Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Reece Mar 2013
Is there anything more depressing than visiting a forum that hasn’t been active for a decade?
Perhaps visiting said forum on a Saturday evening, reading every thread and replying to at least five comments before realising that the site hasn’t been active for a decade.
The saddest part would be to continue replying to each thread before creating new usernames and replying to your own replies.
I guess the next logical step would be to continue the charade for ten years before dying a solemn death atop your festering keyboard and not being discovered until seven years later.
The forum continues to stand as a testament to your solitude as nobody has replied to your last post about the perfect way to make a ham sandwich.
Samuel Apr 2012
your words make me
ache as far as a torch
stretched between murky-
blank pages

do not wait to scrawl your
truths until heavy resignation
creeps over my head like
a dark shawl

do not wait -
                         - I miss
                         everything and nothing
                         and (god
                         **** it)

the philosopher was right in
assuming a search for completion
leads only to a sort of frustrated
compassionate silence,
                                           so
                                      tired of being tired of growing
                                      weary with assumptions,
                                      mad libs of the spirit, only
                                      fill in the line with whatever
                                      you dream might be,  


              no


let me know you, the real
uncensored and true
(I can love) you

I feel like a child being spelled at
to keep the F-I-L-I-B-U-S-T-E-R for
adult ears only but even though
I admit the fact
                           - I know next to nothing
my heart desperately
wishes to know
you, everything.
Taiwo Olufemi May 2018
I checked my time
It was around nine in the night
I looked up at the sky
You should ask me why
Something seems strange
It is not a mirage
The Stars are shining full
The Moon is quarter full
The Sky looks beautiful
This does not happen everyday
It is on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And things are looking moderately bright


I stood up from my seat
Just to wonder around
Green grass beneath my feet
This shows good soil abound
I sighted the fireflies flaunting their light
I heard the toads croaking with their might
I saw some flies flying away with fright
I noticed the gentle breeze of the night
I felt alive
This sensation does not happen everyday
It was on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And things were looking moderately bright


Something again occur
Nature was showing her Jamboree
When I saw it I concur
I could't help but to agree
A meteorite stylishly slowly decidedly descend
Contemporaneously with an aeroplane cruising westward
Its sound as if it's a firework
Its flashlight merging with the satellites and the starlight
Sizzling the sky with spree of synchronized light
This illumination does not happen everyday
It is on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And things are looking moderately bright


Here I am still wondering about
Free I am real round about
This World is not always a beautiful place
Round the years? Round the months? Round the days?
Across all the continents through the Asia
What makes today so special?
I believe the Heavens are smiling on me
Even the Earth agrees to it
Cruel creatures couldn't conflict
Nurtured Nature nicely nods to it
All these are on the eighth of May
Around nine in the night
And my star is realistically ready to shine its light
Meg B Jun 2014
There's a difference between looking and
seeing.

You can look at me,
but I wonder more
what you see.

Brown eyes,
brown hair,
barely more than
five feet tall;
my feet are small,
as are my hands;
my teeth are straight,
thanks to braces;
shoulders been broad
since I swam,
but my figure
is much less athletic
than it used to be.

I could look
at myself
and point out
a million flaws.
My forehead is much
too big for my liking,
my cheeks are too red,
my top lip is so
skinny it barely
exists,
and, if you ask me,
my waist line
could afford
to look a little more
like my upper lip.

My looks are far from perfect.
Not saying I'm hideous,
but I don't look
in the mirror
to find
America's Next Top Model,
or anything close,
at least not until
my face is perfectly painted,
flaws concealed under
a combination
of moderately priced makeup and
a rather crafty hand.

When I look,
physical imperfections
and inadequacies
stare back at me.
My overly expressive
light brown eyes
give me an
omnipotent glance,
and they beg me to
turn away,
to close them,
to put them to sleep
so that I can
see.

When I see,
it's like a whole new me.
I'm a human being
whose physical flaws
are diminished by
an overly giving, compassionate
heart,
a brain
filled of logic & curiosity,
a chest
swollen full of
endless giggles,
a throat
storing sarcastic words mixed in with
empathetic phrases;
down within me
I see
the woman
who still at times
looks and feels
more like the girl
whose heart has been broken
too many times to count
but still, despite her
womanly pessimism,
yearns optimistically
to love again.
Within me I see
a woman with confidence
and also insecurity,
ambition and fear,
tranquility and rage,
hope and despair;
I see dreams,
wishes,
prayers,
meditation;
I see a beautifully
complex soul
trapped in a world
that begs it for
simplicity and
conformity.

I guess when I look
I only get a glimpse
of the body
that feels the need
to be perfect,
to work out a little more,
to weigh a little less,
to fix her hair the right way,
and to dress in the right clothes.
The self-conscious me
who still fears being weird,
who cares what others think,
who worries if my parents are proud.

But when I see,
out comes the woman
who says
**** the status quo,
I can't be put in a box,
I'm beautiful the way I am,
and nothing stands
between
me
and achieving
my
dreams.


When I look,
I don't see,
but when I see,
I see me.

I feel the brim of my glasses graze my nose,
and I know,
even once I take 'em off,
my vision
is better
than ever.
Senor Negativo Aug 2012
On a smooth cushion of silken air

I stand moderately off kilter.

We are elated and healed

Everyone is astounded.

We stood there like living sculpture,

We fed each other hope and affection.

I will kiss you eternally

I will never treat you like a slug.

On a smooth silken cushion of air,

Standing moderately off kilter

I don't get rude comments,

From adults, strangers, enemies and teenagers.

Everyone greets us with Hello, hello.

And then laughter hijacks my mouth.

You have been unshackled

Their death, my life, our cradle,

Our bodies, our souls unfettered.

On a smooth silken cushion of air

We will lay, moderately off kilter.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
life more abundant calls forth an expandable reality primo,
thus wisdom, the principal thing when-ce all other
things may be made

machine level codifiers ifying
meaning back into idle words.

Keep the secret. Answer the call,
who will help the widow's son?

You, Templar, what message bear ye to my child?,
asked the widow.
Fi-del-e-tus. with a squeeze and a tap,
wink and grin

Poet, who named the prophet?
who named the teller to tales?
who gave thee hearing ear and seeing eye?

Some mind imagined those as yet unformed in forever past.
You agree. You experienced living, so far.

So good, we move on, figurative re re re al-it if-ity
Haps apt to appear be fore your veri variety of being even
hapt as a thing thought, imagined made for a function, as yet

undone. Conserve the NULL set, that whole idea is dangerously
close to fading…

Have you seen those videos of soap bubbles filled with H
and no O?
You should see those, to recall the phenomenonal pre-dictatorial
image, see the bubble, invisible but
for reflection of ambient ambits in our epigenetic radiosphere,

bubbles collapse, and for a flash, flame orange shaped
as the bubble was.
No ex-plo sion it-a-tivity, mere dis cipation,
loss of grip on the shape of things that were, now
con forms to re per ceive,

try again, get a good grip, swing and a miss, go again
take a Mulligan, I think, some game has such a rule,

We can use it here. We can scroll back up,
like a rope lift on the bunny hill at Big Bear, back when…

wheels in wheels, bubbles in bubbles, forms in forms

this is the information age I was informed. Adamkind, those
qubitical, ambitical little images of

Who, who? would a name comfort-you worth more than a breath?
Fresh air after a minuted moment twixt out and in again,

Power, create ific power haps twixt out an in again,
the cipitation, the d was missed, what if it were not?

re-read, religion once meant that, re-connect, too,
religion meant that state of having re-read the map,
re-tied the worth carrying,
stacked the worthless by the trail so
some hapless stranger may see
the treasure it was and is, to any who care to

receive, or con ceive it for the
truth I found in it and kept, which I leave to you
here:
Both treasure and truth are where ye find them,
and shall be for ever, when ever starts for you.

Ezekial, judge my riddle, please. The fool missed the
point of conception…
No, no no no

A fool's dance in a Phrygian cap with useless, symbolic wings…
gee, Phrygian, means nothing to you? Google it, you live in the future.
Later,
A time upon which a Mercury dime would comfort
a rich American Tyrant, son of the Flim-flam man,
no lie, this is mythic, you can't make this stuff up
its history. Hysterical, right
John D. Standard-for-Petropower-manifestation,
the dead's carbon footprints bubbling up
to fire and fridgin' ice, whoa, who broke the world,

I was distracted. Did you know the planet is
as self healing as those scabs on my grandkids knees?

ah, caper, eh? Capere, to grasp, to take,
ceive means accept by taking,
be liefing an idea ceived ex nihilo, is likened unto

Drinking from a still pond in a distant land. Sults,
results. may result in,
Dear Rhea revenging Montezuma, at a gut level.

However, a sort of how in an open mind facing forever,
a sort of omni-directional saliency
seeing further,
--Bomb, Jesus-bomb--

At least two reasons for thinking Jesus is objective, out side
you or inside you. You aren't Jesus. Jesus is a friend of mine,
in my mind, object-if-I-try
to pray, listen pray hopes
happen
shapes form
forever from ever point, every point, not of, in buy

a why..
why does a y on the end of every mean any thing?

That's the y-factor. You will learn why wise men still seek those.
As treasure, they are light, and the taste is beyond

the grasp of tongue to tell

that whole class of moded-ever words weave wards
whenever, forever, however, whatever
used proper, everafter,
that will save Dresden, some time, we think.

However, now, Rhea by name has entered the game.

Who is this named femofame? What game is she good in?
Or does she just knock the **** out of lying spirits?
Cool.

Ah, mother of all the gods, I recall, I mean
I meant to say
I remember, then I for got the power words hold here
exactly heare in eleven metrixed mentions,

this point, in time, not of time.
In the world, not of the world, you've heard the pharse?
The allusion is not lost on you, you know the phrase,

In the world, not of the world, holier men than I have
claimed to be, while I follow a few fine words,
linguistic kief, sprinkled fairy dust, like the stuff
captured in the gleaming film on your
microscopic-outer eye

see a salient point in time.

A pin point 'pon which one,
no more,
one story begins for ever, a gain in good net
value, if

we have tasted that word, chewed the gristle,
indigestible ligaments and sin-yews and such,
which once anchored meat to bone,

value is first good. Good e nough, nough
Gut genug, okeh,
maybe not my best, my best is yet to come, they say.

sufficient for today
------

enough (adj.)
c. 1300, from Old English genog "sufficient in quantity or number,"
from Proto-Germanic compound *ganog "sufficient"
(source also of Old Saxon ginog,
Old Frisian enoch, Dutch genoeg,
Old High German ginuog, German genug,
Old Norse gnogr, Gothic ganohs).
First element is Old English ge- "with, together"
(also a participial, collective, intensive, or perfective prefix),
making this word the most prominent surviving example
of the Old English prefix,
the equivalent of Latin com- and Modern German ge- 
(from PIE *kom- "beside, near, by, with;" see com-).
Second element is from PIE *nok-, from root *nek- (2)
"to reach, attain"
(source also of Sanskrit asnoti "to reach,"
Hittite ninikzi "lifts, raises,"
Lithuanian nešti "to bear, carry," Latin nancisci "to obtain").

As an adverb, "sufficiently for the purpose,"
in Old English; meaning
"moderately, fairly, tolerably" (good enough) was in Middle English. Understated sense, as in have had enough "have had too much" was in Old English (which relied heavily on double negatives and understatement).

As a noun in Old English,
"a quantity or number sufficient for the purpose." As an interjection, "that is enough," from c. 1600. Colloquial 'nough said is attested from 1839.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/word/enough#etymonlinev8703>
Godliness with contentment is great gain, a precept I was chewing on following a ritual holy day of gratitude to goodness for goodness sake in my cultural gut genug state of mind.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
an entire day of abstaining from "syringe",
whoever said it was:
the perfect dis-satisfaction -
supposedly it passes as quick as someone
puffing on crack...
                well...
                      the first cigarette...
when "quitting"... after years of 20 a day...
and this quitting: because no cheap
ciagarettes on the horizon from moldova...
or bulgaria...

    the first hit... feels like electricity...
i can feel it from my head...
right down to my toes...
          in my heels...
the tingling at first... then it all subsides...
into a sensation of a thrown stone
into the stomach:
like a nun jumping a bungee...
i feel like a teenager... who first sipped
alcohol...
the carousel of intoxication -
yet: so contained...
        there's the thrill and an
insurmountable number of adjectives
to the sensation:
face like a sponge head like blitzkrieg
theatre...
         i'm "quitting"...
well... 10 years exposed to the numbing...
perfect the ritual:
i guess i must...
    how long will it last... long enough:
to base the drinking on what becomes
the cigarette: on the peripheries:
and closure...

must i take any more revelation drugs...
apart from what's taxed and legal...
a solipsistic cigarette and some
gomme syrope: putting ms. amber
into the refrigerator...
              
i can feel the horde the tsunami from
a fat head through
a whirlwind dropped into my stomach...
and then the magic toes: tingling...
of course: i'm "quitting"...
quitting as much as...
mellow lou reed contra iggy pop
when bowie was with him in berlin...

"quitting"... the initial hit is over...
the first impressions...
the formality is thrilling...
then comes the diffusion:
the informality of fractions and percentages...
from the brain... the nerves...
perhaps the heart...
and the last place to look into:
the liver...

         and other... soft-tissue glue parts...
and the ritual:
a packet of benson & hedges...
wrapped up with about 10 rubber bands...
it has been waiting for me
for the entire day...
and now that the night is here...
a day when an apple tree was planted
along with a cherry tree...

the garden is looking more and more
presentable for sale...
but before the sale: it must be enjoyed...
i never thought that...
a cigarette: after... this short prospect
of abstinance...
is almost like the first...
but when coupled with the whiskey...
hell... i can't remember the last
time i drank and it felt like...
i was a teenager: under-age drinking
in one of those ****** clubs that
high-school girls go to find boys
with cars... out of school without
a-levels...
and boys go... to find... ms. ambers...
and jazzy gits of mr. fuzzy mr. funny...
the bavarian brothers: the weisers...

please! please! more...
these days of "quitting"...
             because what could be fun
about an absolute cold-turkey...
when you have a stash of...
  600 cigarettes... and... if the math is
about right...
and since the free movement of
people is a rapunzel dream off-the-cuff...

600 cigarettes... if i get it right...
move from 2 per ritual of going to bed...
into 1... that's... either a year
with missing 56 days somewhere...
no rolling tobacco though...
look m'ah! no bongs no syringes!
look p'ah! no snorting bleeding nose...
no... plum bruises from...

as long as there's an inhibition period...
a period of: i wish i could send
a postcard from... Basildon, Essex...
to... someone obliterated by a craze-maze
of lights... like... whatever...

i just heard stories...
                  about the effects of other drugs...
but... it's not like they come back...
with straitjackets to rekindle old flames
of "crossing the threshold" within
the confines of tobacco and alcohol...
moderately: well: not to quote the ideal
units consumed...
     i'm pretty sure i read some pickwick papers
today and... dickens "forgot" some...
conjunction words...
unless of course: his style...
                    -open            
                          to question-
                        esp. adjectives that...
or is it... nouns that act like this that and the other:
as if verbs...
            
    roughly half an hour... the full extent of
a cigarette...
the very first is probably the same
as the "very first" when you're "quitting"...
from circa 20 per day...
to 2-a-day...
                      "quitting" and first getting
hooked...
           the whiskers and fire fathers
                                   of the apache
              are a balancing act that follows...
oh sure... i'll quit smoking...
when the ritual is over...
i have left the casual smoker behind...
somewhere... over coffee...
over the tradition of that cigarette after
a meal: the digestifs smoke-up...
i left these smokers behind...
the nervous smokers...
the waiting at a bus-stop smokers...
the after *** smokers...

          the day is coming to an end...
i'm going to enjoy some music...
drink a little... i'll start calling this smoking
cigarette pattern... what? what else?!
my tobacco ramadam!
chances are... i'll still be unable
to appreciate roxy music...
   and the english dandy...
                       the music is here...
the little bit of *****... and the "pipe"!
here comes my face...
here comes the zoo...
            
             but i'm quitting... "quitting"...
the wolf of wall st. -
                      drug addict... that all depends
on how you treat tobacco...
the cigarette... abstaining for a day...
after a "hiatus" from healthy breathing...
viruses and car zinc and lead exhausts...
cow farts...
                  
    a terrible way to treat tobacco...
i find... is the casual... informal way...
a bit like... internet access...
whoever grew up with it being stationary...
like... a telephone... or a phonebox...
it was never carried:
always a returned to:
like a swizz safety-deposit box
in a bank... that could...
bypass tax regulations and subpoenas...

the good old days...
saturdays the park... the high street...
the car park... climbing to the top
and spitting phlegm bombs at people...
peter ******* richardson...
and kieran o'mahoney...
samuel richards...
         a ****** among the irish...
in england...
then again: richardson...
eh...
                                   ascot?
      i.e. a shcoot?!
                    the break between my first
ritual cigarette...
         and my closing affair for the night...
whether i drink less or not...
in the middle of the night
i wake up on the floor...
         i sleep on the floor for about
an hour... two demons want to ****
in my bed... then i'm thrown back into
the bed of cushions and mattress...
  only yesterday i killed someone in my dream...
and i was... like the zodiac killer...
anonymous...
i heard hook & sinker teases of:
the crime scene read like a crime thriller...
to appease the ego...

two days running thrown out of bed...
this is a terribly composed...
it is... "quarantine" poetics...
i'm "quitting" smoking...
                   i'm making tobacco...
i'm giving tobacco ritual rites...
                   no lazy tobacco smoking...
end of the day... ms. amber in hand...
maxing out on 2!
the next two? the next day...
              the same packet of cigarettes...
2 inside with a lighter...
wrapped up using about 10 rubber bands...
a like-for-like replica of
pin-heads "tattoo geography"...

       yes... because... someone's nearing
the snorting olympics?!
           if all you were given...
was tobacco and alcohol...
             the first one... oh! mein! gott!
it feels like being a teenager... once more...
and experiencing the alcohol carousel
for the very first time...
tobacco? that came later...
after the alcohol... after the ****...
the **** came in age 21...
the tobacco came in... age 21.09...
whatever that implies...

                      it's nice... though...
absitance... you wait for the entire day...
by the of it... some variant of... tourette's kicks
in... it's all very nice asking for
cupcakes and bagels...
scones and daffodils:
or... suicide by: lily-of-the-valley...
i.e. room filled with them...
and no ventilation...
talk about... no hanging... projects...
of Seneca cutting wrists in a bath...
just... getting drunk...
and being allowed to fall asleep
in a vacuous room filled with
lily-of-the-valley bouquets...

             we can talk about suicide... no?
when... it's... beautiful? no? ha!
how was the hemlock... prescribed?
as a drink?
             i... it's almost irritating that...
i will not write anything more sensible
after i take the 2 cigarette to the grave of sleep...
no matter...
i wasn't hoping to invest in much:
today gave me enough.
Eric Nov 2013
Gravy sounds good now
Alabaster turkey feast
Gorging on bird meat
Tom Orr Nov 2012
It’s been three years since I took my last photograph. Photography had lost its appeal and there were no longer moments I wanted to capture, to freeze in time. I only wanted to move on, just to walk... Besides, my camera’s broken and I can’t for the life of me be bothered to get a new one. I’d rather spend the money on a trip to Brussels, that’s next on the list.

I suppose I’d say I have one true fear in the world and that’s staying still. My mother used to say “Oh Alfie, you’re like one of them AHDD children” and after I correcting her, I’d usually just shrug as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” It could be said that my mother was one of those people who just had no time for the world, society was not her priority. One time a member of a local charity knocked on our door asking for a donation. My mother stood there, cemented like a gargoyle and poured out a flurry of very high decibel palaver about how her husband was in the marines and how she owed the world nothing because of it. I have to admit, it was a pseudo-logic that I’ve, to this day, not quite decoded.

My father made the decision to enter the Royal Marines at the age of 19 and my mother hasn’t forgiven him for it since. Perhaps that’s why she’s so sensitive about the whole “I owe society nothing” thing. I used to argue with her about it, about how it seemed right that he made his own decision to fight on behalf of his countrymen, but part of me has always despised his decision. I’ve gradually developed a cliché, but not inaccurate, view that soldiers are merely puppets for rich men’s wars and that glorifying the armed forces is just a sickening way to try and justify ******. Of course, I never shared this view with my father, even if I had, he’d have long forgotten. Whenever he comes back from service, I’m usually in some other part of the world, sitting in an outdoor café, preferring my life. It’s thoughts like this make me feel that I'm more like my mother than I primarily thought. I suppose some may call it selfish, but I merely believe it to be good observation, and therefore an intelligent alternative to what society wants me to believe. We’ll stick with arrogant.

My excuse is that arrogance was part of my job; I had to be correct, all the time. I was in that awkward career position, where I wasn't quite high up enough to be able to fully express my own views and so I had to stick to the hard-line “everything has to be extremely left-wing” approach. Journalism: the home to those who mould the minds of the world; or the breeding ground of *******, if you will. Personally, I was lucky enough to have no permanent boss; essentially I was my own. I wrote my columns for Liberal newspapers all across Europe and they edited them at their own will. It paid the bills, but like my views on my father’s military situation, I still possessed that distaste for the immorality of it all. I still remember my first article. I was 17 at the time, the writing type, enjoyed all things politics. It was for a moderately popular newspaper/magazine company in Western France, named “La Quotidienne”. I’d written a piece on local traders not receiving fair deals for their produce and as a result, the editor had asked me if I’d like to have my own regular column. The column was named “Teen Activist”, which nowadays I deem to be relatively patronising, but it was rather humbling all the same.    

I probably ought to explain some geography. I was born in Surrey, England in 1981 and lived there until my mother decided to move us to France in 1985. The military weren't too pleased with the move, because of course, this made us spies. The whole ordeal was a bit messy, but not really worth noting. We moved to Rennes, which is where today, I would consider home; although I haven’t actually seen home for a good 5 years. I guess the important thing is where I am and where I've been, but as I said before, I’d rather concentrate now on where I'm going. To Belgium, my suitcase is packed once more and my tired passport taped like an extra vital ***** to my wrist (because despite my relentless travelling, I always manage to leave my passport in some unsuspecting hotel room by accident). Blame the occupied mind of a ceaseless traveller.
This is NOT a poem - please feel free, however, to read and comment - every opinion is valued :)
A Thomas Hawkins Jun 2010
My age alone must tell you
I cant be all "that" good
not exactly Sweeney Todd
but not quite Robin Hood

But a nice-ish guy I must surely be
as I sometimes come in last
and as for the good ones dying young
thats a test I think I've passed.
K Balachandran Mar 2015
1.
Look! two butterflies entangled
in the thick of love, try extricating,flapping wings
girl, forget you're a doctor,let love resolve it.
2.
A strawberry touches her lips,
astonished I stop eating my peach;
where does the fruit end, her lips begin?
3.
Your dad is conservative,
mother is moderately appreciative,
every move of amour, has to be  politically sensitive.
4.
On this bikini your body prattles,
a language unintelligible through, I am all ears,
darling, make your body speak, the lingo it truly appreciates.
5.
Water nymph, your bodyhugging dress
simultaneously does myriad things,
talks erotica, tries seduction,makes me a fool fumbling for words.
Glenn McCrary May 2014
"I wish they'd stop going on about it, the things that are unseen but for brief glimpses and shadows, and fully heard. The beings in their closets and under their beds, their voices carried in a wind that isn't there. They stand, stiff, breathing shallow and deep in the lack of light, dripping wet from the storm that didn't happen in this world, muddying up the carpet, mounting with stench. They're not there, you idiots, they're over here, in my eyes, in my head, buried between my lungs and pushing the limits of my bones, my weaknesses. Stop your complaining. If only I could muffle you." ~ Jade Day


DO: Ah, yes. Ms. Day is also a favorite author of mine.

[Anaïs smiles at Do.]

NURSE YUCKI: Really? I actually think that is interesting that we have similar tastes in literature.

DO: I know right!

NURSE YUCKI: I mean she could hook you with just one word.

DO: That she can.

[Do turns his head in another direction; Anaïs looks down as she clears her throat.]

NURSE YUCKI: So how are you feeling Do? Are your emotions gradually beginning to retract back into a more manageable state?

DO: Yeah somewhat, but they are still fluctuating a bit. I think I will be fine.

NURSE YUCKI: Would you like me to monitor you just in case?

DO: No, thank you, Anaïs. I think I can handle my emotions for now, but I will let you know if something comes up.

NURSE YUCKI: Promise?

[Do smiles at Anaïs.]

DO: Promise.

[Do’s stomach began to growl loudly.]

NURSE YUCKI: Ooh. Someone is hungry I am assuming.

DO: Ha ha well your assumption wouldn’t be wrong Anaïs. I am a tad bit hungry actually.

NURSE YUCKI: Well, considering that it is now lunch time, I suggest that you go to the cafeteria and enjoy yourself a lovely, hot afternoon meal. The cafeteria is down the hall to your left and is the third room on your right. In the meantime I think I will take a little detour and purchase some premium foods to consume.

DO: You know that actually wouldn’t be a bad idea.

[Do and Anaïs both laugh in equal synchronization.]

NURSE YUCKI: I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Do.

DO: Yes, you will. Have a great day Anaïs and thanks again

NURSE YUCKI: You’re welcome.

[Anaïs smiles and winks at Do on her way out. Do smiles back. Do then leaves the black room and exits through the entrance. Above Do’s head were signs that helped to direct him to take the proper route, but there was no need for him to read it as Anaïs had already instructed him on how to get there. Do continues walking down the hall until he reaches the third room on his right. There was a big sign above the entrance that said “CAFETERIA”. Do then entered the cafeteria to handfuls of laughter and patients talking amongst themselves while eating the meal of their choice. There was a moderately long line of which Do joined as he waited along with the rest of the patients to receive his lunch. Do noticed that a girl with *****, blonde shoulder length hair was standing in front of him. She was wearing glasses with square black frames much like the glasses that Dr. Nightmare often wore. She had beady eyes of an exceptionally moderate size and her skin was pearly white with a smile that was naturally inviting. She then spotted Do and appropriately began speaking to him.]

SPORE: Hello there. How are you?

DO: I’m doing okay. Yourself?

SPORE: Yeah, I’m alright but I wish this line would move just a little bit faster. This is driving me bonkers. So what’s your name if you don’t mind me asking?

DO: My name is Do.

[Spore reaches out to shake Do’s hand.]

SPORE: Spore. You have a pretty cool name you know?

[Do lightly laughs.]

DO: Well, thank you.

SPORE: You are certainly welcome, Do.

[Spore smiles at Do.]

SPORE: So where are you from?

DO: Like what country am I from or like what city?

[Spore chuckles.]

SPORE: I meant in general silly ha ha.

DO: Well, I’m from North America. I was born in a small town called Springfield, Illinois but I was raised in Memphis, Tennessee.

SPORE: Interesting.

DO: How about you? Where are you from?

SPORE: I am from British Columbia, Canada although I was raised in a small city named Abbotsford.

DO: What was it like there?

SPORE: At times it was weird and some days were worse than others, but I somehow managed to pull through.

DO: So how did you end up in here?

SPORE: Long story short I nearly decapitated my former friend’s head off with a chainsaw then attempted to slit my wrists with it.

[Do looked shocked as he was laughing at Spore’s statement.]

DO: Oooh brutal are we?

SPORE: Hey, ******* be trippin’!

[Both Do and Spore began laughing in equal succession. The line had continued to move forward. It was finally Spore’s turn to select the portions of her meal.]

LUNCH LADY: Good afternoon and welcome to Black Wick Cafeteria. Today’s specials are pizza and fish and shrimp. Today’s sides are coleslaw, biscuits and baked beans with your choice of cocktail or tartar sauce. What would you like?

SPORE: Um… I guess I will take the fish and shrimp with a side of baked beans and cocktail sauce and tartar sauce.

LUNCH LADY: That will be six dollars.

SPORE: That’s fine. You want anything Do? Lunch is on me today.

DO: Yes, I think I’ll have the same thing you are having.

SPORE: Alright then. Excuse me miss but could you add a duplicate order for my buddy Do here.

[The lunch lady nodded and began preparing Do’s order.]

DO: Thank you so much, Spore. I appreciate this more than you know.

SPORE: No problem.

[Spore smiled at Do. As Spore and Do were departing from the lunch line they heard a string of insults follow them as they were searching for a table.]




TABLE #1: Continuez à marcher baiseur. Vous n'êtes pas le bienvenu ici!

TABLE #2: C'est le tableau est réservé pour la belle et que l'intellectuel. Vous êtes trop stupide pour être considéré comme l'un de nous!

TABLE #3: Ahem! Excusez-moi, mais je n'arrive pas à reconnaître le potentiel de développement de la beauté ou de la popularité en vous. S'il vous plaît revenir quand ce jour est arrivé. Merci.


SPORE: Pay them no mind, Do. Just keep walking.


[Spore softly grabs Do’s hand as they are walking.]

WIFI: Hey look guys! Spore’s got a boyfriend.

WIFI’S TABLE: Oooooohhhhhh!!!!!!!

[All of the patients at that were sitting with Wifi began to mock Spore with several fake smooches and hugs. Spore blushed.]

SPORE: You see this is exactly why we never worked out WiFi. You were always so self-centered, narcissistic and desperate. No matter what we said, did or where we went it was always about you.

[Wifi got up and stood in front of the table behind him as he spread his arms out. WiFi had long, wavy, red hair with hazel eyes, and pearly white skin. He wore a black leather jacket with denim blue jeans and leather black boots.]

WIFI: Do you even realize how stupid you sound right now? If it was truly all about me we would have never dated. Think about what you are saying before you speak.

[Spore blushed again.]

SPORE: Yeah well…. Even then still it was about you.

[Spore gently wiped the tears that were streaming from her face. Her nose had turned bright red in response.]

WIFI: Eh what does it matter now? We’re not together anymore so we are wasting our time talking to each other. I’m trying to eat lunch and chill with my peeps. Beat it.

SPORE: *******, Wifi! I am leaving on my own terms not yours!

[WiFi balled his fists as he got up and began running at a speed believed to be faster than Superman. He was about to hit Spore but Do stepped in his way and blocked his punch.]

DO: You will not hit her or you will suffer the consequences.

WIFI: And what if I do? What are you gonna do? Punch me in the face? Are you gonna kick me in the *****? Ha ha I am used to that. Learn some new tricks and then we’ll talk okay. Now move out of my way.

[Spore screamed very loudly as WiFi tried to take another swing at her. Do blocked WiFi’s punch yet again only this time taking his arm and lowering his head as he slid under it. He then stood in the same position as WiFi while still holding his arm and began ramming his right elbow deep into his his nose breaking it upon immediate contact. Do then took WiFi’s wrist and arm and twisted them until they snapped breaking both areas of his arm instantly. He then picked WiFi up and slammed his rib cage directly on his knee and let him drop to the hard, marble floor.]

SPORE: Do stop! That’s enough!

[Spore was crying again as she stood there in shock. Everyone was watching. WiFi was laying across the floor in a fetal position with a small puddle of blood leaking from his broken nose. His eyes were barely open.]

WIFI: Ugh… Ugghh...

SPORE: Come on, Do. We’ll eat lunch outside.

DO: I think that would be a good idea.

SPORE: You and me both.

[Do and Spore grabbed their lunch trays and walked outside. It was sunny and the trees were still without leaves as it was still winter. The breeze was very cold. A musically digital sound began playing in the background. It was Spore’s cell phone.]

SPORE: Oh, and I just got a text from my friends of whom I’d love for you to meet. They want us to come and sit with them.

DO: Alright, I’m down. Where are they sitting?

[A girl with bubblegum pink hair was waving at Spore with a smile on her face.]

SPORE: They are sitting right over there against the brick wall.

DO: Ok then let’s go.

[Do and Spore walk over to the table where Spore’s friends were sitting. They arrive at the table and set their trays down as they took a seat.]

SPORE: Hey guys I have someone that I would like you to meet. Gum and Sweat meet Do. Do meet Gum and Sweat.

GUM: Hello, Do. It is a pleasure to meet you.

SWEAT: Sup Do? Glad to have you.

[Do shook both Gum and Sweat’s hands.]

DO: Hey. It is very nice to meet the two of you. Thank you for introducing me, Spore.

SPORE: No problem.

[Spore smiled once again.]

DO: So how did the three of you meet?

SPORE: Well, first of all I arrived at Black Wick on November 2, 2013. I met Gum later that evening as we were assigned as roommates. It wasn’t until about a week later that I met Sweat. He was fencing when we met and he finished then took off his fencing mask to greet me.

SWEAT: Ha ha yeah, I remember that. Those were some pretty memorable days eh?

GUM: Indeed they were.

DO: Where are you from Gum?

GUM: Oh, I’m from Oklahoma but I was living in Las Vegas, Nevada before I got here. Let me tell you I got into lots of mischief during that time. The parties were crazy and the night clubs were always packed. I hooked up with numerous guys and girls. I even did coke and **** do I regret that. I am never doing that ever again, but drinking is acceptable.

DO: How about you Sweat? Where are you from?

SWEAT: Oh, I’m from Memphis, TN but I was living in Cordova before being dumped in this hellhole.

DO: Dude no way! I live in Cordova too.

SWEAT: Really bro? That’s dope.

DO: I know right! So Spore who was that guy who was harassing you in the cafeteria?

SPORE: Oh yeah I almost forgot about that. The guy’s name is Willard Fike but everyone calls him WiFi due to his extensive computer programming and networking skills. He even knows how to build and send viruses to computers. Me and WiFi used to date which was long before the two of us ever ended up in here. One day we got into a very heated argument.

[The scene flashes to a black and white filtered memory. Spore and WiFi are standing in the middle of a living room arguing really loudly.]

SPORE: So you think it is ok to mug someone late at night as they are walking home?! What if somebody had saw you?! Do you have any idea what happened?!

WIFI: Look I don’t give a **** alright! I don’t have a job! I needed money! What the **** did you expect me to do?! Huh???!!! Answer me!!!!!!!

SPORE: You could try checking the job ads in the paper. You could try job searching within the city. There is no valid enough excuse as to why you mugged that innocent pedestrian.

WIFI: Well I don’t like being broke you can ride with me or you can go and **** yourself. Pick one!

SPORE: If money is important enough to sacrifice your dignity then perhaps you are better off broke because you deserve a dime and you sure as hell won’t be receiving a cent from me.

[WiFi one-two punched Spore deeply in her stomach and then punched her squarely in the eye before delivering an uppercut. Spore was laying on the floor crying as WiFi began searching the room for cash.]

SPORE: WE ARE OVER! DO YOU HEAR ME????!!!!! OVER!!!!!!!

WIFI: I DON’T GIVE A ****!!!!!

[WiFi begins searching around the room for cash. He searches for about 5 minutes before settling on a sum of $500 of which he found in Spore’s mother’s purse. Spore picked up her cell phone and attempted to the call the kkkkkpolice when  WiFi suddenly placed  a pistol to her temple and pulled back the trigger.]

WIFI: I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Put the **** phone down now before I **** you.

[Spore did as she was told and dropped the phone. WiFi took the phone and threw it into the fish tank behind him.]

WIFI: Now you won’t ever be able to make calls to anyone.

SPORE: You know you are never going to get away with this.

WIFI: Technically, I already have. The question is who is going to stop me?

[WiFi left right after he asked that question slamming the door hard as he walked out.]

[The scene flashes back to the present.]

SPORE: I never was the same after that night.

DO: And he got away just like that?

SPORE: Well word got around fast and the cops caught up with him two days later following a string of police reports. I filed the day following the event so I guess you could say that I set it off.

SWEAT: Still, that’s sad though.

SPORE: I know and as Do and I were looking for a place to sit, a bunch of patients started hurling random insults at us in French and that was when I came across WiFi. Him and his buddies were mocking us and saying that we were a couple when that couldn’t be further than the truth.

DO: You say that almost as if you are ashamed of me, ha ha.

SPORE: I’m sorry, Do. You know that’s not what I meant.

DO: Yeah, I know.

[Spore gives Do a hug.]

SPORE: How do you feel now?

DO: Better.

SPORE: Anyway me and WiFi got into another argument while in the cafeteria and he tried to run up and attack me. Luckily Do was there to protect me. He basically ****** WiFi up. I seriously wanted to laugh at how much of a ***** Do made him look. The guy was lying across the floor in a fetal position whining. I couldn’t have asked for a better picture.

[The four them laughed together in equal succession. Another loud noise overlapped their laughter from behind the wall. It was the sound of two voices moaning. Both of the voices were female.

GUM: What was that?

SPORE: I have no idea.

SWEAT: Don’t know. Don’t care bro.

DO: I think I’ll go and have a look just to see what’s going on.

[The moaning continued and became increasingly louder as Do walked around the edge of the wall and behind it. He found two Caucasian girls completely half naked. Both girls were laying across the grass in the sixty-nine position eating each other out.]

DO: This is going to be fun.

[Do chuckled and smiled as his ******* grew.]
Fred Schrott Jul 2014
There’s a favorite culinary dish in town;
it’s known as the synapse shish kebab.
It’s high in protein as well as fat, and it comes
with a garlic-infused broccoli rabe,
available with a choice of couscous or rice.
The palate will most likely be enticed, just like
another common John who swears to us that he
again has done absolutely nothing wrong.
It pairs nicely with an eighties chenin blanc,
gray matter that’s grilled to sheer perfection,
smoked all day, and is guaranteed satisfaction,
seemingly like an old, rambling rolling stone.
The lights are on—but nobody’s buying homes.
An opera singer that is deaf to certain tones,
this is definitely not regal crumpets and tea—
“heart-healthy nutrition,” all our medics agree.
There’s a new critically acclaimed dish around;
it’s the slow-roasted synapse shish kebab,
moderately priced, and portions are family style—
passed-down secret recipes from west of the Nile,
and also numbers that won’t make your wallet sob
like a big, bad, dark, overly loaded cloud.
Give it a try, and then shout it out loud:
synapse shish kebab!
From, The Transitive Nightfall Of Diamonds, due out 8/14 from iUniverse books
Thomas M Franey Aug 2015
I sit, in my prison of fears, dreams, hopes and consequences thinking,
I am thinking about my life, but most  importantly, what I want and desire. Tonight my thought is of you, as I look back and ask why? Why do I care, why do I feel, and why did I give my true love and honour.

In better times, you were the symbol of fun, new hope, and excitement.
I laughed a bit more, taste the fruits just a bit better, and saw the colours a bit brighter as excitement ran through my veins. I remembers days conversing about everything and nothing, exploring each other's favorite music, dance, style, and humour.

I grown to trust as a friend and romance as a prospect as I seen bits and pieces in you that I have not seen in others. As comfort set, so did fear and anxiety of the next chapter. It hindered, broke, scared, and hurt us. We experience forces that successfully broke us out of envy and jealousy of our closeness. Half the times we were stronger, other times, weaker as other people painted green while we only saw mud brown.

I spent many upbeat nights , dancing in my mind the beauty of the friendship and the words once said, and many nights crying, for the pain and hurt that is inflicted.

I will always not understand everything, especially the small magic that occurred as sometimes I feel insignificant to the only person I feel who is the most significant.

For the first time, I held the hand that shaken, cleaned the tears of confusion and pain, and gave only from my soul and heart, because I  just know it felt right. I watch every time unneeded, I become again void as once again I am imprisoned under negative energy and mirrors.

Always looking to cracked the bad mirror to prove the beauty and love within me, asking for a glare of notice, because as every day unfolds, I have a basic feeling of deep admiration and love solely on the history and fantasy combined we created. And I have no fear as the worst always have happened, leaving deeper in sorrow.

I realize I am a failure, not because I fail, but I found a reason to refuse to fail, as my stubborn heart persists and my mind fights. Despite the exposure of love and acceptance, for each positive influence I experience, I cannot fully appreciate as I wait for the perfect connection between what I admire and my self-reflection. When I promise to cross waters without swimming, taking hits without shields, and stopping time to fulfill my integrity, I meant it deeply as I have already executed my words.

Many times that I have drowned, shot by criticism from within and afar, broke past self budgeting, and surpass my expected limitations, I just know would do it all over again just to reflect on my mistakes to give a better story. It is my creed.

I may be a fool in many eyes, but finding a diamond with so many colourful flaws is very rare to me, and cannot be duplicated in effort or by chance. Seeing someone hold your hand as I wrapped in cold quietness is my pain, as I run out of ideas to bring forth the smile I have seen before, and the meaningful tears of love I once heard. If you were  colour, you are that shade of violet. Very loud, misunderstood, never available in most settings, but yet the shade that always sang to me.

Crucify me for being an idiot for loving, as I stand by whom I chose as my twin flames of friendship. I miss you because I have too. Some days I am glad I met someone who taught me that I could love for real, and some days I regret demeaning myself. I am guilty by creed.

As i always say, you given me spontaneous energy , in which gave my life some flavour beyond salty-boring. This here, what I am saying now, is just another random of spice to add to the ***, but in deep honesty, this is farther from the truth of randomization. I have written this starting from months ago, only in heart in mind, only to be transposed as words today.  I plea insanity, I plea the fifth, but I plea for recognition as I am guilty of melting by your presence. I refuse to walk the lines of this magic as a failure.

I offer my heart, eyes, soul, wisdom, fruits and prospects, just to see the smiling thanks and admiration I saw before existence of my deeper prison. Let me drink a cup of java and dance the floor of reality one day, and I promise the music will be more than moderately dismal. Within many days, we could choose to flour that pasta, and dip it into the sauce I prepared slowly. Let's ad-lib some more words into a book, and see what the sunset really looks like. With all of me, Peace.

Thomas~
Deepest and truest words I can spell that can explain 10% of what I'm feeling and what I see. If hawking can find a way out of a black-hole. So can I? Maybe I should delete this.
Well then; I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
      And they (methinks) deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
      Of this great hive, the city.

  Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
      And since love ne’er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
      Only belov’d, and loving me.

  O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eas’d of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?
      Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood:
Here’s wealthy Nature’s treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
      Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.

  Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
      The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
      That ’tis the way too thither.

  How happy here should I
And one dear she live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
      I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
      And so make a city here.
Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.

Electra-girl squeals,
“**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,

shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.

Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,

Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,

Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.

Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.

Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.
Kevin T Wilson Jul 2013
They all seem discursive and scattered,
Why would these curses ever matter?
Who will command stillness to wickedness so desolate and dead?
Partly I lay feeble in the head.

I am leisurely in limbo and moderately consoled.
I'm uncalled for and ribald ,but accounted.
Everything fit in place!
Ethical with a little slowness ,and a touch of corruption.
What was happiness is now a presumption,
Evolving and clawing threw this crushed creation.
Living is somber with a fatal fixation,

With all these things taken into consideration...
I am completely unchallenged with this sad situation.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.on a lighter note, from what you'll find included below... the Rolling Stones or the Beatles? well... as well when asking the question John Coltrane or Miles Davies, or, or... Bach, Mozart, or Beethoven... in the last case? the latter. **** me... he loved music so much that he became deaf... just like Homer became blind; god, i love these famous instances of benevolent reasoning; with its cruel culminating outcome / closure... fate, it would seem... but then the sly nudge by something akin to... well i'm unsure which i prefer: Michelangelo's creation of Adam... or Rembrandt's Belshazzar's Feast... i think (but not doubt) that i'm more fond of the latter depiction.

i seriously only have a couple
of words to make a counter-argument...
this won't take long,
this is not going to become
one of those video tirades
  (Beethoven's ode to joy
is still playing in the background,
and yes, i am moderately sober,
i had to cook up a butter chicken
curry with a coriander
    and mind chutney for the chapaties...
chap chap... bud bud...
you want a stereotypical
Apu from the Simpsons?
just watch Australia's master-chef
from this year,
and look up a guy called
Sashi Cheliah...
    buddy bud bud... you get
the picture; it's his recipe...
   curry all day, curry in the morning,
curry in the afternoon,
curry in the evening,
dreaming of curry)...
internet de-platforming...
isn't it... technically illegal?
       just curious...
because...
             my internet provider cannot
exactly switch off my access
to the internet...
like a bailiff...
   i'm not paying the electricity bills,
so they come, and switch off
my electricity supply...
   what "we're" talking about is
a case of illegality...
   to de-platform you'd require
a service provider to implement sound
justifications...
but then...
   paradox avenue:
    they're not getting the money
needed to be a service provider...
so... i'm only supposed to have
the infrastructure of buying ****
online, and banking online...
   STOP ******* UP WITH THE *******
PLAYGROUND! PUT THE SAND
BACK INTO THE SANDBOX...
PUT THE WATER BACK INTO
THE TRAFALGAR SQ. FOUNTAIN!
it's illegal...
              why aren't the hardware
companies, beating the living **** out
of these software providers?
websites are software,
they're not the computers,
the cables, the workload of Atlases...
****... this is becoming a tirade
worthy of a video...
but Beethoven's ode to joy is playing
in the background,
and i never feel like talking...
itchy fingers you see...
the devil has work for idle hands...
it's illegal...
   because it bypasses the terms
of agreement you already made with
the internet providers...
so what... you can only do so much
on the internet?
these people have paid
for their internet connection!
                 what, a, load, of, *******;
so? ensure they pay less
for their internet access...
  given that a limited internet access
is being implemented...
i'm already past being ******
off at the jukebox...
       now i'm fuming... kettle mad
just around the time when
the water starts to boil.
Caroline Dec 2013
I remember the exact day and the exact time when you made the choice to get involved in my life.
I remember the first words you said to me, in person and online.
I remember how we would stay up all night, just to sleep in all day because we thought everything was more exciting at night.
I remember that you were the first person I'd talk to when I'd wake up and the last at night.
I remember telling you that I thought I was a mistake and you told me how I was perfect in every little way.
I remember where I was and what I was doing the first time you ever said "I love you."

I remember when you decided to leave for two weeks.
I remember when those two weeks turned into two months.
I remember when you came back and promised to be "moderately present."
I remember that to me, it seemed like all you wanted to do was get high.
I remember that you became to busy for me.
I remember that it seemed like you were my entire world but I was just tiny peeble in your hand that you liked to play with.
I remember exactly what I said to you on the last day we talked.
I remember when we stopped saying "I love you."

*-c.a.
After taking a phone call,
My nosy ears overheard
An incident involving a
Female coworker flirting
With a male coworker.
Rather, she was joking
Around with him
Out of boredom.

He said he had a wife,
And she asked if he would
Allow her to be his mistress.
The man made a complaint
To a supervisor, and she
Was moderately reprimanded.

The one accused did not
Think he would take
It so seriously.


I cannot help but think
He would not have felt
Offended if he found her
Attractive, no matter how
Supposedly devout he is to his wife.
If anything it would have
Flattered his ego,

And if it was vice versa
I believe the same
Principle would apply.
The paradoxical predictability
Of Human subjectivity.


(c) 2015 Brandon Antonio Smith
sort-of falls in line with
a certain sense of humour;
a certain need for extravagantly epic Music;

Truest of Metal
is an extension, an expression,
of the disciplines of:
Practice, Patience, and Study
in the realm of Music
as well as whatever Instrument;
some of it is, indeed, simply noise
but, then again,
Music is but ordered noise,
is it not?

I see little separation
from Classical and Metal;
though Classical came first
Metal learned what works and why
from what came before;
a sort-of Musical evolution
a sort-of Cognitive evolution
a sort-of inspiration;

Metal music has great potential,
Metal is akin to Blues and Jazz
Metal is akin to Spanish Classical Guitar
Metal is akin to Baroque styles
Metal is akin to Gregorian chants
as well as rhythmic elements
derived from the Music
of various Cultures and Tribes
worldwide.

Metal
is a moderately tongue in cheek
melting ***
for lots of styles,
and, honestly,
lots of Drugs,
such as :alcohol and nicotine
and high-energy Music;

Truest of Metal
is an Art and a Science,
and, to some,
even a Religion.
Writ while listening to the following with my roomates:

Death, Live in Eindhoven:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtsduQ9aBY

Extracurricular:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4GZFbCqx18 <-- Hot for Teacher - Van Halen
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nM__lPTWThU <-- Painkiller - Judas Priest
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9AbeALNVkk <-- We're Not Gonna Take it - Twisted Sister
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YI3KMGHWjvo <-- Jambi - Tool
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i-txTXQKVA8 <-- The *** - Tool
Odd Odyssey Poet Sep 2022
Stardust in your eyes, fairy tale inspiration
of the princess I can see
I'm just sad; a poetic anomaly, and the social
deviate from being any standard of someone to love
But I gave you my heart—to concede the respect of your
royal family ties to love a moderately *******

We could find the keys to lock our love in wedlock
beneath the solid surface of desires nightly
imaginations of the best positions to get that perfect
bedrock

You're waking up in the long creases of short socks
as it's human nature to want to increase
An increase in the funds to afford the fun
of a light-hearted pleasure under the lights of stars
And I could count them all, but they'd seem less
than my scars

Still its astronomical of all the particles of earth
that I'm always struck by your eyes stardust
Nicole Bataclan Oct 2014
I got drunk on life
This time, like every time
The old trick works on me
I am just happy enough
Until I have had one too many

Then everything is buzzing
Fuzzy thoughts and accurate feelings

I carry on
As if my gut still permits it
Before promising, I learned my lesson
From overindulging.

This time, I will be more vigilant
Life tastes delicious;
But I should sip gently
Unless it is yet another hungover
From decisions I could regret long after

Then everything is buzzing
Accurate thoughts and fuzzy feelings

Drink moderately, or else I will be
Easily intoxicated
On this plethora of life experience
This time, I shall only get a little tipsy.
EricM Apr 2018
Two girls deeply in love
But torn with jealousy over the man
The other slept with

A tall brunette in casual attire
And a smaller girl wild-eyed, black curls
In a college t-shirt

I offered them drinks in honor
Of their love on hiatus
And dreamed ever so boldly
To be caught for a moment
In the crossfire of their
Boundless desire

But the on again off again
Lapse of judgement made them
Unable to stay locked in that embrace
And I'm left with the ***** Cranberry
Who is unfortunately much less
Receptive to my advances
Showing me pictures of her boyfriend
Military and buff

While the Gin & Tonic departed
To recover her confidence after
Being scorned by the tall brunette
One too many times and forgot
All about the drink I promised to buy

Always coming back to gently spread
Her knees and wedge herself between
Her thighs only to be pushed back
Briskly to the barroom crowd
And the ***** Cranberry reminds
Me again of the sad situation that
Split them up in the first place

I leave for a cigarette and come back to
The same adorable scene and waited
For a beer until I heard one of the girls speak
"I think this man at the bar loves us."
I suggested innocently how disappointed
I would be if I didn't see them kiss
At least once that night

The Gin & Tonic pressed close against
The ***** Cranberry to deliver the sweetest
Kiss upon her cheek and I was moderately
Satisfied at that expression in spite of knowing
How it paled in comparison to the true passion
That burned in their loveliest of hearts

As I was leaving I asked,
After resigning myself to chasteness,
For a quick kiss on the cheek
To say goodbye and was met with
The same hesitation you wasted
On each other all night

But, oh, if you two loved yourselves
The way I loved you both that night
You wouldn't waste so much time
Because even though we are
On separate paths in life
We are really on the same path
And you two were so close to it
That night and I wanted nothing more
Than to journey down that road with you

So I kissed you both anyway
And I walked home alone
With a grin on my face
And hoped that you two
Wouldn't make the same mistake
these Sunday mornings feel like endless seas
I’m slowly floating toward the horizon
immersed in bluish mist through which
the rising sun sends warming rays

sleepy I gaze through frosted window panes
     there is a world out there
yet somehow all that I can see
are hazy shapes of luscious breakfast items
set upon the table beckoning
together with the morning papers
for me to settle down and eat and read
     without time’s breath upon my neck
no need to hurry   jump into my clothes
rush out and try to catch the bus

the news is terrible as usual
but somehow less important than on other days
whether the stocks are high or low
abroad   at home   the dollar falls or rises
affects me moderately at best

it seems a lazy morning spawns a lazy brain
noises of busy-ness seek access here in vain
headlines are read without concern and soon forgotten
all systems are content with letting go
and feel besotten with the prospect of a pleasurable day

     nice picknick on the common green
     a game of badminton to have some exercise
     delicious dinner at my favorite restaurant
    
night comes much earlier than you surmise
on your way home you see the half-moon rise
you vaguely wonder where the day has gone
before you rest your head after no work well done
fleabag Sep 2019
Her name is Sapling,
a tree with calm and quiet chirpy personality
She lives her life the way it is.

When one a day comes,
Zephyr, the wind,
suddenly caress her soul moderately
Sapling can do nothing
Nothing, to stop it from coming
and devouring itself.

Why can't Sapling do anything?

A choice to fight over oblivious Zephyr
from hurting her,
from how Zephyr slaps her leaves
and sometimes even letting it fall to the ground
like an ordinary *******,
from how Zephyr swung Sapling's stems,
making it dance like it had just agreed to
but it never did.

Sapling stays calm in every idyllic second of her life
but that was before Zephyr came,
now, she was fuming
for Zephyr had caused great downfall to Sapling's life
Every little thing Zephyr had done to her
meant a lot to her.

Yet, there is only one thing Sapling had not known:
Zephyr had no choice either.
I am 'Sapling' and my love for him is 'Zephyr'
Chanell Bush Apr 2013
My Father wears a
Cologne of dirt and sweat,
cowboy hat and boots,
a moderately large belt buckle,
and a salt and pepper mustache.

When he sees me
his face lights up
and he embraces me
engulfing me in his
familiar scent.

"My baby" he murmurs
as his hands smooth my
hair. "Te Quiero Mucho"
he says as his lips make
contact with my forehead.

"I love you too much",
he translates. It feels as if
my heart is going to break
and my eyes well up with tears
"I Love You, Too" I choke.

This is met with another
embrace, kisses on my
cheeks, his stubble scratching
rather than tickling my skin,
and the touch of his forehead to mine.

Once a month for
16 years, this is what
has always happened. But
now the ritual is ended and my
Father's Cologne is only a memory.
You make my hormones rush, baby, and I can make you laugh with recycled clever-sounding comments while you uphold decent conversation on your end.
You dress in a way that makes me notice the curves of your upper thigh and angles of your wrists.  We have so many platonic(?) tickle wars and pillows fights.  My arm goes around your neck when watching a movie at a friend’s, but I let it hover over the cushion of the couch.  Let’s not be hasty here.
Come on, baby, let’s kiss during a casual conversation outside the high school one day, and from there feel obligated to date for a one-to-three month period.
I want to hold your hand in the hallway, but not in front of girls I find particularly attractive.
I want to publicly display our lust affection in moderately meaningful situations.  Like lunch.
I want to say “I love you,” because I feel like it’s the right thing to do.
Come on, baby, let’s go see three action movies and a romantic comedy in the span of our relationship.  Let’ s have a single dinner out to Olive Garden, and not get dessert.  Let’s bake cookies at your house afterwards, and have your mom and dad step in every few minutes to check on us.
I want your dad to make smalltalk with me, baby.  I want to give concise answers, and keep the conversation to a minimum.  I want to have a weird ****** tension with your mom, and act cooler than I am to your little brother.
Let’s just kiss for far longer than necessary, until our lips become chapped our cheeks sopping wet.  I want to undo your bra with both hands (and a little aid), and feel your snowy *******.  I want to **** on your ******* for the first time, and be inexplicably disappointed from the experience.
Baby, let me put my fingers in you and focus on the wrong places.  I want to use our mouths, and have you give up halfway through and make me finish on my belly.  Baby, let’s be make a mess due to our discomfort with our own ****** interaction.
Sleep with me, baby.  Let’s do it.  I want to give you the best six minutes of your life, finish early, and be apologetic, yet still confused over how good I was.  I want you to smile politely and kiss my cheek afterwards.
Let’s break up, baby.  This isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  Let’s make a mess of our clique and make them pick sides.  Let us oversympathize with our standpoint, baby.  I want to hate you for no reason.  And I want to cry over what seems like everything.
Baby, I want to reconcile and have an uncomfortable friendship.  I want us to date other people, and feel weird about it.  I want one of us to be single down the line, and in the middle of a casual conversation, kiss you, and then I want to do it with you again.
I want to be somewhat improved from last time, but not great by any means.
I want to make our friendship more rocky than ever before, baby, and be far more interested in doing it again than you.
I want to make a friendship impossible.
Let’s do it, baby.
Hey, are you ticklish?
© David Clifford Turner, 2010

For more scrawls, head to: www.ramblingbastard.blogspot.com
Kyla Mae Pliskie Oct 2013
Chaotic material twisting around brain cells
Body aching for a sense of vacancy.
Dimming the lights to brighten perception
Affections dismissed, craving nothing but darkness.
I see better with the blinds closed.
I feel better when there’s nothing left.
Undressed, suppressed, a shattering mess of dust
And debris
Collecting behind strained eyes
Making patterns that don’t make any sense.
Grab hold on to secure structures
Lightly
They crumble with the weight they collect.
Injecting affliction directly in my veins
Moderately conscious,
Moderately oblivious.
SCREAMING emphatically
For an ounce of rain.
Screaming to release this dirt
This disease
Crawling across this race we feed
It’s stale. We are deserted.
Incarcerated in our own complications
The freedom we seek is not
From above
The dove is also infected
I’m tempted to carve their shadows
Right out of the skyline.
Sam Schedler Jan 2012
One of the best things in life
is being is a super loud and busy coffee shop.
You can hum the song stuck in your head at a moderate volume
without looking like a ******
who hums moderately loudly
in public place.

One of the worst things in life
is having a serious conversation with someone you respect
and discovering they have a quite visible ****** in their nose.
Do you let them know about it?
Awkward.
Sitting packed in the back
of a semi-decrepit white Subaru
belonging to the Swedish Harpist
driven by the Romanian Drummer
with a literal car-full
of perfectly tetrised musical instruments,
including:

Four cymbals, two toms, a hi-hat, and a stool,
a Celtic double-Harp,
an electric Piano,
and two guitars
(an acoustic-electric twelve-string and an electric six-string)
with a few days' clothing
and, not knowing where we're sleeping, a sleeping bag,
all the while
devouring Matza and pumpkin seeds
(that we bought at Trader Joe's)
as we barrel moderately safely
down various back roads and Highways
in this car weighted as a truck and driven as a motorcycle
towards enigmatic San Francisco
to play a couple shows,
two days in a row:

one, at a literally underground Theatre
(in which improv comedy is, apparently, king of kings)
smack-dab 'pon the border of Union Square,
and another, for a private birthday party
typified by oh so many avid Burners.

Surely, our Psychedelic Jazz Funk-Rock
will find some empathic ears!

Y'know, last summer,
when I said I wanted
to be in a Gypsy Band,
I sure didn't see this coming:
this is pretty ******* Gypsy,
in my observational opinion.

Well,
here I am,
and I even asked for it.

For us three,
this will certainly be
an interesting few days,
down in the Bay,
on our way to play
wherever it is we may,
and all I can say
is: "Okay,
this is the stuff
books are made of,"
and, "Well,
time to live
one hell of a story!"
And it was so;
life is best lived
and so often is wasted
on the living.
I'm so glad I set aside the time to type this up.
I uploaded this when I got home,
but the notion was conceived of in said circumstance.
Revisions may yet occur, but I feel most of them are over.

Both shows were great.
We were very well received.
We made $50 in tips in the first hour we played the Theatre:
three cheers for drunk old ladies!
Wow, that sounds incriminating.
Oh well.
I even made a few friends along the way!  

Discussed on the trip were such topics as:
Philosophy, Taoism, Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Carl Jung, paganism, shamanism, botany, intoxication, Terrance McKenna, sobriety, authority, subversion, art, technology, music,  musicology, anthropology, ethnomusicology, acoustics, physics, calculus, geometry, numerology, symbology, language, etymology, linguistics, magic, the Occult, Tarot, I Ching, psychology, mythology, geology, astrology, astronomy, ethics, economics, death, life, love, lust, enlightenment, transcendence, bliss, hope, fear, pain, illusion, religion, politics, acting,  and how glorious Western culture is.

Interesting people,
to say the least.
Ha! and I had hopes
for a better ending.

Placing my hand on the window pane, I felt it knocking
outside, as the rain ****** buckets and washed my car.
Every few seconds, the sky was talking,
but I would never let it in.

I stepped down into a dour acceptance
and bought a moderately-priced raincoat.
The spitting sky would never cease
And I began to imagine which items I owned could float.

I wished I chose swimming lessons over piano,
but at least because of it I had one.
I figured it might become a useful raft
if indeed no one ever again sees the sun.

How much water can fit under the sky? I wondered,
and at what depth will my body finally rest?
I realized I hadn't the time to consider intangibles
or to issue to God any vague, indirect requests.

I pressed my forehead against the glass, just stop!
There was a moat between houses now,
with pets and telephone poles and trees as islands.
The chill of cataclysm began to freeze my brow.

Later on my roof wearing my raincoat I daydreamed
about the things I loved underneath the silvery-grey.
I waved to my neighbor and he sadly waved back,
and I held up my glass of wine and watched the world wash away.
Morgan Ella Oct 2012
take big, messy bites of plums and pomegranates. carry a pocket knife. use it to clean your teeth. in public especially. if people notice- smile and wave. then go back to plucking the skins out. collect moderately priced perfume and wear a spray or two too much. every day. grow out your nails, grow out your hair. then when the compliments come, clip them short. paint them black. bury your eyes in a buried book. change your routine. wake up an hour earlier and go on a jog, get coffee and a fresh croissant. keep your head up.  exchange the air for flavored smoke. stare unapologetically. buy some new *******. put on your favorite lipstick and kiss the mirror. dance to that song every time it comes on. even if there are people in the room. sing into a hair brush and make them want to join in. buy a new box of crayons. wear them down to pathetic little nubs. buy yourself fresh flowers. laugh so hard that people can see if you have cavities. even way in the back. be sure to eat the things that cause them. drink coffee and flavored beer. curse. get tattoos. fall in love, then fall back out. pack up their ****, or pack up yours. or maybe leave it all behind. ride a carousel. wear a push up bra and steel toed boots. tell ridiculous lies to people you'll never see again. make funny faces at children when their parents aren't looking. give presents often. challenge yourself to learn a new language. then learn two. leave the cabinets open, and fill them with dishes that don't match. not even a little bit. compliment old ladies. make paper flowers. write love notes. walk slowly past grave yards. get your hands *****. be shameless and loving. own your mistakes. learn from them. even if you have to make them more than once. be courageous and content. stand up for yourself when you need to, be kind- even to yourself. and if someone gives you a reason to smile, make sure you do it. often.
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
Hello old friend...
Across from me he sits, fixed, his cold gaze like a winters reflection
No sun, no motion, just done
I'm not even sure he's capable of emotion
And the real man inside, he's seen by no one
Except me, I see...
I see a semi good looking, moderately attractive man
Doing the best he can to get out of **** it and I don't give a **** land
Trying to hide the brand of a misfit that's been burnt into his hand
Before it gets out of hand
Not even sure if I can, I mean he can, I mean we can
Change the plan enough to rage the river and bust through the dam
The whole things a sham
The t-top trans am and all the glam
Just put into place to hide who I really am
I mean, who he really is, I mean who we really are
He's gone to far in the wrong direction, he's lost the farm
He didn't see the harm in projecting his charm
How could he have known that presenting a false hand would lead to the loss of an arm
Maybe he thought it a false alarm
Maybe he couldn't see the danger through the swarm
Or maybe, just maybe, it was to loud between his ears to hear, confused the warning siren for a victory horn
Now the fire inside is a flicker, the passion for life only luke warm
And he's worn a grove in the floor as he passes, fighting with the desire to have never been born
Feeling like a child from under the stairs or of the corn
Forced to adorn a smile he's worn just to hide the scorn
Being ****** by life to the brink of death, almost a ***** ****
Sworn in my the devil, when the sediment settles no one will mourn
His dreams ripped from his hands, left alone to weather the storm
Cold and frightened, not even a recognizable life form
Torn between being himself or having to conform
The norm unattainable like a hunt for a unicorn
So he gave up, and who could blame him
A Titanic adventure, sink or swim, the chance of survival slim
The future grim, on unlevel ground, in need of a shim
His life a synonym for the darkness within
Told over and over again that it's up to him
Up to him to make a better life but where to begin
His light goes dim as he recalls a hymn
That use to give him hope but now it's like a dead limb
Useless as a possums survival mechanism
He looks directly in my eyes while I listen
Almost begging for advise but there's non to be given
What would you say to me? I mean, what would you say to him?

©2018
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i'd hate to be rich, given the sentiment of the following statement: the rich can do whatever they want. to be able to do whatever the hell you want? must be boring, too many avenues to transverse... the allure of: what would it be like, to have not explored a certain avenue... i like restrictions, thinking in terms of boxes, thinking inside boxes rather than outside of them... what the hell would i do with the ultimate freedom, would feel like a *******, after which you'd be hungering for an ****, and then a harem... given my own restrictions: the most mundane can become the most entertaining, while the most "entertaining" can become the most mundane... which is a step-up from biology, it's become zoological... given my restrictions... almost nothing can be tinged with the malaise, the boredom, the nausea of: an uninhibited life; ah, the subtle defiance from said freedom, through excesses (like drinking), coupled with a rigor, a discipline.

only one venture into ontology
curbs my rage...
fear...
              if i didn't fear something,
anything, nothing... god...
i'd lash out...
        which makes me
                 a peculiar drunkard...
having a drunk conversation?
no... a big no no...
        but you know...
going to some martial arts class...
and getting kicked in
the ***** by the, "teacher",
for not vocalizing a martial arts
march of intimidating poses...
not ushering out a HA
with every step?
the disciplinary action taken?
the fact that i didn't make complaints,
but instead rolled into a fetal
position?
           abortion?
  oh i'm pro abortion,
   if you're anti-abortion you're
anti-*******.
and the woman is basically
a hermaphrodite...
since once your fertility juice
leaves your body,
it's her property...
   she own it, and you
included...
      **** having a premature
fathering complex with
the line: but it's my baby...
and the toilet paper is
my bomb, when i do
the one, two and three on
the throne of thrones...

cogito ergo sum needs to change...
to fit the existentialist model...
the old argument run along
the Kantian lines of: time...

   question:
   is viva / esse (life / being) a priori to essentia?
****** question about whether existence
predates the essence of life...
evidently esse a posteriori essentia:
life comes after the essence,
since... by only being alive we can
begin to grasp the essence of life...
hence the question:
what's the meaning of life?
well... you have to be alive to begin with.
so does that mean that i am
actually a vehicle of and for
an abortion?
          is a possibility, a potential of
life, actually moving my body around,
is my ego an abortion?

viva ergo essentia...
or... esse ergo essentia...
       given that:
thought is an ontological boogie man...
since not all thought translates /
permeates into the ontological structure
that's being, or moderately known
as the, "self"...

how can a fathering instinct even
begin to kick in when there's no
baby in your hands,
but some, weird... ***** abomination
in the woman's oven?

****... all the rights you need...
better that, than enforced labor,
and the subsequent alimony payments...

life, therefore its essence, from what
come with it and after what it
was, nihil: nothing.

this of course stems from a critique of
Sartre...
   given:            esse (being) is neither
a priori (from the prior)
  or a posteriori (from the after)...
it's both...
        so this miracle of existence,
the universe, etc.
is founded upon:
            contradictory statements...
paradoxes...
                 a duality, within a dichotomy;
like...
                ( +, - )... a battery.
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
Dear White Male Legislators,
I had no idea you all have vaginas!
It seems like you can all take them on and off
At exactly the instances in which it benefits you politically.
Perry, *******, Bright
You all seem pretty concerned with making reproductive rights for women
Fairly obsolete.

Dear White Male Legislators,
You see, we, as females, do not have the option
Of running the other way if our partner gets pregnant
Leaving her in the dust of our mistakes
Being able to pay a fee every month
Not because we care about our children
But because it will keep our deadbeat ***** from seeing the inside of a jail cell
No, we as women do not have those choices
Men do.
And our bodies are not made for your
Political platform or religious debate
No, our figures exist because we exist
And we are people, too.

Dear White Male Legislators,
Our bodies are ours
And they do not belong to a male-dominated government
That seeks to attack them and by doing so
Deems **** culture socially acceptable
Without uttering a word about it.

Dear White Male Legislators,
Have you experienced the shame or stigma
That comes along with even just visiting an abortion clinic's website?
Clearly, if you are ***** and your abuser is not kind enough to use a ******
Not having your body shut down as you say and I quote happens during
"Legitimate ****"
Putting yourself and your unborn descendent at risk if you deliver
Having *** and being unable to deal with the unintended consequences
Makes you a *****, a ****, or a *****
While the man who put you in this position
Cannot control his urges to knock up the first woman he finds even moderately attractive.

Dear White Male Legislators,
You must be pretty important
If you can play God and judge all of these helpless women
Call what they are doing a sin
And **** them to Hell both
In death and in life.

Dear White Male Legislators,
I hope you never get any woman pregnant
Who hopes to be even slightly independent
Or make any decisions on her own
Especially if they involve the rights to her body.
With you,
She will be a byproduct of sexism
And so will your offspring.

Dear certain White Male Legislators,
In closing,
If you truly care about the good of our country and its people
Never procreate.

— The End —