Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
judy smith Jun 2015
The enthusiasm of ***** Gobé and Maria Paloma Fuentes is palpable. Riding high on the initial success of their summer collection of children’s clothes, the two French business graduates are planning their next sales moves, both online and through multi-brand boutiques.

The chic edge-to-edge jackets, Bermuda shorts and berets would probably look at home on the rails of Printemps or Galeries Lafayette. Yet their start-up company, Mini Bobi, is not based in Paris. It is in Suzhou, a couple of hours’ drive from Shanghai.

The two Skema alumnae are among the growing number of French graduates who are looking for their first job in China. One catalyst has been the rush of European business schools to establish campuses in China, run joint degree programmes with Chinese universities and set up internship programmes in Beijing and Shanghai.

What is more, the growth in the Chinese economy, together with the low cost of entry in cities such as Shanghai, has resonated with graduates worldwide who want to be entrepreneurs.

The real advantage of China, though, is simply the scale, says Ms Fuentes. “The opportunities are much more attractive here than in France. If you come up with a new idea it will be really big.”

The Mini Bobi clothing range, which combines Parisian style with the stretchy materials and copious waistbands needed by the increasing number of obese children in China’s cities, was the brainchild of Ms Gobé.

After studying fashion and business in Lille and Shanghai, Ms Gobé completed a gap year in the US and decided to write her thesis on the plus-size market.

“In this thesis I made a comparison between the market in the US and China. [Previously] I wasn’t aware of this market,” she says, adding that in China there are 120m obese children under the age of 18.

In the city of Shanghai more than 18 per cent of children at primary school are overweight — the same percentage as in the US, she says. “I was surprised when I realised [this was the case],” she says.

Enthusiasm for all things Chinese spreads well beyond entrepreneurs, says Nick Sanders, director of the Masters in International Business at Grenoble Graduate School of Business. Of the section of the MIB class that spent a year in Beijing, many are enthusiastic about working there.

“Ninety per cent of them actually want to stay in China,” says Mr Sanders, although practically, only between a quarter and a third will get their first job on graduation in the country. A further 50 per cent will be employed working with China in some capacity, adds Mr Sanders.

“They tend to be employed where there needs to be an understanding between China and another country.”

Entrepreneur Matthieu David-Experton, an Essec graduate, who also studied for a second degree at the Guanghua school at Peking University, is now on his second business venture in China — he sold the first, a packaged gift business, after 18 months.

His three-year-old market research company, Daxue Consulting, has offices in Beijing and Shanghai, with a third office planned in Hong Kong. It has 15 employees but by the end of the year he plans to have a staff of 20 and revenues of Rmb7m ($1.1m).

“What I have always done in China is take a model that works well in Europe, then adapt it.” Most of his clients to date have been international companies looking for information on the China market — western nursing home groups, eager to take advantage of the changing Chinese demographics, have been strong clients. That is changing. “Chinese companies are now looking for better information on their

competitors.”

For Mr David-Experton there are clear advantages to working in China, particularly the flexibility and speed to market. Products can be designed and developed in just a few days, he says. “I had the feeling you couldn’t get these things done in this timescale in Europe.” It means entrepreneurs can get a product to market without having to raise too much money, he adds.

But he warns that the Chinese business environment is not plain sailing. “They [prospective entrepreneurs] need to come here and see what is happening. A lot of people come here with ideas that don’t fit with the market.”

It is a message echoed by Manmeet Singh, senior affiliate lecturer at EMLyon Business School, who has worked in China for the past 13 years. “This market has a learning curve, it has a learning curve for everybody. Even the 50-year-old chief executives of multinationals have a learning curve. They can come here and get their **** kicked.”

European entrepreneurs are taking a double risk he says: starting a business and setting up in an alien environment.

He also warns that much of the “low-hanging fruit” available to French entrepreneurs a few years ago no longer exists. He cites the example of those who want to set up a wine importing business in China: now the tables are turned and Chinese companies are buying vineyards around the world.

But there are some positive elements about China for European entrepreneurs, he says.

“There’s a lot of money available in the market for the right product. They [the Chinese] are agnostic on the origins of their entrepreneurs.”

And the enthusiasm for start-up careers in China are still strong among French business students, he says. “A good 10 per cent of the class [in China] approach me with ideas.”

Mr Singh is heavily involved in Shanghai’s Chinaccelerator, which gives support to both Chinese and international entrepreneurs. Though popular in the US and Europe, incubators are more novel in China.

It was following Skema Business School’s tie-up with a local Suzhou incubator in 2013 that the founders of Mini Bobi decided to locate their company there. Now they are distributing their range of 30 China-manufactured clothing items in Hangzhou and Suzhou as well as Shanghai.

With a monthly income so far of around Rmb3,000, the founders are looking to wider distribution to increase sales and are now selling online through Taobao, China’s answer to Amazon or eBay, founded by the Alibaba Group. They are also talking to schools about designing more generous-sized school uniforms.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney
The Will-of-Strength, firm and subtle at Peak
Sought to follow his Elder and charge his Day
With Weight-Lifts and Fork-Bells conquer Relief
Took a Sling from his Semi; Shot the Green Elf
Who flew around the House and tampered his Rage
To learn such Programmes like Responses and Growth
But Confident as he was to draft his Age
Shot the Green Elf again; His Candles grew Old
The Candles! Left there on a Muddy-Cream-Cake
Waiting to be puffed by a Cold, Moral Bite
Till the Drogbas arrived and brought their own Bake
Then the Party resumed; Screams sparked in Delight.
And the Green Elf, sleeping, spoke in the End:
"Manhood be your Goal; First make me your Friend."
#will_daley
AJ Robertson May 2013
solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.
Paul d'Aubin Feb 2015
Pourrais-je un jour; réparer l'injustice
faite à mon père ?


Il fut à vingt ans caché par les bergers du village de Muna parmi de pauvres bergers qui vivaient aussi sainement que sobrement dans leur village parfumé de figuiers et sans route autre qu'un chemin à peine muletier quand l'ordre ****-fascistes tenait l'île sous sa coupe.  Puis mon père  fut mobilisé avec la jeunesse Corse apprit l'anglais sur le tas dans les forces françaises d'aviation formées alors aux Etats-Unis,
La guerre il fit l'école normale de «la Bouzareah» à  Alger puis nommé instituteur en Kabylie ou il rencontra et fut tout de suite Simone, amoureux de notre mère aussi institutrice mais native des Pyrénées,  nommée elle-aussi dans la vallée de la Soummam  ou débuta l'insurrection de la Toussaint 1954 (alors que j'avais sept mois et étais gardé par une nourrice Kabyle nommée Bahia). Mon père dont ses amis enseignants étaient pour la plupart  Corses ou Kabyles prit de sérieux risques en qualité de syndicaliste du SNI; «Libéral politique»   dans un temps porteur pour les  extrémismes et les surenchères   et donc à la fois cible potentielle des ultras des deux bords il n'hésita pas à  faire grève et m'amena manifester à Bougie/Bejaia, ou sur la route je vis une tête coupée qui me hante encore, lorsque sept inspecteurs d'Académie furent exécutés par l'O.A.S.

Nommé de l’hiver au grand froid de 1963, professeur de collège d'Anglais  dans le Comminges cher à son épouse, à Valentine, il n'avait pas encore le permis et sa fameuse  2 CV bleue qui devint légendaire et venait régulièrement nous voir Régis et moi,  qu'il pleuve et/ou  qu'il vente, sur une mobylette jaune.

Il perfectionna régulièrement son anglais tous les soirs en écoutant les programmes radios de la BBC et passa même à ses élèves  sur un magnétophone à banque qu’il avait acquis le succès des Beatles; "Yellow Submarine". Mais il ne comprit rien aux événements de 1968 qui heurtèrent sa vision structurée du Monde  et bouleversèrent tant ma propre vie. Qu'aurait-il pu comprendre, lui l'admirateur de l'homme du 18 juin à  cette  contestation anarchique et multiforme de l'institution scolaire  dans laquelle, il avait donné beaucoup de lui-même ?

Plus ****, ayant pris cette retraite, rare espace de Liberté personnelle, ce grand marcheur se mit enfin à parcourir de nouveau Maquis et Montagnes et ce n'est sur rentré **** le soir dans son humble demeure après avoir déjeuné d'une «bastelle» et d'un bout de fromage de "Giovan Andria «qu’il améliorait sa dans sa chambrette ayant sous les yeux le "dictionnaire de la Piève d'Evisa", pour redonner à la langue Corse sa beauté et sa dignité et restituer par ses propres mots choisis ce vrai temple de la nature et de la Beauté sauvage que forme cette île Méditerranéissime.

Paul Arrighi
Il s'agit d'un bref rappel entre prose , histoire et souvenirs poétiques d'enfance de mon pére André Arrighi ( Professeur d'Anflais) tel que je le perçois maintenant qu'il n'est plus .
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.
Paul Butters Jan 2015
Film and television cameras:
Roving eyes for many of us.
But are We the cameras on the world
For an audience somewhere out there
Beyond the stars?

Our world: a studio for countless films.
The animal race a production crew
For programmes watched by spirit beings.

And who collects these reels of Life?
Where is The Director?
What Company employs us all?

Those with feelings of Déjà vu do ask:
Which Take are we doing now?
And Minds of Science claim
We can Forward Fast or Rewind.

It’s one great mystery of course:
The longest journey of them all.
A soap opera to beat all others:
This film called “Life”.

Paul Butters
Keep thinking this eye camera thing.......
Alba Mar 2015
She was the strangest football fan I'd ever met,
Between match programmes and leaflets she hid Nietzsche and Thoreau;
Philosophy being a bright passion of hers,
It all seemed so natural in her visage.
On days, she'd hum You'll Never Walk Alone
While turning delicately the pages of a new text,
Smiling at the words that appeared before her on the page.
Dorian Gray, she took time to point out,
Kept her fascinated—
But it was always going to be Nietzsche,
And the first time she strummed the pages of Thus Spoke Zarathustra it was as if the humming had turned to fire,
And she was melded with the page.
I would believe only in a god who could dance.
If you asked her who she favoured,
she would reply back with a chirp, 
the Russians!
And hold to you a copy of Dostoyevsky,
Crime and Punishment, she said, was her fascination
And she'd as fluidly as ever switch back to the fixtures.
Never passion, always fancy.
It was as if viewing herself through a third party lens.
Her passion for the game,
As mysterious as her gentle touch on softer pages.
How could she love so drastically?
Football, her passion,
But her books were her mystery to all, to even herself,
And the quiet murmur of Nietzsche, her nectar.
You whose Right Hand makes Custom on his Plaque
I take it you are his Cherrymost Friend
And Teeth-Marks suggest you follow his slack
To soothe your Way for an un-ending bend
Poor Sun-Stricken Diver; Bitten for Cause
Tells his Screaming Board to keep him at bay
Whilst waiting for his turn, his Fans at loss
Tried to reach out in a respectful way
There is some Magic in how you perform
I think in Truth that kept your Muscles strong
Now, as I advised your Buddy to reform
Would you allow and keep such Record for long?
Seriously, watching Programmes with those Two
Invites a Rogue Question: Who's poking Who?
#jacklaugher
Tribes matter more than research,
jobs dished on ethnic network,
as academics are left to die
at the thrones of sadism
and selfish megalomania,
proffessors more illiterate
as reading culture succumbed to death,
to pave way for money culture,
harvested from parallel programmes,
that takes the beautiful
and the academically incompetent,
to the university at  mercy of their wallets,
where the proffessors renew their sinews,
on the french chicken by parralleley style
on the tops of the female parallel students,
as they inspire them with new culture,
of laziness,twiterature and cyborature,
face-booking for unique *** partners,
as books are left to be dust ridden
on the miserable shelves
of ramshackle libraries.
The Forest Apr 2013
often always
I am the
lone
Cameraman

New Year,
I only see the fireworks
through
a screen



in the misty weather

I remember

catching shots
through the window
of the car


... and waiting


and often Dan and I
share shots
and cameras
and Lightroom programmes

...and Bueno Bars
merci de m'avoir enseigné ...
The intense heat of summer begins to relax
Damp sticky air gradually changes to dry, comfortable breeze
In the dark clear sky there hangs the bright full moon
All these remind the Mid Autumn Festival is around

If not the story of Chang'e, the Moon Gooddess of Immortality
The Mid Autumn Festival will have lost its charm
Family gatherings, festive meals, gifts giving and greetings
Are all important and popular in this joyful season

Autumn is also a significant moment for the students
College students will prepare for their new learning programmes
New friends, new lecturers, new courses and new objectives
Seem like a beautiful and exciting world ahead of them to fulfill

On the night of Mid Autumn Festival
Crowds of people go out together to the parks
Children play with lanterns and people share the food they bring
The beautiful moon brings lovers together, pledging their love to each other
topaz oreilly Dec 2012
The Riche brothers and sisters
compile the remainders
of Manchester City programmes
from 1958 onwards, rusted staples asides
in a shuttered room,
Moorhens and crab apple bloom outside
keeps their e bay cottage industry bearable,
residual poverty waxes and wanes,
children always inheriting Granddads' stuff.
Paul Butters Jun 2017
I sit here again, my laptop on my knee,
Or rather, lay back in my armchair
Next to the lounge window.
Before me lies the clutter that is
My man cave.
If I just stare I see every little item
In glorious detail.

Yet even when asleep
I swear to you
I sometimes dream of scenes
Images of tables, cities or skies
Every bit as detailed as real life.

Which begs the question:
Where exactly IS this wonderful “Mind” of mine,
That can so accurately record and reproduce
Such multi-coloured panoramas?
Is it just “in my head”
As scientists assert,
Or is it located “somewhere out there”,
Even beyond the stars?

Am I merely squatting
In this body of mine
Until the day that I pass on?
And when I do pass over
Will my soul go whizzing down
Some spiritual “connection”
Back to where my mind is based?

I say again, we may all be but cameras,
Recording films and “programmes”
For other minds
Beyond this realm.
Even for Angels.
For it’s only through US
That this marvellous universe
Is brought to life.

Paul Butters
My sleeping dreams have disturbed me again.
Terry Collett Mar 2013
Janice walked back with you
from Harper Road
where you’d been shopping
for your mother

for sugar
in a blue paper bag
and flour and eggs
and other items

on the list
and Janice
with her red beret
and red dress said

what was the book
you bought
in the newsagents
the other day?

it’s about Robin Hood
you said
and his Merry Men
and I’m half way

through it already
was he for real?
she asked
I guess so

you said
I’ve seen programmes
about him on TV
and Maid Marian

who’s she?
Janice asked
Robin’s girlfriend
you said

and sometimes
in the boring bits
of the programme
they kiss and such

but I like
the fighting parts best
with swords
and bows

and arrows
you added
my gran said
violence solves nothing

Janice said
as you both walked
into the Square
and she said

she heard it some place
that those who live
by the sword
die by the sword

but I don’t **** anyone
you said
I just pretend
to sword fight

the bad knights
or sometimes fire
my bow and arrow
at the pram shed door

imagining it’s the drawbridge
of the bad knight’s castle
o I see
Janice said

sounds fun
you can be
my Maid Marian
if you want

you said
so long as you leave out
the kissing bits
she stopped

and looked at you
don’t you like kissing me?
she said
you looked at her

in her red beret
and red dress
and white socks
and brown sandals

her hands holding
the bag of shopping
from side to side
sure I do

you said
if it’s ok for Robin
then I guess
it can’t be too bad

good
she said
can I use
your sword too

and help fight
the bad knights?
you nodded
and walked on

and she followed
but don’t tell Gran
Janice said
or she’ll tan my backside

or so she said
the other week
don’t worry
I won’t say a word

you said
and sure
you can use
my other sword

Maid Marian does
on TV
so guess
you can too

and that was that
and you climbed
the stairs in silence
to your mother’s flat.
Penny Granger Oct 2010
Hard to describe, this pain in my side,

left lower back, when it chooses to attack,

always the same , it’s almost a game,

of pain and tears, nearly shouting in fear

that it’ll never cease, ever leave me in peace,

It’s a knife twisting, you know? Please make it go

So I take to my bed, nearly out of my head….

No moving like that, flat on your back,

TV on and stare, at the daily programmes there,

on offer for you, as you stick like glue

to your bed for a week, in your task to seek

a way of holding your head, to hear what’s said,

about House Sales, and Attic’s,  Cash, and Antiques

Switch off your mind, just stare blankly and find

a way to con the brain, not to feel pain

soon you go numb, maybe just playing dumb ,

the pain eases to bearable, not even swearable,

like toothache it lingers, as you **** with your fingers

but better that way, surely than it was yesterday

and tomorrow?,  we’ll see, maybe switch off the TV?
LadyP © 2010
You saw a closed door,
I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a,
blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams
greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise,
pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore,
once swore,
one more spell in bedlam,
well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps,
and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary.
Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes,
suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do.
They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed.
Tomorrow ,
what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more,
I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there,
In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round
it's bleedin' flat.
Joe Wilson Oct 2014
The man who lived on the silver screen
Was never the real hero to me
for he was the man who worked the side-door
And let me and my Mum in for free.

Back in those days the heroes were many
Tex Ritter and Roy Rodgers were just two
The cowboy films were always the best
Watching those I never felt blue.

But the real hero to me was my granddad
Who attended the cinema side-door
He'd trained engineers till retirement came
And the side-door job paid for a bit more.

There were stories of robbery and mayhem
Tales of magical mystery and fun
And we were always let in through the little side door
The moment the programmes had begun.

Everyone sat there in the darkness
When suddenly all the screen lit up
And the sheriff rounded up al the bad men
As our hands went into big popcorn cups.

My granddad was as good as those cowboys
He took me to my first cricket match
I remember once when the ball flew at me
He put his hand up and made a good catch.

He served his country throughout the First War
as auxiliary he served through number Two
He was a fine man who everyone loved dearly
He did good things just like heroes do.

They don't give medals for just being a granddad
They should do when they are the best
Now I have grandchildren of my very own now
I just hope that I too pass the test.



©Joe Wilson - My own personal hero...2014
Salmabanu Hatim Jun 2018
After years of marriage,
We are now gnarled ,symbolic old trees,
It's fruits ripened and matured,
In fine tune with each other.
While I nap he watches his sports channel,
Then he  dozes and I watch my favourite programmes.
We share the same bowl of soup,
I don't mind if he slurps,
He does not mind if I spill some.
We have fun in the kitchen,
He helps me to cut the veggies and do the dishes,
If I admonish him for not doing them properly,
He gives me a toothless smile.
People would think we are fighting,
But its natural for us to speak loudly,
We are hard at hearing.
He loves cake,
He is my best cake mixer,
They come out soft and fluffy.
He drives,
I am his guide,
Stop, go slow, turn right ,so on.
Sometimes my friends and I meet to have coffee,
He goes out to meet his cronies in the park.
He enjoys to tease me or put me down,
I just shrug him off,
"Away with you old man"
I tend to nag a bit,
He does not mind.
At end of the day after a toothless kiss,
He holds my hands tightly,
Looks at me lovingly and says,
"We have made it so far love."
After years of marriage we had become as one.
Paul Butters Sep 2019
At five in a morning they scavenge about,
Punters at a car boot sale
Searching for bargains with torches.
Why the lights?
Because it’s still dark.
Why dark?
Because it’s SEPTEMBER.

September: the month when the kids go back
To school.
When bowls goes indoors,
Snooker starts;
Cricket draws to a close,
As bad light stops play.
Premiership football into its second month
And Rugby Superleague into the Playoffs.

Telly programmes that have run all summer
Grind to a halt
And Winter TV takes over.
“Question Time” is back
Along with parliament,
Though Boris soon closed it
This year!

The nights get longer,
Minute by minute
And soon those leaves will turn
That lovely golden hue:
Ironically the mark of Death.

Thoughts will soon be turned to Christmas
As we steel ourselves
For another Winter.
Halloween and Bonfire Night
Are coming soon.

This year we have “The Brexit Deadline”,
A new distraction
Drawing our eyes away
From the eternal passage
Of time.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\9\2019.
Autumn Time
Manny Mar 2014
Art makes me smart
So I'm not like a jam ****.
Eating ice cream makes me beam
Like a beautiful queen.
Playing cool games with my friends
Brings up fashionable new trends.
Writing stories of all kinds
Helps me to open up my mind.
Wearing the mot gorgeous dress
Shining and glittering like a princess.
Baking stuff is so much fun
Especially when you make a delicious chocolate bun.
Watching action programmes on TV
Helps me learn great moves from Jet Li.
Seeing birds flying high, spreading their wonderful wings,
These are some of my favourite things.
I wrote this poem at the age of 11 (2008/2009) it was selected and published in the Young Writer's 'My favourite things' anthology  - created to give a sense of pride and accomplishment to young writers.

I though I'd share it with you - enjoy!

© Maniba Kiani
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i'm just bored of seeing MMXV everytime i switch
on the television, with the end credits...
i actually get indigestion...
i live in a country famed by
pedophiles rather than Liberace...
politzen-mann! politzen-mann!
homosexuality was one step forward,
and subsequently two steps back...
where are the women?
    where are the women?!
where are the women to sort this
problem out with what the Thai boys
sell: me sucky-sucky tug dollar, un' *****'s
       hour.
where's the rebellion?
               the b.b.c. became bankrupt
once the Savile affair dawned...
             even Ed Gein had more mourners
at his grave... to be honest
Ed had a grave to be desecrated...
   Jimbo? they finally decided to bury
him under a pebble... and them phoom!
mt. everest.
    but as sure as hell he made the b.b.c.
bankrupt... i'm surprised that
strictly come dancing isn't credited with
the same year as most of the b.b.c.
programmes are these days... em em ex viva forever
                as Churchill holding up the v away from
the mouth, not insinuating gulping down an oyster.
  πютр (pyootr) - who else if not peter fuchs?
alles neu - all new, central Berlin...
   achtung achtung! die zentrale figürchen tanzen!
i'll write sluttish german,
     panzer und gargantuan truce...
          i'll write it...
                     truce: in german that's chemically
worded, hydrocarbonated: waffenstillstand...
   armistice, or army standing still.
                     Gertrude Goebbels...
   don't know, just felt like saying it.
                           Brüch and snatching schnitzels...
marvelous nouns... Hindenburg...
     Bismarck -                          pretzel -
                                   schwarz wald -
now the geese... now the strutting Gucci invoked
geese... shadow defence minister?
    that monty python guy from the ministry of
      heigel siegel play-girl partly-a-girl. party-girl
with a fetish for those well-polished leather boots
that would have agreed to kicking
                              in the teeth of Lorca...
            at least we have common ground...
    or at least we had...
                        anyone remember watching
cbeebies coming back from primary school?
           anyone remember blue peter?
       there's no reason to claim that the whole
scene went underground / onto the internet...
                                      television these days is on
a life-support machine... consisting mainly of pensioners...
   and even they decided to tune-out
playing ultra-imaginative chess while watching
a brick wall...
                      20+ years in England
and i never had an english girlfriend...
                 Savile is no surprise to me...
                            what's more of a surprise is the fact
that once the b.b.c. started to become bankrupt
                        the n.h.s. followed suite -
i can't believe i live in a country that's famous
for siberian tea (adding milk to it) and pedohpilia...
and restrictive Soho...
                                  if i get sexually frustrated i'll just:
i am probably one of the few remains of
               buying ******* in a newsagent...
and the counter argument is?
         a citation from black swan -
but there really isn't an intellectual debate in this realm...
      and there should be one...
        but i guess the debate is harder to handle
when you've been circumcised...
                   i just think that once you've been circumcised
of course *** is more pleasurable...
              but once you've been circumcised you
are donning the opposite ***'s *******...
it's like: you have to be with a woman...
                   because having a **** while being
circumcised is the lowest ebb...
                   auto-suggestive of?
              i "circumcise" myself every time i ****...
i pull it back...                  but this religious indoctrination
    of only revealing positives?
                  turns out the kippah was a metaphor for
the lost "excess" skin... later replicated
by Christianity with the tonsure of monks -
     there's not a third way... Islam is not as close-knit
as these two religions... it's just a ******* annoying brat.
GKF Mar 2014
Two maggots in an apple
chew from opposite sides
both think themselves alone in the apple
and fulfil their biological programmes.
As they wiggle closer to the core
they begin to feel the fruitless reality
of slipping from nothing
to existence to a memory in solitude;
of squirming in silence from the skin
to the core and out of the apple
As they draw closer still to the centre
this sense of an underlying
futility moves from an inarticulate feeling
to a logical, painful truth
and as they both bite into the core they are crying and desperate
for their string of experience
to be batted by the cat
of meaning.

In this state they felt each other
in the dark of the core of the apple.
Nothing needs to be said
as they writhe and roll together;
as the wriggle and wrap in unison.

Coming to rest in a loose knot,
lightly gripping the seed of the apple
they feel each other feel each other
they feel the apple rot around them
and the rotting of their bodies.
In the dark of the core of the apple,
wrapped around the seed,
they learn to be satisfied with
the pointless
journey through the apple.
Matt Earl Apr 2017
Maybe Tomorrow

False hopes of a generation, tell-tale signs of a broken nation.
Tower blocks decayed and grey, different types of vermin hide away
In the shadows, in the cracks
No one around in case of attacks
Monoliths of misery reach for the sky, where poverty lives and the forgotten they die
Hooded teenagers like outlaws of old count out the money from the powdered death that they sold
Scarred burnt out vehicles, faded police tape a constant reminder of ****** and ****
Violence is hidden behind every door, bruised ***** faces the badge of the poor
No food on the table, no shoes on their feet, for love and affection they have to compete
Girls on street corners sell love at a price and for one fleeting moment life feels so nice
Time rages on and bodies grow old, nothing to show for the dreams that were sold
Men with no prospects sit and decay, on broken sofas they watch the TV.
Where people and programmes have nothing to say
Old soldiers sit and dream of before
Storming French beaches and fighting a war
Remembering old friends who forfeited their lives, for this now septic country where misery thrives
No police presence in this modern Gomorrah, things will surely get better I’m not sure just when but maybe tomorrow.
Dreams of Sepia Jul 2015
This is what comes of it, living abroad
you become used to programmes
talking about what it's like to shop
somewhere & the upkeep of capitalism

that very much has downsides
just as back home, communism had.
And now your prime minister is cutting
aid to the sick, disabled & the poor

& is almost shouting
' Arbeit macht frei'
from the Westminster rooftops
& calling in psychiatrists

to label those unwilling
to work as 'mentally ill'
e.g  one step from ' undesirable',
which is, ironically, a similar thing

to what they did back home
while an aged Lord takes drugs
with prostitutes & an MP
claims hundreds of thousands in expenses


'Arbeit mach frei' ( germ) - a **** slogan, roughly translates as ' Work gives freedom'.
Terry Collett May 2012
Fay managed to get out
while her father worked
and she came

and knocked at your door
and said
You want to go out?

Sure
you replied
and you both went down

the stairs of the apartment block
across the Square
and down the *****

up Meadow Road
crossing over
the bombsite

behind the coal wharf
and on to the main road
where you walked along

side by side
Let’s see what’s on
at the movies

you said
and you stopped outside
the movie house

and peered at the programmes
Fay said
My daddy doesn’t think

movies are right for children
he says they’re sinful
and full of lust

and ***
and greed
and she stopped

and stared along the road
at the people passing
and the cars and lorries

going by
on the main road
and the evening air

choked up with fumes
and the street lights
giving a false perspective

It isn’t all like that
you said
Some movies are about love

and laughter
and people enjoy going
it takes them out

of their dreary lives
Fay said
I’ve never been

inside a movie house
never seen a movie
Well why don’t you come with me

to the matinee on Saturday
I can squeeze some money
from my dad for the two of us

Fay looked at you
and seemed interested
but then said

No I can’t
if my father caught me
there’d be hell to pay

and apart from the lecture
on the immorality
of the arts and such

he’d belt me some
and not let me out again
for some time

and  you said
Ok but some day
you’re going to find out

things aren’t always
as the parents say
then you’re going to

have to find your own road
and walk your own way
and she looked sad

and walked away
from the movie house
along to the subway

and down the steps
into the bright lights
and noise of traffic

over head
and you touched her hand
and she gripped yours

and you walked down
through the subway tunnel
she in her flowered dress

and brown shoes
slightly scuffed
and you

in your tee shirt and jeans
and you pretended
not to notice

the bruise on her thigh
which caught your eye
as she skipped along

her dress rising high
as she went holding tight
your hand

her fingers wrapped
about yours
and up and out

on the other side
of the subway
with its bright lights

and evening sky
and too many questions
and not an answer why.
NuurSeraph May 2014
I was reflecting on a moment, as I reflect oftenly..True.
So in this vision I looked deeply at the picture of the figure standing there.

There she was, I use this tense because a stranger is a she, a he, a they...not You.
But really it was a picture of the little girl, that once upon a time was me.

Maybe some of you saw it, the little girl...standing in a costume, just as was accustomed thing to do...every...single....day.

She was her Parent's Molded Clay...in which they made their plans with their hands, their work of Art, prospect for blood, they craved to feed from poured out Praise one day.

You see...I was a malleable creation, a desired exploration
To design & mold her, Zoom in to Zero, the next multilateral SuperSoldier.

Every moment of everyday, they tended to their artistry, to my dismay.
Their Scientific Approach was so cold and calculating, so as to miss the spirit in my eyes slowly dissipating.

The tears that wept precisely calibrated for the flow,
To keep the Clay moist for the work they must do.

Twas Painful, albeit, of gutting in the Unnatural Power.
My head be last, lest they loose Pressure from up top the Water Tower.

I'm glad they left my Eyes for last, cause I watched and waited behind the Glazed Over Glass
I saw it All,
the sinister craftwork,
my reason to exist,
in such a wicked Plan
to be unleashed across the land.

The Rage against this mistreatment, the injustice, the lies, the secrets:
Their Plans

I Swore an Oath to the One Power to Be , so Young, I assumed it Was Me
I would use the Power they delicately labored, albeknowenced,
to them,
with
Blade of Truth as my Sabor
I would act in the milliseconds between transfer
from the Furnace to Surgical Chair

And Rage the Rage of a Billion Suns,
Bring Reign,
such a schorching electrictricity,
Fry the Circuitry,
the Programmes, each Implant, **** each Signal before it could reach me, redirect and reflect every laser pointed at me, back at it's Source  

The Panic Spread, backup squads called in quickly to attend
to a Power
they knew Not what
Orders for Kinetic Delivery
in Defence

My self generated OverRide Made immediately operational, I just knew what to do

I Spun so Swift, drilled beneath the Earth,
Close to Oceans
of the South Pacific,
I emerged, shapeshifted
into a Magnificent Dolfin

Swam far away, across the Globe
to find somewhere safe

In the midst of a deep red sunset, I emerged a Young Woman with nothing Other than to complete:
                  
   My OWN Mission
 ~«\~|§|~/»~

With Blade of Truth & Justice Vision
§  
Resurrect Truth, Protect the Mistreated Nature
ω  
Expose Corruption, and dismantle for
Reconstruction
|⊙|
°
Reign a hellfire on the Offenders who refused to Submit
      
V||§||V

© All Rights Reserved
Feb. 24th, 2014
Venusoul7
any Syfy Buffs that would like to collaborate on a more in depth screenplay version of this supernatural concept
please message me
it is by far not even close to presenting detailed ideas I would love to explore on the movie screen l
Let me know
Denis Martindale May 2018
Clocks spring forward and watches, too... computers follow suit,
So nine's now ten, it's true, it's true... when Spring comes, that's quite cute...
And so, this day, time Marches on... this hour changes hands,
And blessed are those who know it's gone... according to Man's plans...
I'll change each clock at home today... each watch that's working still,
From nine to ten, yes, straight away... and won't that be a thrill?
Then my recorders I'll reset... so that they're up-to-date,
So that the programmes I still get... not early or too late...
Has my TV updated now? I wonder, yes or no?
If not, I'll change it soon, somehow... if I must make it so...
Must I change Freeview and Freesat... and others just like Sky?
If yes, at least, when I've done that... I'll prove how time can fly...
It's only once a year for this... till Autumn's back again,
Then it's all change! Oh, my, what bliss... when nine replaces ten...

Denis Martindale Sunday the 25th of March 2018.
We speak a common language
We are friends
We have been friends for over a quarter of a century(1 old 1 new)
We have never met

You and I would never have known each other
But for fate.
Fate turned a postman up my steps
He dropped a letter with a US stamp on the mat

From the first introduction I was smitten with my postal friend
She encompassed all that was red, white and blue.
Pretty, funny, generous and kind
I felt in comparison like an ugly sister to Cinderella

American TV programmes, American music,
John Hughes movies, she lived that life
I was Ally Sheedy to her Molly Ringwald's 'Breakfast Club'
I watched her grow through letters, she I in turn.

We journeyed the 80's the 90's the naughties and now the 1st decade of the 21st century together.
We both married, we both suffered sadness and joy
Highs and lows.

You still have the hair of my memories
You still have the smile of my memories
You still evoke a time of innocence for me
You still evoke my smile

Yet, now we approach our 40's
Born anew, the US is changed, Europe is changed
We remain joined as always through words.
You my American friend.
For Anjanette.
© JLB
aurora kastanias Jun 2017
Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.

The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.

An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.

Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.

Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.

US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.

While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.

Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar *******, he ignored
He ever had.
Helen Jun 2014
Footsteps in the hall
a light beneath the door
the smell of lilies
in my sleep
lingering warmth
upon the sheets

mail delivered
only to be marked
"Return to Sender"
with a personal note
on the back of the envelope

"I wish your letter
found them well
I suggest you
re postmark it
addressed to
Hell"


Tv programmes rerun
that are abysmal
the weather forecast
is for a little more drizzle

scented candles mask
given their arduous task
of completely obliterating
the scent of your skin

Ten thousand questions ask
Were I to be your last?
One word, no mistaking
*S I N
Paul Hardwick Jul 2013
blue eyes, I see you
peek a boh!
them clockwork programmes wind me up
I just know you will say no
to us the be yound
so sweet princes

What would you, have to know off me.
This was
Paul
a dream last night.
Terry Collett Mar 2014
Benedict
thinks of her
Christina

the girlfriend
at high school
as he now

undresses
preparing
for bedtime

she far off
in her house
in her town

her parents
probably
below stairs

watching their
dull programmes
on TV

while she in
her bedroom
undresses

or so he
imagines
(in his head)

watching her
removing
each piece of

clothing
as he too
undresses

in his room
a coloured
centrefold

of a fast
racing car
on the wall

and her small
photograph
by his bed

she gave him
he'd seen her
on the field

at high school
during their
lunch recess

she sitting
with her friends
giggling

then walking
together
off alone

high smell of
lavender
her soft hand

lips kissing
now in bed
lying there

lights all out
just moonlight
reflecting

her image
he pretends
she is there

next to him
not speaking
not laughing

both watching
the moon move
and stars shine

hands touching
fingers entwined
each having

the same thoughts
in shared mind.
BOY AND HIS THOUGHTS OF HIS GIRLFRIEND IN 1962.

— The End —