering
***-like in belief
That what soothed in days of old  
Would throw Calamity over the Wall
But No.

Grace of seasons past existing only
In the Hinterlands of collective memory
Spring’s Rebirth would wait another year.
Like sport and summer’s breeze on outdoor cafés,
We hope she comes back soon,
With Lady Reason as a boon.
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
We crossed over
into the hinterlands,
burned trails
to unnamed  
watering holes,
those dingy places,
where we
lifted our hands
backwards,
tilted our heads upwards
to the gods
& drank copiously.

There was no law,
only disorder, but
nobody ever got in our way,
so we continued with impunity
to play wildly.

In altered states,
we mated
with unknown devils
who ****** us dry,
left us crying as
broken down dogs,
barking at the moon
& swearing oaths,
promises of silence,
what happens
south of the border,
stayed south of the border.
And it did.
Jonny Angel Jan 2014
After a hard days fight,
we were taken prisoner
by the grays.

It was way out in the hinterlands,
on the edge of tomorrow,
in the Battle of Sorrows
when they took us in.
Light was failing,
it was nearing night
when they brought us
in for interrogation.

Of course,
despite their methods,
we told them nothing,
nothing that would reveal anything
about the secret weapon,
the star-killer machine
that would be
the end of life
as we know it.

Besides, it's silly
to give the enemy
such valuable information,
information like that could turn the tide,
could destroy the whole universe,
make losers out of all of us.
I hope our side keeps it hidden.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.

just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
       das volk,
      and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
       volklich (communal)
und?
           völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
   see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
   i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
    the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
   by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
   and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
                 in an example,
   rather than in a counter example?
   two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
             is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
        bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
   that sometime
    pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
   but learn to hide it,
           feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
    an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
                   it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
    as the driving force to replace
doubt?
              who the hell sees doubt
these days?
    either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
           motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
   can't be anything more...
   than a.... ******* chore!
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...

While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...

You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?

worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...

so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity

Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect

these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)

the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough

je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*

Sept. 13, 2014
Thank you SALLY for reminding me of this long ago poem 6/21/18
Adam Childs Jun 2016
Not knowing where I am going
I am lost in an forgotten hinterland

I used to have such direction
But now I have absolutely none.

Wondering in this place
I am lost in Outer space

Surrounded by cloud
Like cotton wool

As all my lists
Dissolve into the mist

I look north, east ,south and west
No land marks valleys or peaks

As I sniff a little heather
And become as lite as a feather

Somewhere in my stomach
I feel an empty passage

But I take a gentle breath as
Something says nothing is urgent

I am cushioned by the cosiness
of the spongy undergrowth

As I Feel myself grow I delve
Into the peaty marshes bellow

Lost in this sleepy land
I can not help but enjoy

The forgotten Hinterland
Creepypumpkins Feb 2021
We are at the hinterlands of our emotions
We are at the hinterlands of winter
Spring is upon us
We are at the hinterlands of this pandemic
Let’s be hopeful
We are at the hinterlands I won year to the next one winter to spring
As we eat dinner We are at the hinterlands or another day
Matthew M Lydon Feb 2015
she stood outside the apartment
finger halfway up her nose
scratching with her free hand
a **** loosely encased
in patchy, ***** blue jeans
ratty sneakers with holes where
her toes and dignity poked through

usually a whiner, a brayer
a donkey among gently purring cats
calling down thunder and racket
like a motorcycle tearing circles through a lamp shop

today, of all days, she swayed

silently
in loose waltz time
to soft piano of a long-dead Frenchman
curling down from speakers
mounted in windows
across the street

her misshapen hips and flexing calf muscles
lifting her up in a rude en pointe
somehow made elegant
by a quiet ballad, a soothing moment
on a hot August morning
in Main Street
of the hinterlands.

2/12/2015
the marriage of people I know, and music I only think I know.
Rangzeb Hussain Jul 2010
VI

“Hearken, all ye there!”

Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis Seis

It began, as these things tend to do, with a quartz encrusted howl,
Lamenting under the crystalline shadows of Leda’s heartrending growl,
Her ravished moon bled and sank into the vocal cords of guilt coated cowards,
“Come back, come back! Oh, frivolous sanity thou art truly unjust, most unkind!”
Right here in this lonely place did my Darling dear spill devotion onto spiced dust,
She swayed on the rickety ridge surveying her sapphire kingdom’s splintered trust,
There it lay glittering, her city of cities, nothing now but a jeweled corpse.

V

“Know ye not of the oft-told tale of the drinking-well at World’s End?”

Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco Cinco

My Lady who did fire the lyre of Orpheus, she weeps there in the misty chilled cold,
Wild it is, all about her the night wind nibbles at the skin clothing her fractured soul,
Cacophonic waves of regret silently scurry to labyrinths entombed with truths bold,
“Come back, come back! Oh, to my tempestuous ***** hasten with thy canticles!”
The symphonic fingers of fog pluck a requiem upon her autumn flavoured hair,
My Queen is attired for her banquet at tables far beyond Persephone’s desolate tears,
On the precipice her figure rises for the final faithful leap into Styx’s stratosphere.

IV

“Behold now the dread eyes of Hades, see how they hunger blood at the boil!”

Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro Cuatro

Carnivorous tasted memory plagues the betrayed Minotaur’s desired deliriums,
On these haunted shores I clutched her close and eagerly inhaled love’s elusive serum,
Legend has it a suicide was here on this very cliff-top, ‘twas a true Roman centurion,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let us under Demeter’s enchanted orchards lie!”
My obsidian-eyed Beauty gathers her eggs and over the fearful edge she unfurls them,
Closer to the dead of Euphrates she steps, I to madness hurtle as one condemned,
Bind savage Cerberus for the solitary reign of the wolf is fate for all hanged men.

III

“Prometheus thou hast drunk Pandora’s poisons, what sayest now the Titans?”

Tres Tres Tres

Golden fleeced days into the fleshy ground of Morpheus’s realm did seep away,
How well spent they were not even immortal Calypso shall decipher nor say,
Would that mine myopic ears had been shorn and tossed into Pompeii’s crisp clay,
“Come back, come back! Oh, gentle Maid no more, I beg thee stay awhile yet!”
What was it? Was it me? No, no, it could not be me for I was Achilles buried asleep,
How little we then knew, we two did partake of the stinging, you the wasp I the bee,
Mayhap ‘twas this unlocked the plumed towers to thy curled universe tunneled deep?

II

“Therefore did the Serpent spake and pronounce a judgment most nefarious!”

Dos Dos

She thinks back, my Lady fairer than Medea, she remembers a time happier,
Really there was, hear yet my credo, once upon-a-time there was no doubting terror,
But then a thing did into our guarded haven breach and wreathe about my treasure,
“Come back, come back! Oh, let me slake my thirst with thy honeyed spirit!”
My flesh did crawl, my fangs grew sharp, my spittle ran down and my fur stood taut,
The jawbone stiffened and all the while I burnt like an infernal phoenix caught,
Oh, my sweetly crazed fruit, did I for real the horror upon you wrought?

I

“Would that thou didst offer me thy riches upon the hour of the violet twilight...”

Uno

Wolfsbane moon, high above it rose in that final cracking of sacramental bones,
My Lady much wrong did you I, forever for this will the beast in me atone,
Now, at this baleful hour has the wolf left you on the edge of an embryonic cyclone,
“And so to the Elysian Fields where insanity fertilizes the soul do I embark...”
You cross the Rubicon and glide into the obliterating arms of Plutonic eternity,
The wolf, me, is left clawing your hooded red robe with absolutely no certainty,
I see you sailing upon Neptune’s trident, forever adrift on oceans of eternal cruelty.

N

“Seekest thou sanctuary in the hinterlands where the man with one eye is King?”

Cero...

pretium libertas est nex**



©Rangzeb Hussain
Creepypumpkins Feb 2021
What a girl is bullied
Call Fat
Or other demeaning names or slurs
She decides to starve herself of food
And a physical and emotional beauty
She’s at the hinterlands of her existence
Boonies of life
Outskirts of society
Fah Nov 2014
Sojourn at the hinterlands of a fog casket
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep        to dream
within a dream                         the nightmare of a mother's fear

depression is so easy to slink in
so wary of all those palpable sins
like being yourself -

awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep      to dream
with a dream                           the nightmare of a mother's fear
where pink haired ladies
talk about my dissonance

within a dream about the nightmare of my mothers
self punishment -

for birthing me
questioning                if it was the right decision

if I          was born to suffer
this fate

so i wake                  in the land of dead people
who's limbs fall apart
as they're names are called out by the concierge

to my voice as whisper
to my courage bubbling underneath
a mother fearful of coming close
forgiveness is a blessing
and the tears flow

                       out of the eyes of a child onto the cheeks of a woman
who's life was molested by other peoples sanctions
a woman who stood tall for the voice of others    children and elders
who encouraged chance meetings to be themselves via magazine clippings
and a mother afraid to come close
and a child still living the actions of a ghost                 looming at her with wide eyed slanders of " you ****** up , you *******
you **** up at everything"

it's difficult to look               it's like watching someone be strung up
naked
tied to posts
and the spaces between their fingers sliced
their yoni sliced
their ******* sliced
their heart beating wide eyed screaming
silenced.

My mother
who birthed me
whom i respect
for all of her showings
no matter how ****** up

strung up
and the vision is blinding.
and we're both crying
but i don't tell her
because it's lunch time
and she's ****** up again.
- a meditation dream -
Third Eye Candy Mar 2013
the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample *****. where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.

now " who could that be ? "

agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i'm a poet, i don't see language in linear fashion as a plumber or an electrician might, or as circular as a lawyer spinning lies might... for poets language is multidimensional... and, counter-intuitively... disposable.*

in the language of phenomenology
the kantian concept of the noumenon
is just translated:
an exception -
and there is not article attributes
to suggest whether the stressor
can qualify as definite or indefinite,
since the quantification value is 1,
while the qualification value is 0,
meaning that the phenomenon of, say,
a heart attack, with the phenomenon
allowing 3 years more to live,
while the noumenon allowing ~8 - ~18
years to live is un-quantifiable,
since it's an exception,
and can only be un-qualifiable
to stress its parameters if it's left
un-inspected by the noumenon-itself.
i can't stress it simpler, nor can you;
as with regards to to the commonplace
problem of existential identification
with concepts such as god, john smith
b. 1974 living on mayfield st. for the past
twenty years, married with 2 children...
using such edenic nakedness as are the pronouns,
then returning from this realm of nakedness
into attire of concepts in cognitive signifiers
used elsewhere for prayer and divination,
what are you so naked among the cardinals' clothing?
a wriggly worm, if anything?
we have inherited a nakedness with the nakedness
of pronoun usage to avoid theological association
specifically, to remain human,
to remain as john smith etc., and not thirst
for such entities beyond the invisible realm
of sub-atomic particularisation - refreshed
by the fact the we can ***** the einstein bubble
where time and space huddle hug and play the harp
in a parallelism of the dipped-in...
we can suddenly hear newtonian causality
of the atom bomb... of the internal combustion engine
and the "sparing" use of fossil skeletons
derived from hawaiian postcards and pavlov of the eyes
that ingest jealousy to salivated rather than hunger...
we can see newtonian physics provide us
cause & effect... but in the einstein muddle
we go on... living our perpetually-seeming lives
to the extent of a debt unpaid...
seeing is believing the old maxims shushes
when others are muttered in retreat
from the arena of rhetoric where the greatest actors
engage a sizeable inversion of parameters
in terms of mechanics and activity...
oh there... there they have it...
the western hinterlands who took pride
in teaching children of the greatness of nations
being built upon the remnants of butchering
social / civil engagements... and having no
other foreign power engage with their
disorientation... now... the great nations... now...
suddenly... trying to invoke a foreign civil code
into a nation that lost its civil practices?
will an english butcher say to a syrian baker
that the syrian tailor is prizing his body for bounty?
no, because an english politician will do that for him,
the english butcher will be a pop-art colour splash
against the pavement...
civil society of syria is not dependent on
english civility... and no english politician
can provide the syrians their former civility
between trades to make society coherent again...
only the syrian neighbour with a syrian neighbour can...
no politician knocked on my door in my life...
i don't even know what a politician looks like
or sounds like...
a civil war can only be solved by civil means...
not by foreign intervention...
it is about civilians becoming civil once more...
foreign investors will never crack the stalin code
available to the civilians, there, waiting...
to re-engage with society once more...
with civilising with providing art...
we don't need bombs and foreign soldiers in syria...
we need art... seeing how all the foreign neglige additions
of the final solutions in terms of postponed paranoia /
para-phobia / the spider just transversed the ceiling
doing a moonwalk - care for old ruinous buildings
that define the meaning of museum.
if i'm being honest... i rather see the worst... than fear the worst.
Dave Robertson Jun 2021
Blackbirds backwards
and your solid foil to my boiling yawn
is remembered

I’ll always love you my dude

even though it’s mostly memory now
we travelled odd eighties early nineties
hinterlands
full of clear stupidities and hidden
immutable truths

but I’ll always hold
ridiculous dry heated cricket pitches,
run dark *** and loose joints
as what drove us

“What should we do today?”
“I dunno”
Helios Rietberg Aug 2012
Spurious words and spinning wheels
grasping the unmade road
crossing streams of deserted hinterlands
sparing no weakness

Plenty in the fork of the day
shining down like twilight
whittling down the breeze of night
and smashing up the stars

Meandering past the lazy groves
grain in corsets
musk in roses
pushing the littlest hearts
and raising their eyes to the sky
a glimpse and a glimmer
sparkle of the waters
and we were unshackled
lost

In more ways than one
you whispered in the tiniest hours
and I heard the edges of your echoes
resounding slowly and gradually
rebounding for more
filling the universe.
© Helios Rietberg, August 2012
rf jordan Apr 2016
when i cordoned you off
with Gorilla Tape and lilac vine
once i was done attaching encrypted files
of pearls upon that sultry salt of your inner-thighs
once i’d borrowed bonds
off my favorite banker’s portfolio
so i could waste myself in their earned interest
ratios
of blood bourne by centuries of
hapless gathering oppression
so i could use them in mosaics of swollen sand
that i could lay
like sea-glass shards under your
ebbing feet as useless parchments
i swallowed you in all your swollen spasms of fragile oblivion
until that bottom of this tongue lept amidst surfacing juices
obliterating and obligating all that ever decayed amidst obelisks
your whispers
(hatched from your
breathy endorphins)
shook me into
mine own
desperate shudders
astride our gathering humidity
and i gathered in
your needle-nosed
plier
eyes
-rust encrusted grey
incisors-
wrought from melted andirons
mixed with slug
trodden
soils
of hinterlands i was
never
to penetrate
as if i ever slammed
you
with yore spinning flails
into night’s emerging chasm
of charcoal sprinkled
with inner-orange peels
and their attempts toward
all that is illuminating, wistful, brief, and
precious—

i am your son, i am birthed from your sal i vations. i am twisting, still, amidst these rudiments of brine...
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
humid temperance in your tussled hair
you are fair to begin with
a more wholesome lust-
my ***** could pray too.
you give this
gravitas -
while withholding a miracle of aftermaths.
you're spot on.
manifest this for me...
bring out the outcasts of your hinterlands and small tokens.
bring out your fists so that i  may comfort them
with too warm kisses.
let me languish in your paradox
swollen with joy
totally into it,

let me love you like like like like daybreak mending.

i'll size you up
on a pedestal
and catch
you

like a lover.

try me.
Jay G May 2015
There it went, right with summer
into the hinterlands, and the snow kissed peaks
I chased it like cigarette smoke after my last one
I longed for it as the a glass of water in the deserts;

I've noticed how quickly it goes from 6 to 12
when I want just a little bit more time
How love goes to complacency in a
single blink of an eye;

It's the days that drag on that get to me
When the only warmth I'm feeling is
the street lamps as I'm roaming
Insomnia is calling, and she's got my name;

My souls reflecting in the mirror what's
been gone for so **** long
My child like ecstasies
My deepest desires of love are
all gone

If you could find it for me, I happen
to have a silver dollar
Perhaps if that's your price
you could go on the hunt;

Where do you go, once you've lost the scent
That carries you on home?
Where do you go, when the arms of yesterday
are no longer embracing?

When strangers are stone
When your mind is blank
to avoid all the pain
Where do you go?
I've a got a silver dollar, if that's your price
per chance could you give me some advice?
Antony Glaser Jun 2018
i am winter
you are the stars
we trek across the hinterlands
wherever we go
JC Lucas Jun 2016
Conifer-covered hillside
in the hinterlands
of this sleepy town
on a warm day
in this mid-June

The unspoilt soil
neither grieves
nor revels
and there's no revelation in that-
just what you see.

It's just what you see.

The quivering quakeys
can't hack it even when they cackle-
an attempt to unravel the shackles of
their incomplete alchemy-
cause it's never enough

one laugh is never enough.

The high's always flanked
by a sunrise so rank
as to wrinkle the brows
of the loudest and proudest-
the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs

Just give me the bliss of the birds
and a big lidless urn to retire my fire
when the work week expires
when I finally can see even truth holds some lies
and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon,
I'll fly.

I'll just fly.
Helios Rietberg Apr 2012
I watch, at the
prairie of time
the unfurling of nature
the dissertation
of saints

and in the hinterlands
a bare cry of
entrance
barred into the heavens
whispers of the world

residues
of fate and light
and devils
grieving for their
sacrifices

and slipping
into the worlds of men
the partakes in
grey barriers
and lossy colours

periphery
the ancient coliseum
the warface of dread
and acquittals of
memories

moments in time
spinning on the axle
grappling onto thoughts
and endless flows.
© Helios Rietberg, April 2012
Megan Sherman Nov 2016
In hidden hinterlands of space
Betwixt the whirring spheres
Are marvels time cannot erase
With the bludgeon of her years

In stars’ cascade one sees clear
Nature’s hand, so accurate
The creations of her mind
Like pearls immense, immaculate

The majesty of multitudes
Is embodied in the expanse
Its bodies waltz and pirouette
In celestial romance

Walking cross the Milky Way
We could see on and on forever
Into an infinity of untrod realms
Untouched by man’s endeavor

For want of it the cosmic mystery
We may never fully grasp
But such ignorance is bliss to me
It’s enough to be in nature’s clasp
Megan Sherman Feb 2017
A veil of light and ashen grey
invites me to peer in to stranger day
fluttering and beckoning
behind it what is happening?
a smorgasboard of molten colour
winks at me, summons me near
I become swept up, in hurricane
that rolls and waves across the plane
of one reality in to another

'Tis here I feel my spirit brew
imbued with bright, celestial hue
deep in hinterlands of enchanting joy
where I ravish these pleasures coy
too overwhelmed to fight, resist
the very light with which I'm kissed
from famished eyes I am engorged
my tender spirit enlarged
on trajectory of bliss

On horizon, magic gestates
Leaves my spirit insatiate
Adorned by sparks phantasms brood
Lifting like hot air balloon my mood
Between chasm of magic and reality
Goes visions with conviviality
Enchanting the mind with true force
Summoned from natures magic purse
Which sprinkles havoc on normality

Forms of Beauty riddle my eye
With their heavenly symmetry
Godesseses of divinest shine
Beam soul-deep, from theirs to mine
Behind the veil of usual routine
Lies awesome truth with golden sheen
Nourishing the spirits belly
To magical shores the spirit ferried
Enamoured of most lucid of dreams
Yenson Jul 2019
the sacred Isle ruled the waves
then plundered and looted from Benin to China
from Egypt to Greece they took and even Rayleigh craved

Men, women, artifacts, gold silver, diamonds
all come back to our motherland to stay
nothing wrong with that, its all our birthright

A union was agreed between nations around
in opaques agreement lets pool everything and share
we move as one and live in peace and prosperity together

years down the line with all working well
the Isle said we want out we are not getting enough
we can go our own way and get a lot more without sharing

let us not be so selfish says some thinkers
we want out says the people cause we don't like sharing
lets go our way and take and sell to the whole wide world

they say I am greedy because some old man wore a coral crown
and owned the marshes he had lived from 1845 with his brood
no one went to sea to rob another or took taxes from people

the coral crown family all worked day and night
doctors, lawyers, surveyors, civil servants even nurses serving others
never took or asked from State to survive or wore any coral crown

came the wordsmiths and experts in Acquisition international
who wrote the book on Greed and taking from every known place
either by war, treats, bribery or just plain **** chicanery

yes, yes, this renowned Magpies hollered, you are greedy
it will cost you arms and legs, it will cost you all you hold dear
we say you are greedy and that's all, we hear no protest, no mercy

in simple minds logic and reasoning is not to be found
my coral crown old man did not fight to take land or wealth
did not sit in chambers gilded demanding taxes from no one

they moved from the hinterlands in droves led by him
to the coastal areas ****** land, where the marshes were wild
they cultivated and settled after years of exodus, perils and trials

he toiled hard and managed, created communities living in peace
ruled with wisdom and grace and looked after his people
killed no one for gain nor took land or property from any one

Ignore the difference between old man Coral and your own crowns
ignore the truths that shows there's no comparisons whatsoever
listen to the Experts on Greed. they have declared I am greedy
historically and now this Experts must be right, they invented Greed and Rights.........
Phosphorimental Sep 2014
A cove, one’s own
For hearts, a home
where sky and sea and
cliff sides crawling with posies
meet in places
built from traces
of reassembled memories.
all is quiet, all is tender,
purling waters to remember
sips to come, from cups, were poured
by ocean waves en echelon
by providence and then beyond
by each embrace of pristine shore.
reminding us,
o’ forgotten trust
in things from hinterlands
curves of thought imbued with love
raked into hidden sands
washed away, washed away
by the Beloveds hands.
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
Off the dusty
reckless trail,
my two angry-feet
stared back at me
from across my kingdom-
a claw-footed
tin-lined
copper washtub
manufactured in St. Louis
for wayward Western royalty,
just me and my feet.

From under the bubbles,
I swore there would be no trouble.
Between a thick-veneer of desert ****,
I told my toes not to be alarmed,
to hang tight,
'cause this was going
to be our night for peace.

The last thing I saw
as we drifted into serenity
was my twin 44's
hanging quietly
in my well worn holsters.

Yessum, there's were rare times
out here, out here
in the desperado-hinterlands,
where quick hands
could bury a man
and his two feet.

I felt my hands tremble
at the thought of tomorrow.
But for tonight,
this quiet peaceful evening,
me & my feet
were surely safe
from any
immediate harm.

Amen (for these peaceful easy feelings).
Thank you Eagles!  :D
Carlo C Gomez Sep 2020
In the lull
Of our constricted voice

In the hushing
Of our sullen realm

In the finite
Of our broken hinterlands

A watermark
No, rather

A barrow
A grave

Without inscription
Only handprints

In memoriam
Of the receding surf

Never heard
Never reached
Jonny Angel Apr 2014
I walked the borders,
saw the dunes towering
& heard sidewinder noises.
Each grain of sand
tumbles
out here
in the hinterlands
& those entombed
within the gates
of the concrete jungles
with cars honking,
know not the meaning
of pure silence,
nor the
call of the wild,
the sound of falling stars,
slithery creatures.
ConnectHook Jan 2017
Masked back-packing militants descend on DC.
The instigators' antics indicate true agitator's instincts. When the rest buy it, the best... riot ? Putin set the precedent by rootin' for the President. As for the protestors -- are they seeking to serve justice or just the Secret Service? Joined by thousands of patriot motorcyclists, the black-masked boast of hikers may be lost on a host of bikers. Hmmmm... the silent verve of our veteran friends proves that the violent serve wicked ends. The verge of silence may mean a surge of violence.
While snowflakes melt down, the state will clamp down as militants storm town. Eastern sages know: a mean Taoist turned teen Maoist may raise the base rating for race-baiting just to get a rise. Erasing a different face is not the same as facing a different race (and many of these mad Taoists seem a tad Maoist to me...) Opening the trunk, one forgets that elephants remember: when the mob rules, they rob mules. Democratic icons are stubborn things. Until the bandits are punished let's banish the pundits to the hinterlands of fake news.
        It's inauguration time, Dumbo.
Clenched-fist troublemakers will use any mass gathering as an excuse to undermine civil society. Social media and the irresistible lure of virality have only strengthened their incentive to "FSU" (f—- s—- up). Here's another thing you can take to the bank: "Mainstream" protesters on the streets of D.C. will look the other way at these lawless vandals who leech onto any available cause. Their common goal is not "social justice." It's destabilization and disorder.

from: www.frontpagemag.com
Onoma Jan 2020
radial intemperance--

a sun ago

late to its day.

seperating the whites

of hinterlands.
winter has come early
solitude blankets
the frontier and hinterlands
of my soul
all the birds have flown south
taking warm breezes
with them
not to be outdone
solace of human
companionship has also fled
like long, lanky shadows
leaping across a high mountain
only the dark red eyes
of the cave
lit up by
an innermost
flame
stares
transfixed
motionless
expanding into
the empty night
Megan Sherman Nov 2016
He walked in bright beatific phantasies
That captured and enveloped his reality
Those fierce and fiery, fruitful visions
Came to splendorous fruition
When one morn the muse he summoned
To pour music from the rift of heaven
Straight down in to his thirsty mind
He is risen, no more blind
Roaming, roving like a rainbow
The wilderness is the place to go
Like a wanton, wanderlust bard
He traverses valleys and fathoms stars
Speaking to the universe
He communicates its joys in verse
Sees in symbols he cannot speak
Much madness from his ***** beak
Words and vision charged as lightning
His potency is such it's frightening
He is again another child
To the hinterlands of the soul exiled
It
may become dryer and brighter
may get clearer and lighter
but it's still Winter
ya can't fool me.

In the hinterlands where the old man stands eyeing the sky
as he does every day
as if waiting to hear someone say,
'change is on the way'
In reality he's waiting to die and wondering why the sky still looks so blue,when everything is going to turn black,
and his life turns its back,
he is ready,unsteady but it's Winter and he can't complain,
and his companion on the journey explains that it's always this way at the end of one's day when the world turns slate grey before turning black.

In the shifting of hues where the confusion of colours on his palette  run clear,the artist who drew life,draws his last breath,in splashes of light that flash vividly,avidly looking at the mystery unfolding,
he holds onto a fine brush that rushes to paint the morning,even as his hands fade away into the blackness,still wondering
why the sky looks so blue.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
current atheism knows that it's only a vogue,
and it's only a vogue - because nationalistic populism
has overpowered it, with atheism wishing
that it could overcome the vogue, and become a zeitgeist!
no! atheism is a vogue! there's no zeitgeist invoked
in this "movement"...
        oh i adore sophistry -
i admire it greatly,
   but sophistry has also another
name:
the rhetoric of infallible claims!
atheism is vogue!
   it's fashion!
               you wear the colour read
in autumn to contrast the auburn...
you dress in azure to
contrast the grey and whites of
both frost and a pregnant
woman's demure in
               clouds readying rain!
there is nothing in atheism that i find
lacking, other than the rhetoric,
of keeping it vogue,
               rather than simply alive!
vogue one summer,
   punk the next...
  welcome a minute prior to midnight:
ostracized the minute after midnight...
but it really is welcoming
to hear someone eloquent...
   it really is...
but not for a cause other than
a cause per se...
   not atheism as such,
but the art of rhetoric...
   and it is an art, which i am not
capable of expressing,
of having the tenacity to endure
in even the quest for attempt such
feat.
    yet i find that atheism is only
a vogue...
               a passing fancy...
a spinster movement...
  a gambling move on behalf
    of the young
eager to turn to it, and:
"uphold" it;
in all honesty i find no recompense
in it...
     ask the sophist atheists when
a theologian speaks:
   the theologian speaks poetry...
and poetry? well...
sophists are immune, or at least
non-engaging in the art...
             the sophist strikes with a word,
the theologian strikes with
an image...
   the philosopher? he tries to translate
word into image, and image into word;
yet the fact remains intact:
atheism is not a zeitgeist
    but merely a vogue...
    the zeitgeist of atheism died
  within the year 1989...
       now atheism & its economic policy
are merely vogue!
   fashion accessories!
well, not if you're in the heritage of being
in the grasp of a p.s. of a billionth
addition to a nation akin to china.
i really despise this modern
"atheism"... yes, and it was also
fashionable to wear torn jeans
in the 19, 80s... and listen to depeche mode
the cure, duran duran and a-ha:
******* wankers...
these days?! we listen to templar cantos...
and we say: no no, no chopin...
sonny clark:
   quick *******, quick! tap-dance that
**** impromptu!
   and yes, i smashed my guitar,
i figured:
   either i pretend to tap tap
to a rhythm with an air-drum-kit...
or i pretend to play the piano...
     it worked either way...
atheism is still a vogue,
  that's pretending to be a zeitgeist...
like i said:
the atheistic zeitgeist died!
western society said it had to end!
              fat **** of luck ahead of you,
trying to revive collective atheism in
the hinterlands (that's the west, b.t.w.) -
to me it just sounds like any other
boring vogue of sophistry...
                     now...
   the sign of the cross,
   and speaking the tetragrammaton
in silence...
oddly enough... i prefer saying
the "pardon my french" words of english
than recite the voldemort / sauron names
that are akin for the young to compare
with the tetragrammaton...
oh look! **** me! harry potter and lord
of the rings mash-up...
                the only blasphemy is already
invoked... to sanctify the words of oath...
deservedly ***** ******* of pseudo-christianity!
**** it! bomb them;
they're a joke compared to the freedoms
of sparrows anyway...
i hardly think they deserve a death to be honest,
the life they made into a sanctum
  deserves to be kept...
  either for my joy... or for my misery;
whatever.
The rage, the grace, and the ferocity in between,
This relationship promised, to be nothing but pristine,
Calling out to me desperately, yearning to meet,
Now this is a bond, to which I could always retreat.

There it goes navigating, through the undergrowth,
Creating dense and lush bonds, tied by an eternal oath,
A stream giving life, to everything in its path,
This is a land that lives, beyond the clusters’ aftermath.

The stream takes us, to the hinterlands of civilization,
Technology absent, in the face of more than one distraction,
The blood red soil, furnishing the steady stilt houses,
This is where humanity comes to life, in many disguises.

Ambition stronger, than a finely brewed espresso,
A life seeped in tradition, transcends the status-quo,
Manifesting in the coffee, that shoulders the community,
The elements convene here daily, with sincere loyalty.
This piece is a dedication to wonders of nature and communities, often indigenous to those lands, that are so well integrated within the comforting confines of mother nature. Although the inspiration for this comes from many sources, it particularly refers to many elements of Laos – a country in Southeast Asia.
ConnectHook Jul 2017
hinting at hitting on
intersectional hinterlands
intersexual undercourse
underpar for underwear
off-course, of course
interCIS sissiness interests
rests a cisgender-ender
genders endanger engendering
male delivery of femaleman
chain letters in chain-mail maelstrom
higher matriarchy of the mail-room
hire patriarchal malarkey
good knight
and good luck.
I am very sorry that there are are only 2 genders but that's how God designed us.  Some people are celebrating confusion...but gender is gender.
The enraptured nape of sienna grassland
in contrast with the edge of burgundy , blanket
hinterlands
The rebirth of Summer saturation , sunlight
electricity o'er the conductive Earth
Bellicose magpies , heated Jays
Wary Does , taciturn Wrens and sitting Hens
Mother Bluebird sails the open field ,
yearning the increase of the Spring day yield
Morning Robin chortle to the first sunbeam
Woodpecker laughter by the clear , casual stream
Copyright April 18 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

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