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The yellow aura
spiraled my night elf hunter avatar
as the DUN-DUMM
of false accommplishment
incited my addiction to
instant gratification.

I had just Leveled up.

The quest giver
gave me a choice

****** boots
Or
a less ****** Dagger

I took the ****** boots
because
**** the system
they looked cooler.

I was going to stomp cave spiders anyway,
what's the point of relinquishing
looking **** fine.
for an extra Attack Point?

****** Boots.

****** boots ALL Day long.

A naked human avatar
dances
facing a naked gnome
Named: "Buzz Lightyear"
He is Also dancing,
at crotch height.

This is Typical starting zone
foolery

I stayed up
watching Toonami all night
Naruto, Bleech, Inuyasha.
I could tell the sun came up
not because there was a window in my Kitchen,
there wasn't.

Tom and Jerry came on.
everyone knows
when Tom and Jerry came on
you were no longer pulling an
"all nighter."
You're pulling a
"Drink enough Soda
to get through the rest
of the day-er"

My entire diet
these past two days
has consisted of Gushers & Vault
because
Clearly Coca-Cola is superior
to Pepsi.

Therefore, Vault
was superior to Mountain Dew.
Which is the typical choice drink
of my internet brethren.

I don't know why I dyed my hair black nobody online could see it
But it made me feel
more
like my Night Elf Avatar

I wanted long white hair
I realized that's impossible
in 6th grade
So I Bought & Settled for Black
At least I could be like
"L" from death note,
Long sleeve white shirt, jeans
with no shoes.

I could also be
any other black-haired charecter
From any other angsty Anime
Because of course I loved angsty Anime
Because I held my cell phone like "L"
From Death Note.

I always dreamed
of this singing venus fly trap.

A Fuzzy Memory with a lost Origin
I realized seven years later
the Singing venus flytrap in my head
was AUDREY 2
from Little Shop Of Horrors.

Netflix reunited us in College
Audrey 2 finally Serenaded Me.
I listened with Voyeuristic Intentions
As memory saprilings grew
into the full songs
relieving the void in my soul
Lingering for a Man to be attacked
by a singing venus fly trap
in his own kitchen.

But only once,
Because I firmly beleived
movies should only be seen once
until I stopped
dyeing my hair black.
Despite watching Space jam
more times than any kid born in 1995 Should have
but still
all the kids born in 1995
watched space jam
more than any of them should have
because they were born in 1995.

Apparently
when I first saw little shop of horrors
it aired just before osmosis jones.

I love osmosis jones
almost as much as I love
Buzz lightyear, of Star Command

Buzz lightyears robot companion XR
reminded me of Cyberchase
and to this day Cyberchase
is the best show to watch
when you have no idea
who Gilbert Godfrey is.

Zoombinis is better
than oregon trail.
and also better
than Tom and Jerry.
but not better
than leveling my night elf Hunter.
Named:
"FEED ME A PIZZA!"

I think I spent more time
getting my Zoombinis
to look just right
then I Spent deciding
what outfit to wear

Routine
Black striped Hoodie
Unwashed and worn every day
Grey skulls all over it, because
of course it had grey skulls all over it.
Black pants.
Black socks
No actually, THESE black socks.
Okay, got gushers
and my Coca-Cola.

I now take as much time
to choose my outfit as
designing the perfect Zoombini.
however I have yet to replace
my legs
With
a skateboard.

I think that every grade before sixth grade is fourth grade
and 6th grade is basically 7th grade
which is to say my memory skips them both
to remember ending eighth grade

I miss being cool on the Internet
Whilst lame and forgotten in real life.

like black sock
wasn't quite as good
as that other Black sock.

I wanna go back.
To the seperation
Of who we pretend to be
Vs. who we actually are.
To be dramatic again.
incomparable.

An ideal self on the internet
Who is obviouslly not the real you
is decades more comforting
than Some Characatureized
Facebook Profile.

Today I was offered a choice

Work A minimum wage job
or
continue my useless college degree.

I decided to write a poem, because
**** the system.
If I am to Decide where to respawn from
Let it be poetry.

There is no spiraling Yellow aura
or DUN-DUMM

Sometimes there is snapping though.
Or a lost memory
of A singing venus Fly Trap.

I am a pretend person.
An avatar
just now, I have skin.
You can touch me
I breath without a Macro
or even pressing any keys.

I cannot bring myself to
Watch Space Jam again.
I can Identify Gilbert Godfrey's voice.
I will buy my children zoombinis
And it will collect dust
When all they want
Is to watch the fifth Toy Story movie
Way more than any kid born in 2020 should.
And all the kids born in 2020
Will Watch the fifth Toy Story Movie
Way more than they should
because they
will have been born
in 2020.

And I will rant
about the Missing LGM
and Warp Darkmatter
betraying Buzz Lightyear
By joining Evil Emperor Zurg
So Buzz was forced
to get three new Partners
Princess Mira Nova
Audrey 2
and Osmosis Jones.
because I will have Forgotten
Booster & XR.
Because Booster and XR
Never made a ******* Facebook Profile.

Nobody exists anymore.
We are all represented by our avatars
holding ourselfs up to the standards
of our photoshopped reflections

Being disappointed and overwhelmed

I Take pills to forget that I am
Acting Like myself
but can't find any evidence of Existing.
Besides these memories
of who i used to be.

I want my internet persona
to be nothing like me
So that I may focus on myself
in the real world coherently.

I want thick black lines
dividing mental Venn diagrams

I want Tom and Jerry
To signal me
That it is morning, again.
Lydia  May 2018
Puzzle
Lydia May 2018
"But what if we're wrong?"
It was silent
But her thoughts echoed around in my head as we laid on top of her pickup truck
I swatted at the eighteenth mosquito chewing on my leg
I don't want this to be love

We were tangled up in the acoustic music they play on the radio on Sunday mornings
She was trying to dream up something clever to write about
And I was pretending I could learn to play guitar through osmosis,
As if blending myself in with the harmonies, finding her in every lyric, and sheer willpower would give me wings or at least magic guitar hands

She set the alarm, checked it over and over
She was not going to be late for her first day
I told her I'd be asleep when she got home, she told me she knew
I told her to wake me up

I wasn't looking for perfect
Perfect really only applies in first year physics courses
After that, we learn to fall in love with "rough around the edges" or "unique" or "unfinished"
As if their life is a puzzle that we need to complete
Just so you know, it isn't

She bought me breakfast and dropped me off
She used to tell me she loved me, but I know she didn't
She does now, so she doesn't have to say it anymore
When I said, "love," before, I didn't really mean it
Not like I mean loving the garden on the balcony of her apartment or thunderstorms in May
Even if I was a puzzle that she completed (and I'm not saying that I am), we didn't need any glue to fit perfectly
The support on this poem has been unbelievably incredible. I am so grateful for this community with all of these lovely people :)

Please comment :)
Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.

As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.

The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.

The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.
-- a word to the wise --
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
psychosis and osmosis....
   one the soul, the other
simply water...
      in dictionary
verbatim:
the passage of a solvent (ego) through
a semipermeable membrane (body) from
a less concentrated (thought) to a more
concentrated solution (soul) until both
solutions are of the same concentration (now) -
    and the end of a romance is?
the so called "madness"
becomes a topic less and less used
by writers of fiction,
  it becomes genuine,
it also means fiction parasites,
poets included, don't dare to tread
into a goose-march stepping into this Hades....
    you don't come round these parts by
yourself... unless you're hoping to
end up dead... or trapped by a dialectical
spiderweb with talking spinders...
       you dont get to type  this ailment out...
not in the same way you write the
word osmosis....
but then again, in the west you get to
be a victim of a crime: the criminal
       gets all the perks and you get
   Belgian mud to sniff,
while a monarchy gets to celebrate
its 65th sapphire encirclement...
               psychosis should be as clear as
osmosis...
                 in that we need water....
                    obviously very few people understand
this...
                dein die kopftod...
   i call an end to romantics with "madness",
well... given cancer has the prioraties...
                so the crowd might
congregate at Golgotha...
                  i say: walk the, ******* crab!
side-ways, yes, side-ways,
   like imitating suicide on a ledge....
you made enough money from the diseases,
true when under the scalpel:
dis- (negated) -ease (do i need
to exfoliate this?) -
                   i can only see a death of making
certain diseases a case for the worthwhile tale
of selling novels...
            i can't imagine exploiting
the said diseases... but if i was born with
a capitalist conscience, i'd hardly think of
possessing a conscience...
               i'd say death to the romance
of establishing a literary subject...
              i'd prescribe the Koran...
           as odd as it might sound...
you don't really hear how
psychosis can really be stated lorem ipsum
ad hoc...
   the first you hear is
         the miser medatitive attempts in
the medium, precipitating into paranoid
schizophrenia... no more medical than it is:
politico-journalistic...
                 psychosis and osmosis...
what's the difference... one engages the soul....
the other... water...
the ending is the same -osis...
   a verb, an activity self-explanatory
in a name... easily digested via journalistic
sensationalism...
        it becomes a death then the "mad" onces
realise you're herding them into a novel
and rather run a half marathon for
  the cancer victims...
   then ***** begins to turn sticky....
                 the hierarchy of diseases emerges...
cancer pharaoh... alongside the other adverts
for flu, smomking and lesser diseases...
then they tell you how Muhammad treated
the lunatics like modern Islam might deal with
Sufis...
                   some would care to say:
these people, are, not, money-dispensing
machines!
                        but then again...
who gives a ****... i don't even know or care
if you're conscious,
    i know that conscience is not part
of your consciousness, then i'm treating you
are semi-coordinate,
   probably sleepwalking through your so
called life...
   madess has no romance for a novel,
but since you testify to people being mad
only via a model... i can't but expect your novels
to later come from glamour models
writing their ghost-biographies...
   ghostwriters... auto- not near
unless bound to refining a.i.,
oh don't worry: only books written
as books necessarily sold...
                      this has gone beyond pimping
the pompous... it really has...
                  i can't even be prone to pomp,
i can't believe in writing a book
like i might don a cravat or a beefeaters' uniform...
      books have nothing
      grand about them...
writing them we're cheap ****... very much akin
to the last ruke on the chess board:
      lifestyle journalists with  a steady income
from being printed in newspapers...
did you know robots will replace 250,000 jobs
bound to the NHS and Whitehall?
    better write scrappy, ******-doo....
they might think you're human...
           then i guess it only sounds as the prompt:
write doubly human...
   for the added effect...
             write like those employed by newspapers,
esp. the opinion columns...
can shove it up their *****...
   drink theoir gin & tonics...
think their opinions,
   and replace their premature / non-existent
dialectics, by crushing ice-cubes with their teeth.
    i can only claim being human
by not romanticising "madness"...
                         i think it's a tabloid
venture that's, well... deservedly in need of a novel...
  i can only suggest the alternative:
stop the romance of "madness",
            and stop desiring to write novels about "it",
before you turn and realise
that your sanity was prone to stage
           the alternative... zeitgeist and insect
"typo" homily.
oh, it's there... but no one thinks those people
are half-as-cult-like as they,
         there's no "secret" / shadow bribing
someone from both ease, and from seeing
an ease for dis...
                     it's just nice, seeing people pray,
kneel...
                 play into the hands of a puppeteer...
who may or may not exist...
counter to all the intelligent arguments:
try merely existing, rather than living...
  try to state i think therefore i am:
            and move it away from forgetting
that you think, and simply live...
             most people who express life
hardly ever think...
                   well... you can't see thought:
meaning their life is not so cyclic
and at the same time limited...
               cogito ergo sum is equivalent to
Zeno's paradox...
     to occupy yourself with thinking
          is to de-occupy yourself with living...
you can try to prove with thought that you
exist, but in that same instance:
your thought means less and less...
since by thinking occupy a finite space...
   and with life about you taking its course...
your cogito becomes trapped in a noumenon...
since that your self cannot
                    express a phenomenon...
given the number of example trapped
in the category of **** sapiens,
this is as natural as taking antibiotics for
a flu... only that it's purely cognitive...
or rather: cogito per se...
            cogito per se ergo sum quasi se...
given non cogito est pseudo cogito ergo sum...
   mind you: there's no pseduo sum...
we already rule given we can't
turn into the abstract burial ground of hindus
that's a fire... and how we have strated
to build up a phobia for being taken into the earth
for insect food...
   even the pagans believed to give the body
a soul, a fire burial...
   if that practice remained, there would
be no reference to monotheistic ****...
       or we would turn into Chinese omnivores...
i find it bewildering that the Hidus and Chinese
have been so ****** patient with us...
count to 1 billion in English...
  years... probably another 1000 years to
reach that number of snooker-player plumbers
and carpenters ready like vulchers...
  cos we really needed that "perfected" aesthetic
of a web-page to really, really clog our brains...
thinking that it wouldn't precipitate into
a loss of body, a sudden loss of body,
  and the emerges of youth with mental illnesses
akin to premature depression, when depression
was the disease of the old, in the gravity cursing
toward, for ****'s sake! Homer!
    yes, the Greek poet!
                  how can you suddenly expect
to make mentala illness a myth, + a taboo...
when you prescribed people gym memberships...
and a complete lack of manual labour,
having exported it to China...
  the ******* on about?
      we're suddenly the new Marxist theory samples...
brains in pickle-jars...
     completely spineless!
                 we wanted both mind and body...
instead... the powers-at-be... told us:
you only need a mind... no body...
   body belongs to hamster... to the gym...
  well... but i really wanted to think crap and hammer
in nails all day... no can do... Chinese have it...
well...
                 what's the point now?
how else would Islam, not be agitated in prescribing us
a war?
           i still find it bewildering that the Chinese
and the Indians (2 billions, and counting)
are so patient with us...
                   still... you want to know why
there's an escalation in youth mental illness in the west?
you gave their bodies to the Chinese...
  no way in the world can their minds (including
my own) ever reach a plateau of an Einstein that
would be satisfactory for the authorities,
to move away from Einstein... and establish
a telekinetic norm (as seen on adverts).
Nicole Bataclan  Mar 2012
Osmosis
Nicole Bataclan Mar 2012
Nothing but the sound of the waves
Feeling the warm wind on my face
Close my eyes just before I dive
I have never felt more alive

Millions have walked here before me
Still, this moment belongs to me
When my footprints will wash away
In my heart you are here to stay

The island's whispering to me
Overwhelmed by your energy
Everything in sudden osmosis
A harmony I'll surely miss
Eilis Ni Eidhin  Mar 2015
Air
Eilis Ni Eidhin Mar 2015
Air
Buds burst forthwith outward
Leaving the private world of
Growth to be anew
The foal steps lightly
First on air then grass

Smoke rushes in hunlike
Ostentatiously in combat
Purity is its own demise
Osmosis and entropy reign
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2019
letter to elana

for the poet elana bell

~

in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading


this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...

~

postface:
another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges
Feb. 21 -March 5, 2019
NYC
another true story

^ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elana_Bell
Ellie Mar 2017
At the start of it all
He may have been A Good One
All teeth and curls and rays of light
But he sure as **** didn't stay that way.

Teeth turned towards my throat
Curls turned to coils
and rays of light became blinding
As we wove ourselves together.

Two years intertwined-
At one point he vanished,
At one point I vanished,
At one point we were together again
In a tiny room in North Atlanta.

I said some smart ****
He spit in my face
And announced that he was going
To the corner store
For cigarettes.

"I thought you quit smoking"
Rose quartz spilled from my hands.
"Osmosis is a funny thing"
Copper dripped from his lips.

The door got the last word
And then the nothing began.

I sat beside the stove,
Lit another cigarette,
Did another line,
And waited for the candle
To burn itself to death.
Ben Coleman  Dec 2011
Osmosis
Ben Coleman Dec 2011
Osmose with me
Into perfect symmetry.
Our membranes transfer me to you
An you to me; its chemistry.
And when in your proximity
Your energy sets mine in motion;
Moon's effect upon the ocean.
A privilege, surely, 'tis to feel
Not shared by stones or trees or seals.
Chimpanzees can't understand
but they come close.
A human thing it is to feel
And that is what I value most.
Pagan Paul  May 2018
Unsettled
Pagan Paul May 2018
.
Aimlessly wandering
   with a feeling of agitation,
      caught somewhere between
         browsing with interest
            and prowling with intent.

Distressed and unsettled
   like anticipating trauma,
      mooching with an emotion
         that something is imminent
            yet its nature remains veiled.

The horizontal line defines a stability and yet,
it has started to list off to one side.
Tiny perforations promise fragmented logic
by osmosis revealing the storm implied.
The tap of excitable energy is dripping slow
threatening balance with a flood rip tide.
Empathy walks with the expectant father pacing
and coils of despair knot so deep inside.

A nervous anxiety
   grips psychology and waits,
      caught somewhere between
         bleak submissive acceptance
            and stark naked panic.



© Pagan Paul (22/05/18)
.
Sethnicity Apr 2017
Yet I Am Ready
Watching the waves eat away the castles made of sand
Staring at the way wind is churning at infrastructure       land
like a big bad wolf who found the fear and lean foundation of a brick house
I am ready for her hand

I am all ready
Traversing fields filled with fruitless wonders
burning tundras rolling thunders
A Man attempting to put out its grand made funeral pyre
with nothing but a Jack and Jill bucket filled with reverse osmosis electrolyte infused hydrogen oxygen expired prayers
I am Ready for no man land

I have a radio already
Listening to Nokia raven chirps and bubble bee gyrations.
Evergreens whispers as wild blooms break concrete and asphalt and building plans
giving smiles to homeless man and woman
dreamers flowering in the night lights that were supposed to replace stars

I am ready
for the woods to takeover the hoods
for bear feets to take over the streets
for napkins to become extinct
to write with my god-given red ink
so that my being will dye into stone and dirt
To leave my DNA on my mothers belly and hear her cry
As she covers my mouth closes her eyes tearful from radioactive winds
let her know that I loved her and hugged her every chance I could
I am ready to give up me for we have not given back enough
We have devoured the essence and forgotten how to seed and harvest  
the nothing has become us
which is why Earths flesh is colored rust
like  blood mixed with scratching dust
we have bruised the body
and wonder if we can blame something someone else
but US
Every time the finger points the object of our deflection disappears
Rearrange the letters she was trying to help us HEARt
Rearrange the letters EARth is trying to make us Heart
I'm trying to make us Ear

These MTHFCKRS are among US.
We have bred them with our love lust
still unaware that they a fungus
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
they save a life to **** it from us.
they manufacture fakes to stunt us
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
Ideas devoid of what we need to come up
She must go now and rip it from us
We must shed our blood just to fund us
Cause these MTHRFCKRS have out done US
What have we become?
I have not given up this is not about surrender it is about sacrifice.
What are you willing to sacrifice for a Better way and Better World a Better Future... or are you just another DMN MTHR FCKR

— The End —