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Hope Aug 2013
first, make sure you are very concerned with
unlearned or silenced or misread minorities. this establishes that you
are a rarity, a person of charity,
a champion and deity of the small and the voiceless.
you’ve made the right choices
swallowed the right poisons
so now you’re not pointless,
you’re with the top few
of the economic disparity.
do you aver verity?
not so much.
you just make the choicest noises.

second, it is very important that you stud your vernacular
with words like deictic, post-spaciality, and sub-simulacular.
when you, font of knowledge, squeeze out pearls like turds
in twelve-point, double spaced, times new roman rows,
lined up like crows or some other ***** birds,
be sure to write no sentence shorter than thirty words, and
see to it that two thirds of these words have more than ten letters
that even the nerds in their plaid-patterned sweaters have not once ever heard.

when you walk, A paper in hand, from your car to your apartment, past four vagrants, do not look at them.
do not look into the eyes of the man standing in the rain, barefoot, black, green, and yellow toenails oozing and crusting, nodding his head and shouting at no one, and do not wonder whether or not he’d be there had he been educated.

lexicon is not eloquence.

erudition is not wisdom.

intelligence is not a prerequisite for rights.

you have no rights.

take a dictionary and shove it up your *** and
while you’re at it, shove one up mine, too.
Marieta Maglas Mar 2013
I see my snowy steps disappearing  in the
snow. The coldness will swallow  them.
Wet winces on snow ,wetter than any wince.

I am more involved in  a  sharp  snowless stretch
than I was ever. I forgot that I'm existent .I try
to remember. A cloud is tossing its white to rain.

Nothing  never rains outside, everything rains
inside. Everything is tossing firstly before raining.
The trees always feel this. They are existent.

The trees  need to be existent. This freezing rain
is breaking the trees’ limbs.  Their branches are
encapsulated in glaze ice. I need my steps back.

I hear a song coming from the coffee house. There
is a coffee stain on my right shoe. I take a taxi to go
nowhere. This rain falls down over the snow blanket.

The snow is existent until it becomes  a bed for the
falling rain. I can be existent as long as I’m not cold.  
This rain  is not a tropical one ,and I cannot care less.

There is something moving toward. It's my body. There
is something having no beginning and no end. It's the
movement in losing time. Rain and snow need time

to prove their similar personality and their  different
appearance .Time is existent. I’m not existent in another
particular time. I can’t come into existence twice.
Let the frantic words of a caffeinated mind flow forth:
I shouldn’t write poetry when I drink coffee.
I shouldn’t drink four cups of coffee at 3am
With the intent to squeeze poetry out of my shaking fingers.
Seriously, I have to **** after every stanza.
How am I supposed to keep on track?
I can’t, I tell you,
So let’s just mark this up as postmodernist –
You know, the sort of art that is actually ****,
That shouldn’t be considered art,
Like that exhibition full of pictures of *******
(No, seriously, that exists);
That’s what this is.

The only effect I can hope to achieve is irony,
Or humor, possibly.
It’s about time I stop writing about love and life,
Like I’m trying too hard to be taken seriously.
Maybe that’s the way it is for a young writer,
Like I’m screaming in the street:
“Hey, pay attention to me!
I’ve experienced things and apply pseudo-elegant words to them,
Then call it poetry!”

You want to know the truth?
I don’t want to work a routine job.
I don’t like the way the world works,
And I’m scared of being still.
So here I am, writing and drawing and taking ******* pictures
With the faint hope that my creativity may,
Some day,
Be worth your time,
Ask valuable questions.
Spark valuable thoughts,
Give you an escape,
And pay the **** bills.
Delirium.
Claudia Darian Aug 2017
I am naïve skeptic
I am a bohemian capitalist
I am a sad corporatist
I am a misogynistic feminist
I am a misanthropic misandry
I am a traditional postmodernist
and a conservative liberal
I belong to someone, but mostly to myself
I am not yours, yet I am not mine either.
I am everything and I am nothing.

I am tender and cold,
I am sour and soft.
Darker than night,
Brighter than day.
Loving and spiteful
Caring and callous.

I am a poet concealed in prose
I am a writer covered in playwright
I am here, but I am also there.
I am an old novelty
and a new discovery.
I am a bit of van Gogh’s ear.
Mary Mar 2012
Tiny red pins slip under my skin
Angry and sullen and precocious and settled.
Don’t wake them, they have my blessing.
Like a postmodernist painting
You could analyze them to
death.
But don’t.
Just let them be
They mean more that way.

— The End —