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jdotingham Nov 2018
where is it my thoughts lay?
do they lie to me on some other wave,
surfing the oceans of misplaced emotions
or under the iceberg, it may...
                this vehicle i operate d
s round the corner, dare to me drive,
intoxicated of wine and a postmodern swine,
these so-called truths that lay above my throat and behind my hairline.
where is it my thoughts die?
held in a case by a computer inside,
some metaphysical memory for my hard-drive,
RAM IT IN! the vehicle collides!
                      what caused this mangled mess of maternal meds,
                      some fruedian slip on the road from the feds?

placed inside you, a copy of me and then placed inside two, a copy of he,
simulated by a computer as well, we have a debate with ourselves, "how swell".
so where is it my thoughts lie,
somewhere to left, somewhere to the right?
the duplication become delayed from life whilst my vehicle is left to die.
Personal idendity 13/11/18
Nov 2018 · 246
gestalt gets stallen.
jdotingham Nov 2018
under the stroke of twilight and micrograms,
a tribute for the tributaries next to land,
a stumbl'd walk of trees and hands,
                                                    eyes drag themselves along the sand.
be that a mammaves with floppy ears or a beak?
(either/or my knees went weak).

it speaks: "who are you going to believe, me or your lying eyes?"
i speak: "i'll realise my real lies when i understand my real eyes! ALRIGHT?"
[the nibbles don't echo as it runs from the chinease
fish-or-man wading through the water, "please!",
my god this is torture as my preconceived
ideas are questioned by queer animals and hands in trees].

i continue among the growth of the land, shrunken by water in which it clamps;
the little men in my head confide:
                                                        ­    i see more mammaves waddle and bounce by the wayside!
alas, my community crumbles around its thought and i take the road not taken before,
as light launches through the trees in front of my lead, i wonder if it's a duck or rabbit wondering next to me.
                                                             ­        shall we see?
Oct 2018 · 222
jdotingham Oct 2018
i heard the2ndfloor was bad
it expels a somber a tone
you can still hear the howls of the old club go-ers
who all went home alone...

aye, in the corner lived my frieind
he sold blow through his notes & the tide
he couldn't afford to pay his rent
& got ratted out to his demise...

for, he owed some money to mr.happy!
who was also a business manm
he wore p i n s t r i p e s & had charm out of his i's
but behind them calculations were planned...

he told his friends to go to attik
for that is where you'll find him at it
IT'S NOT THE MONEY (it's the principle)

So, the pigs pushed through & they knocked him down
& his buddies started a fight,
scrapping and yapping and knives went stabbing
and his head crashed on the side...

emily's face... w-w-went so pale
as her boyfriend fell to the floor
everyone took no-notice of this stories tale
& the crowd got rowdy and sore...

alas, silloutes come booming as the club gets shut down
disorderly conduct it wore
& that's the best thing i can tell you,
worse has happened onfloor4.
i've just moved to hull university, the culture and stories surrounding the undergrowth of this city is wonderful. i recommend larkin if you like angry ol' librarians.
jdotingham Sep 2018
/  she looked at me from across the table;  her eyes barely still, her thoughts barely able.
i looked at her from across the table; the me she once knew, the eyes are a fable.
                   she asks questions
"how you been?"
"doin' much"
yeah. you?
           you can boil the tension and it wouldn't dissolve on a spoon.
            she asks why i chose what i did all them years ago. there's no nuance on the question. there's no 'wavering remorse that things could and should and would have been better' because we both know it probably would've been. unless i got AIDS or some **** like that. she asks the question for closure. thing is though; some doors fail at the one ******* job they are given, like the one in the caravan; sometimes, they can't help but stay open.

i don't know.
"that's not an answer"
i don't know.
"for **** sake! just tell me why you chose that path"
i don't know.
"... but you ******* picked it!"
            her voice raises. people look. she quietens down. nobody likes public displays of drama. it makes people feel uncomfortable. a bit awkward. the little ******* sin of 'i feel a bit uneasy in this social situation'.
i know i picked it. i do. i don't why. why the hell would it. it just sort of happened.
"it just sort of happened?"
"you've not changed have you"
changed a bit yeah.
"but not really"
i have a bit yeah. we all do. it's what happens when time mo-
"shut up, please. i'm asking you why you picked that over me all of them years ago and why i still can't ******* escape you. just tell me why, don't turn it into a parade of ******* again. that's your problem is *******, just comes out of your mouth in heaps and heaps and ******* heaps, you hear me?"
you want the truth?
"yes, of course i ******* do. of course... the truth and nothing but the cunting-god-****-truth. swear by god if you want. i still ******* love you, after all these years, i just want the truth; that's all i'm asking for. not the *******"
i don't know why i picked it.
stand alone (as of yet) draft excerpt from "awhiterose".
jdotingham May 2018
i dent & defy the post-pre modern walls, scrambled as they fall & are built up as they tumblr against the pull of gravity in a collection of choas.
aliquid 2 nihil.
aliquid is nihil.

i am this, i am that, i'm the ****** mary with a baseball bat, i'm a **** whose slept with everyone & no1 in the stash of the schools fish in the sea, for when legs are opened, even in first world countries, it often smells of what you see (swimming in lust & climaxy).
aliquid 2 nihil.
aliquid is nihil.

i am who, who is that, i will **** everyone with my potato gun, turn them into vegetables after they run, as they squeal & then no longer make a noise, morality is questioned no more when you can't afford your own emotional poise; what if one was to eat them after?
aliquid 2 nihil.
aliquid is nihil.

i am why, why is how, maybe i should be more subtle with my desire to get out (of life, of strife, of lesson, of mundane mondays & of what we won't with a dash of what we might), so the tempestous desire of a phone in fishnets delivering dopamine doses in invisible needles directly to into my forehead,
i'll become (de)sensitised to melodrama & melodramatic to those (de)sensitised.
create me with a big bang
     & **** me in a steady state
            i was an athiest until i saw myself
                    & then rejected my (own) self to be 9 out of 11, on a 2001 date when nothing in particular of noteworthy happened.
aliquid 2 nihil.
aliquid is nihil.

the mirror lies to me, the why generation?
our **'s is ******.
Dec 2017 · 351
lottery, in reverse.
jdotingham Dec 2017
sometimes life will deliver a plate of the inevitable ******; the blow, the snort, the soliloquy of concentrated thoughts all bombarding with the force of lead snow (of sorts). surrounding your mind, holding its weapons up high and cocking the trigger. things seem overwhelming. a ****** you cannot stop, as you lay there squirming under the influence of goodwill (who tied you down, force-fed you pills and cocked your trigger as your weapon was up high). but the plate, the platter, the one you thought was silver and gold, was paper. then the sprinklers erupt like lava upon your world and the blow turns into a paste, the snort turns into a cold and the thoughts sag like they are in need of ******. life climaxes then c

r u
m b
s - like that - sometimes
Dec 2017 · 327
jdotingham Dec 2017
.      vate me;
                     put simply, just because you look
                                                            ­                    down
                                        ­                                                 on
                                                              ­                                me
                                          doesn't mean i should look ^2u
                    put simply, just because you love me,
                                             ­                !you'renotspecificenough!
                     put simply, dis/approve of me, either/or it shall
                                                            fi­ll a me^
just a little excersise of concrete technique.
Dec 2017 · 284
jack kerouac.
jdotingham Dec 2017
ant                                icipation

                      many things to (manythingmanythingsmany).

[andimploding] in my MIND!
                             typewriting the sign of the times
                           a scroll...
writing on the road. where will this go? no1nose.
just a little exercise on my concrete poetry.
jdotingham Oct 2017
King(dom)*** & hound dog run, a sweet reveal of ****** tension
/..masqueraded by an intermission of pompadour hair & intense dares & gravely vocal chords, shredding his care with rampant tunes of self-proclaimed trouble, from a shy bear. comes out of war better for wear. wear. wear the same outfits which make even vegas' sinful nights stare, and red dwarfs stuffed into streetlights. right? you make the stars jealous of your black and white jailhouse craze. /....King(dom)came. King remains, locked by chains of wavelength and mp3 gains. post-mortem days
illusion of fame and entourage bromance;
king(dom)came. gag my brain. to much-overstimulated rhyme will make me miss the...

(as it flies).
Oct 2017 · 403
beat generation.
jdotingham Oct 2017
My** road stumbles on & stumbles on & stumbles on, waiting for a destination absent to come. /... Thefeetstretchas far as the eye can see, as de-ja-vu lines, of bulging blood, echo across roads of beat. .And so it goes. noknow to where. no past will come, no future will have been, so it goes - messed up senses line the street (of my mind, split down the middle by more lines, indulgent lines, morse code upon the floor. a tarmacocean).
smoky rooms/
and so it goes.
coffee glooms/
   a   c  
i am aware of the mixed up pronouns and senses and tenses.
Oct 2017 · 463
the snake and the apple.
jdotingham Oct 2017
a snake went
                  for a
                    walk to
                      ­          sna
  ­                    at b
                      est.                                     ­            ss
                      i cou                                             ss
                        ld ex                                          ss
                  ­         plain                                     ss
                              it better,                           ss
                                but this                       ess
                                  apple has           ame
                                     made my head
jdotingham Oct 2017
the hour(s)mash makes time pass,
in a matter quite absurd!
for time cannot
seen at all,
nor can
it flylike
a soari**ng bird&
some may say it pours
(you know?), but i say that misses the mark! time
descends like sand (it does?), in the hour(s)mashed before dark
jdotingham Oct 2017
which hit the ground first:
the lead or the head?

Save me?* &
there's a T a P - T a P - T a P-ping at the door;
i wish it was a raven whom quoth nevermore (for nevermore seems to be a lot more adored than what i endured, with more than five whole minutes with sweat dripping from poures)...
instead, it's a |piece| of |metal|
which causes the lead and the head to fall upon the floor^ T a P T a P T a P

bang¿ bang¡ save me? bang¿ bang¡
take!-mybody, but not my soul
take!-mylife: stop me from g r o W I n g old.
save me?
save me?
not at all/
\the innate fear of[never"nevermore"]; as the lead and heads
                     H I T
                     C O L D
                    F L O O R

the body lay upon; wait, it:
                      H I T
                     C O L D
                    F L O O R - 32/origin/2017


{taken souls from paper plates,
taken lives from wisdom days
taken away those velvet dates
self-defence from what they say
taken away from binocular'd dreams
taken away from mysterious means
taken away into make belief
seduced by a violent tendency.

it's no one's fault, it's written with words... or so i've heard. it's our right for this bird!
just because.
don't trust anyone, even the sugar-salt mistakes itself in the mirror for it twas--
but you trust a personified raven with lead coughs of molt-
(countdown from)ten.


when metal spreads like jam
                                                  and when flesh is cut like ham
what a sham. want some more?
bam! bam! bam!
the % screams louder than Beatlemania's crowd, man
context of fear and loading screens of physical machines.
sticks and stones break bones, but faith will only hurt me,
god of death, raven, heck, **** & an uprising of beth! all against the proclaimed defensive offence.

                                                    s­tars&stripes&&splinters&knives&masks of spite&cocked bites&directed strife and crowds disbanded by a sound of...
            nevermore! - the metal raven brings a room alive, before....
age only comes to those who die old, warmth only comes to those cremated toes, rest only comes with the eternal bed -
laws need to entangle the lead fired with thread,

which came first, the raven or the lead?
life or death?
jdotingham Sep 2017
where's the romance? where's the mystery> where's the slow dance? and where's the symphony?
it comes... eventually.
i wait for the bus, endlessly. waiting. waiting? waiting! slating the lateness of the bus. so I wait longer. and lloonnggeerr. and lllooonnngggeeerrr.
i didn't realise this is the wrong bus stop. shut on sundays.
so i walk to the other bus, passing the resistance of waiting.
there's the romance! there's the mystery! there's the slow dance! and there's the symphony!
it came. just on time.
Sep 2017 · 339
jdotingham Sep 2017
now, the night is coming to an end
a place where my brain signals don't send/
wondering if others wander the street so bleak
because the stairway to heaven is going to hurt my feet

the rocks are cold, a house built on the sand
the times grow old, we hope for a house of gold/
hello, my friend, he will come again
hello, my friend, the credits of the end pour down my face

*i want to sing like the angels, i want to sing like they do
then hold a white flag up to death, and sing him my truce
Sep 2017 · 359
lady of the night.
jdotingham Sep 2017
Epilogues are undercuts of the overgrowth of your butts, taking to a place you like, with a head between your thighs, you moan a little lullaby - of the femme fetal's demise.
Simple tuts of smoking buds are silhouetted (talking) huts, taking to a place you a hate, with a paper plate holding silver weights, you scream a little alibi - whilst lip-reading laughter lines.
Waiting for the man, with blonde hair and a tan, a posh accent in hand and green from his tongue's clan, flickering as he turns you on and "she turns on you". lady of the night, the venus in furs, making the boys puuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr beneath your ******* coated boot whispering "lick. it. off!".
seductively swooning with simple swamping tactics of simmering snake tounges, shoved down throats of sweet sinners, only to feel empty.
winning heads whilst losing yours (helmet of ***, helmet of run).
you are a light switch, a red dwarf stuffed into streetlights.
burnout after night.
red wine, not white.
Sep 2017 · 390
pananza of post-millennials
jdotingham Sep 2017
I saw sentiments destroyed by coffee cups /....& cigarettes buds, smoking and drinking humans with homosexual dollars /........& politically correct (preaching "we hate haters") glugs.
/....The irony of a peaceful aggressive takeover, indulging in anonymous opinions, within the settlements of cloudlike-toilet-cubicles - in a vandal's wet!dream.
/.^Crouching in the corner shining red-pill-truth in a blaze of pop- cultured filth. /.....The one way to **** a hipster is to drown it in the mainstream... unless they retaliate with positivi-tea (I mean cynical- coff/ee). **** me, taken literally, this is the Saint Vulture! of **** Culture
of a feed,
scroll till you bleed,
cry till you plead,
cut till you flee,
dopamine doses are what you need,
documenting minuche weight loss on your placebo screen,
pananza you fiend.
jdotingham Aug 2017
bed/rooms. temple of the person(al).*
messy floors in an order of a jackson ******* on crack, cd collections of when music was rad, then we look over at our slippers: are we slowly becoming our dad? an empty space on the other side of the bed: the dent disappeared. the new wife is a bottle of gin and a meal of beer. books on self-help thrown into the fireplace (along with pictures of jane). stains on the ivory. yellow and faded whites. burning books keep me warm, self-help!
knifes should not be kept in the bed/room (they.are.though).
dull lighting. bland shadows. the mirror is smashed in the tip outside, the mirror don't lie, it's a reflection of life and it tells men they are ****** guys.
introverted emotions. extroverted commotions. misunderstanding. alpha male landing.
july feels like september which feels like december. time does fly and drag at the same time.
a drag from cigarettes with a candle to mask to smell of ***: a closet open, throwing up a clothing trap.
scribbles of paper, poetry. jane is poetry. the angry note of: "all these characters are fictional, any resemblance to any person, living or dead is purely coincidental... apart from jane... **** jane" the rest is empty. expressionless as the mirror.
the temple is falling apart.
some cut their ears off for art.
in the bed/room we part with the feeling of wondering what it feels like. to break away from anomie and inner penitentiary lives. a fire? suffocation? alcohol poisoning infection from mould? slitting of wrists before we get old? a cluedo of the bed/room.
                         in bed/rooms we have narrow vision: night-thinkers. **curiosity kills.
suicide among men is higher than ever. it is a problem.
Aug 2017 · 319
tower block. burn.
jdotingham Aug 2017
I once heard the term tower block: described as great blundering gateways to the skys. People crammed in rooms filled with smoke from dope and great drama from these square living quarters. Each the same as the last, numbers and letters ascending upwards like the building itself. Living, breathing concrete. A murmur of excitement from its occupants, groaning about their rat race over a beer. Or two. Or three. The numbers don't matter. The letters of their names don't. To everyone else, they are this homonymous crowd of no-be-s. A reality show no one watches. Gaunt faces. Shaved heads. ****. Ripped and muddy trackies. Stunted heights. Loud voices. Everything to say, yet nothing at all. Nowhere to fall except when they implode and throw themselves off the tower block. The tags of colour at the tattoos found on the people themselves. Tagged with names. A source of identity in these rooms of complex similarities. Right now the streets are empty. I look up and imagine the stories of their lives. The ones never told. The ones ignored by the higher class, the sophisticated writers, the people who'd look the other way. They exist. In numbers and letters. Ages and names and places. This defines them. I should maybe write this down. Maybe not. Maybe I should set the bottom on fire like a *** and watch it become a towering inferno, maybe then people would take notice of these stories. As the fire climbs and traps people who have nowhere to fall apart from by jumping off the side. Then again, identification would be a mess. Everyone is the same in this building. With different stories, so they tell me. Tower block, just a concrete furnace of numbers and letters and numbers and letters and stories told before and that will come2b. It's not the only one, but only when we burn do |people take notice|
note: character perspective of Lucien Abbot.
Aug 2017 · 1.7k
jdotingham Aug 2017
weary eyed hipsters stumble and wonder if others wander the streets so bleak as post-intoxicating liquor grips their throats with their crispy eyed dope and melodramatic tropes ramble through their denial of stereotypescalation.
The world did them a crime, stripped them of rhyme and their sandstone blocks of identity ready to be crumbled by the dynamite expression of a cynical drinker of coffee unaware that in the mirror is the same hipster begging for money on the streets. The one who wonders if others wander so bleak.
    Drenched in irony.
    Cardboard shelter of whining ivory and printed barcodes.
    ABlissful tyrony of tabloid hoes in leather skirts who smoke **** without a second grace at the phantoms of the poloroid.
     Shredding vocal chords. Angel *** clean. W1pe off that liquid graffiti, the cross says it so, should not touch the dew of the floor or a curse shall b-bestowed.
     Acceptance of culture. ****!poe_
etry?hello&bi-my/english/suite/heart. YOU DEVILS CROW! a raven's snow, bleeding from earlobes and vaginal moles. force feeding miscarriages and then bulimic throws against toilet holes - dripping down chins like chunky waterfalls.
---- Who copulated pre-insatiate? and ecstatic with homosexual dollars who sweetened the snatches of sweat dripping down glasses and talkshow trashes broadway masses? Eluding gyzyms of my prismomous ******* of satirical patterns. /.....Pretentious lanterns roam the skyline of a blistering moon, subverted by the doom and gloom by the desperation of lustfull wombs. They scratch at the square jaws and poufed hair of clones. Who pound
                     pound the street with treetrunk ***** screaming
And: "ANGEL.***.CLEAN!"
Pulsating club music, reminiscent of a rampant connection between two pupils dilating under the influence of spice, rolling the dice with death and life.
------{I've seen America with no clothes on, I've seen the road howl all the same.}
/.As ?drunks! begin to splutter their venomous barks of spikes, smokey rooms and coffee eyes are a part of my disguise.' generation, there's only need for *** to crave. %But really... REALLY? really? have we really got the time?
...weary eyed hipsters stumble and wonder if others wander the streets so bleak as post intoxicating liquor grips their throats with their crispy eyed dope and melodramatic tropes ramble through their denial of stereotypescalation.
Aug 2017 · 266
jdotingham Aug 2017
he sits there. his feet upon the couch, crossing over one another. comfortable. arms behind his head. a gleam in his eye. a bruise on his neck.
       smoke passes in front of his face from the cancer stick that he places on an ash tray to the left of him. the ash tray is a blooming flower stuffed full of the remnants of something that once was.
       he glances over towards my analysis and smiles. the kind of smile where eyes squint and the cheeks crease. he asks for a whiskey. a stiff drink as he calls it.
       he is a romanticised ideal of America.
       he jokes. then he gets offended. the smile drops. he jumps up harshly. he swings his knuckles towards Dean.
as Dean hits the floor the room goes quiet for a second before continuing in its affairs. the gambling. the music. the smoking. the drinking. the lustful eyes and gaunt faces mixed with powdered noses.
he looks at Dean's ****** face and walks away without a word.
the door slams.
jdotingham Jul 2017
i met my gold/digger on a train to new orleans.
         she glanced over, we made eye contact, she took me.
                beautiful was probably an understatement, a hardbody as patrick would say.
       "Hey Antonia" I would then say.
<?> was the response.
the atoms were filled to the brim with beauty, but something was missing. the electrons?
       she responded, i missed it.
       i replied, she twists it.
"you are crafted by the gods or some other pretentious *******. but you are empty, so i will never die for you. Antonia."
<?> was the response.
she spoke once more.
alien voice. foreign to my ears.
this was not my gold/digger, but she could've fooled my tears.
jdotingham Jul 2017
&the tail stops, so does the panting, the eyes immortalised in that naïve stare. I stand there with the pistol in my right hand, looking at what was once a dog. was it once my dog? does it matter?    
             I become God. Dog becomes sheep. And, the universe doesn't even blink.      
so I light another *** and toss my empty Crayola Crayon Cigarette Case into the puddle beside me. I guess that's some sort of metaphor. *who knows, who cares(?)
jdotingham Jul 2017
Coffee has become a bedtime drink once more:
           soothing my franatic typing into rhythmic writing
,only stopped by the knock at the door.
      *"What" i scream, shredding my vocal chords,
       "Room service, sir" replied the voice from the door.

under my breathe I mumble "give me a sec", *then I hide the girl who is inside my bed, undressed, mask the smoke with a vibrant erray of deodorant and pause.

Do I shut the lid on my story?
Did I even order room service?
     "Do you need assistance sir?"

No one dare speak.
**I slide to the floor, with my head on my knees.
I've never felt so alone, with a girl who lusts over me, & credit card keys.£
jdotingham Jul 2017
i am the elephant in the room, maybe not self conscious, but i definitely stand out.
i am of many elephants in the room, maybe not conscious of it, it's definitely normal.
the new elephant in the room is the **WHALE.
Jul 2017 · 414
!let's draw a war!
jdotingham Jul 2017
!let's draw a war!* *call it something sweet to distract and explore the fact.
/. one's not so pure and the other's adored.

!let's draw a war?
....u. angel/roar/talk?
jdotingham Jun 2017
take the pain and down it through what will be hollow
we learn to know the truth as it's shown...
are you ready to see the ghosts of the silence?
the kids can't sleep here after all...

your hands are in your pockets when your face hurts,
and your body's no longer frozen by the door...
you're not the only one who knows you're washing it down,
**the kids can't sleep here after all...
jdotingham Jun 2017
I haven't seen my mother, since I dont know when.
&I don't know,
When I'll see her again.


I haven't loved my father, since I don't know when.
&I don't know,
If I'll love him again.


I haven't fought my brother, since I don't know when.
&I don't know,
When I'll fight him again.


I haven't heard my sister, since I don't know when.*
&I hope,
I don't feel homesick again.

              And finally,

I haven't kissed my lover, since I don't know when,
&I don't know,
**If they'll walk through the door again.
For when you're feeling homesick or at a funeral.
Jun 2017 · 470
A fight club to wake up.
jdotingham Jun 2017
stop and smell the roses, radical punches with **explosives.
jdotingham Jun 2017
but she said, in her head
       we're gonna need all the love we can get
but she said, in her head
        you should try loving someone instead?

This is the story of a hurricane
It came to crowds who never thought of pain
She thought of time spent with skylit greys
Infinite songs which will always stay

She fell to earth in a storm you see
Makeup of crowds in disbelief
Thinking that this ain't how it ought to be
The floor is cold without love you see

but she said, in her head
       we're gonna need all the love we can get
but she said, in her head
        you should be loving someone instead

And through it all, she remembers how her little brother stole her phone and she swore at her mother
And time would have only told if she'd have found another/
Had a child and found her perfect summer

But paper plates are wet today, they bend and fold unlike silver weights
She was gonna learn to drive someday
And share her feeling she found with Grande

She fell to earth in a storm you see
Makeup of crowds in disbelief
Thinking that this ain't how it ought to be
The floor is cold without love you see

but she said, in her head
       we're gonna need all the love we can get
but she said, in her head
        you should be loving someone instead*

She won't have those tombstone blues
even though she never finished school
She's too busy smiling over you
And the love we shared through music news

             religion isn't a violent addiction
                       but this is just our intermission
to solve it

she said - in her head
love someone instead. - my song here.
Jun 2017 · 518
jdotingham Jun 2017
i* don't love myself, but you should
            i'llportraymyself to make you care
                    hidden under pompous hair and incessant grins of grungy wear
                          i could do more than i ever could
if only i'dlovemyself, but you should.
[it's just me,myself&my]
May 2017 · 253
mistakes and.
jdotingham May 2017
the one[true]mistake he ever made was he died to live.
slit wisps.
R I P.
if you ever need guidance, please seek help, you're never alone.
jdotingham May 2017
؟O/ devil, diva, Are we not drawn onward to new erA, avid, lived/ O?
May 2017 · 402
no blame? what a shame.
jdotingham May 2017
this doesn't look the same,
no fact/ no truth/ no blame.
this doesn't see the shame,**
no guilt/ no cringe/ no blame.
May 2017 · 447
nuclear revelation.
jdotingham May 2017
"look, the clouds are coming with him" a shriek from a crowd -
mistaken fat boys for men,
the four horsemen turn around, deny everything;
      :one is a snaky man,
      :one has a golden tan,
      :one's land is overflowing,
      :&one's land is overthrowing/

(fire then transforms sand, wind then transforms man).
May 2017 · 327
w a v e/\
jdotingham May 2017
a royal wave from a p(L)easant slave.
a microwave from a tsunami (which won't behave).
       bang! bang!  v    s
                                a   e    .

                                                     let's post it/anyway <3-4-<3 right?
jdotingham May 2017
the birth of a hipster (in denial),
so pose for the camera (and cover that smile),
                    silhouettes are as edgy as a circle can be,
                    3-D induced make belief.
so deny all you want; the fashion speaks/
it's a lifestyle when youA hipster/28|7\12-days-a-week.&
hit me up before the trend, no positivi-tea, just a cynical-coffee-blend. DRIPster that drink, make sure to blink and for crying out loud: do it whatever [that is] quietly over that god.****.kitchen.sink!
     but edgy as a circle (you are)
you *aint no
warhol superstar.
jdotingham May 2017
"so, i guess we have ourselves a little deal."* the grin revealed itself from underneath the peeling scarlet skin, the white teeth juxtaposing his opposing heavenly stature.
             we shook hands.
             it was done.

people usually use me as a last resort, to make a deal with me, bravery (or stupidity) must be apparent.
             i guess he was desperate, on this dusty crossroads.
a character from one of my unpublished short stories:
   addict with a hand.
Ezra is the man the devil fears... known as the Atlas Marker.
jdotingham Apr 2017
dRUNken SONnets fly from my finger tips/
   as my mind flows, like the grass grows,
AND a nervous giggle explodes at the worst of times...
                                                like a funeral.
i BEG FOR forgiveness, i plead on my knee's LIPS/
   as my soul falls, like a tennis ball,
and my heart implodes at the worst of times...
                                                like the berlin wall.
i feel small next to you, ain't that true?
   as musicians say, you make my blue -
and then you decided the sea wasn't for you.
                                                is the glass half empty, or half full?(...)
fill it with *****, i will!          

so drunken sonnets leak from my FINger tips, no ink bleeds onto the phone.
     as the particles of invisible words shoot across the sky,
                                                i stare at the moon               )
                                                               ­          and feel alone.
jazz/film noir spoken word poem.
jdotingham Apr 2017
the Stockholm Syndrome Sunk into her life witha.Solid.Stance.
      So much So, when She began to drown,
      his life flashed before her eyes.
                (jesus walked on water/She Splashed in an underwater dance)
jdotingham Apr 2017
I feel like, nobody prays for me (
nobody to go to the ball
no/body after a car brawl
      when legs are separated like the splitting of some butter
      and no one could love that face, not even your mother,
      when the bed don't know your name, you feeling smothered?
      when pillowtalk turns into suffer-
                                                         ­        -cation, it's simply overrated. Those who talk to much
       Silence those who sit and think,
       And those intellectuals judge the ones
       [inbetween,] cutting over the kitchen sink

nobody in the cemetery when
no/body is left to bury.

I feel like, nobody prays for me...
i'll pray for every/body if you let me save my/body from the harm of having no/body
PLEASE! pray for me?
, no one to kiss your/body, cause nobody loves no/body.
persona - Neitz. - from perspective of my work "A Radiohead's Pilgrimage"
jdotingham Apr 2017
filter tips [between your] finger tips,
          lean right in for
a cigarette kiss
i'll brush your hair right off your eyes,
extract from my Epic poem Andy + Co.
jdotingham Apr 2017
don't lift-away
because i!
    on the moon, my/dear
and walk the moon, with you/dear

    **don't lift-away

like a
    don't fly-away
don't moon-walk-away!
jdotingham Mar 2017
do not:
              be afraid of what !does! make a bump in the night.
              be afraid of what !ought! to, but specifically doesn't.
jdotingham Mar 2017
/muffled collection of chattered gossip.

i may mutter, one last collection of words,
But my raspy breath may refuse them to be heard.
So I sit and ponder what to do,
On the bed, bloodshot eyes run through,
They pierce the soul of whom? and when,
Sad to the core, like a rotten apple in Eden.
The bed gleams white with an eerie glow,
But my skin runs as scarlet as winterly snow.
People crowd, crowd they do,
So much crowd, so little move.
They talk and chatter as a family affair,
Take no notice, I am absent from there.

(Like a painting in an art gallery I wait,
But like a painting in an art gallery
many underappreciate.
No one dares talk to me,
If I muttered I might break that silence, you see,

I may mutter, one last collection of words,
But my raspy breath may refuse them to be heard.
So I sit and ponder what to do,
The line begins to flatten; through and through.
My head tilts, it aches, it does,
There is no voice from above.
But alas! I've found
I will return to the ground
I just hope my gravestone is not a sappy sound when read aloud,
!**** that crowd!

Using my strength, using my might,
I grab some coffee from Eve('s hand) on the right!
I may as well take caffeine and get hyped
In the split second before I sleep every day and night!
[Famous last coffee, my legacy]
Caffeine before sleep usually entices lack of,

I could use the rest.)


Caffei­ne before infinity. &
'ello MrFlatline.
jdotingham Mar 2017
given gift, twas fire, it was,
caused a titan to feel the wrath of the Gods.
eternity, to display such a crime,
liver picked out, by an eagle, over time.

repeated until the mind becomes ill,
repeated more so, breaks a man's will.

repeated until the mind becomes ill                                            ,
repeated more so, breaks a man's will.
but those don't consider the Eagle's dire pain,
for liver aint tasty when eaten every day.
Consider how Caucasus feels in the Prometheus story.
Mar 2017 · 1.9k
Ethical Egoism.
jdotingham Mar 2017
"You strive for love, companionship, to fit into a society of others attempting to do the same. At the end of the day, it's you against the world. Nothing more."

jdotingham Mar 2017
[locked in the box, my secrets die a life]
schrödinger's cat, he sings, we shall never know his strife:
the simple insecurity to the infuriating situation
is pandora will release the demonstration.

[locked in the box, my secrets die a life]
following the maps of the mask of my disguise:
the complex presentation of the penetrating situation
is that hope will diminish in chaotic creation.

[locked in the box, my secrets die a life]*
four walls with no doors (to trap) and philosophize:
*the impending sensation of the sympathetic situation

is that Sisyphus will parallel our little recreation.

But before the box is opened and the cardiac is broken,
a crossroad will be a p p r o a c                                  hing.
What hurts more? The thorns in motion/
                                or lack of map tokens.
Till then, the lies are never dead, nor spoken.
d.d. #69
- inspired by Lord Byron and E.E. Cummings.
jdotingham Mar 2017
in the end.
                   we are all stories:
                                            r i p
        pages and *coffee stained covers
with a dear hope, we will be printed in colour[
                                                               ]is a happy ending.
d.d. #60
jdotingham Mar 2017
destiny happens in retrospect,
                                                   ­      so take my soul and give it breath.
nostalgic polaroids over lunch,
                                                      ­    they hit my heart like a **suckerpunch.
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