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JLB  Jun 2012
Himself
JLB Jun 2012
A word gathering dust on my internal junk shelf,
Inseparable, it would seem, from my ego.
Assuredly it seems just a threat to my health;
It's a surefire harm to my heart, this I know.
But once given the chance to examine my state,
As impossible as it seemed to let go,
I saw glimpses of wisdom, redemptions of fate,
Which swore to this word’s worth, its quo.
For when read alone, on a page in my mind,
The “him” was the syllabic gong that rang twelfth.
But I took a fresh gaze, and upon my collate
Saw its syllabic partner alone; saw the “self.”
My “self,” I then saw, was discovered through “him;”
Made naked, and shivering, and new.
He’d unveiled hottest passions, and fears, with great stealth.
So “him” I can thank, now the word’s split in two.

Driven apart by an unlikely shim,
I have his remains, but see more clearly my “self.”
The dust I will likely now brush off my shelf,
For uttering the loveliest elision since “him.”
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i've said this once before, and i'll say it again: i don't buy into dreams, i find them a bit ******, b-movie versions of reality, but sometimes, just sometimes, just before i tap the snooze honey and talk myself into: wake up early, wake up early, wake up early, tomorrow it's going to be california sunny (which it now is), i get a dream, and not some *******-riddling dream, a dream where i am lying next to a staircase and reciting poetry - there was a yesterday? - and i can clearly remember one line from the poem:

  the best verse i ever composed,
  was the verse i spoke -
     and never bothered to write down -
the poetry that belongs solely to ανέμοί -
the deity of the winds,
and of souls -
     of those who reside a tier above
hades, in his ***** - anemoi -
   and yes, diacritical entry points
for the english reside with i and j -
as is worth noting:
   there's a buddhist maxim of concern
with respect to the modern greeks
(let me keep you up to date) -
that famed mirror of *beryl
-
   stop polishing the ****** mirror,
you will not see much clearer,
stop polishing that ****** mirror,
wash your face instead, slap it even,
punch it till you bruise your knuckles -
by polishing that mirror too much,
you'll end up as the madman
xerxes of persia, demanding the sea
an allegiance and sub. obedience by
whipping it! we're not talking culinary
inventions of whipping cream,
or heating milk for a cappuccino froth!
if the english are going to be this *******
lazy with their abstinence of applying
diacritical indicators to ease the pain
of dyslexics with pseudo-chinese
  clarifying syllables - why should you?
you? the greeks, why spoil the beauty
of the already ready alpha-beta -
    you're perfecting something that's already
perfect -
        look at the trojan eve - look toward
the roman adam -
stark ****** naked; the greeks seem
to be donning five pairs of socks,
two pairs of trousers, six shirts, seven
pairs of underwear, gloves, and a burqa
to top it all off!
**** it, let's do what the english have
done: return to nature, embracing naturalism,
nudism, whatever the hell you want
to call this nightmare.

as any book review inquires -
  a book there is, how language began,
by a fella who learned some amazonian
language, a daniel everett -
who claims counter-claims vs. chomsky
and pinker -
  who says - citation, please!
he maintains that mental disorders do
not support the notion of a language *****,
for (he argues) there are no language-specific
disorders
...
  
          yup... apart from dyslexia,
i guess that means: you can't count from 0
to 100, or give me a 3 x 4 answer,
nothing language specific about that.

ah blimmin' heck, i can't believe that i turn
into this jeckyll ******* when i had two
sharpshooters -
    well... **** happens.

then comes a video including douglas murray,
sometimes you need a pompous english
*** to speak a little -
   jaw-dropping moments of perfected
sophistry -
         which the english are only capable
of, which they invoked by inventing
the american / australian accents -
covert mechanisms -
   don't invite diacritical distinctions
(which, by the way, pivot on the chinese
having not letters, but syllables -
hence the mongols in crimea,
   hence the mongols tickling cracow,
as the myth of the trumpeter goes
in the hejnał mariacki - heynow -
   st. mary's trumpet call) -
shim shiminy shiminy shim shoom
         ask for favours of off a broom...
   tipsy turvy -
        and what do you call a sikh on a construction
site? sinjit you 'av a brick on yir turban;
never feels right, him with a turban,
me with a hardhat, i'm guessing he's
praying that if a brick falls,
     it will bounce right off the cushion.

there was something else...
ah! the other type of intellectual, the quirky one,
i.e. david graeter talking about
money, and how adam smith was wrong
in speculation, and how you don't
find the most primitive societies engaging
in 1 x cow = 40 x chicken...
    i still don't understand why there is
haggling in marrakech bazaars -
    or how 1 x cow ≠ 40 x chicken
  but 40 x chicken + a wife for my son...
intellectual pomp vs. intellectual quirk -
can't decide -
         and money is a fascinating concept,
nietzsche was nearing the prospect,
but the much anticipated "transvaluation
of all values": well... to be honest?
   that's just a one word book: money...
but here comes the biblical fiasco -
          oculus namque oculus -
  auge für ein auge -
        simply, eye for an eye -
which bewilders me, given usury -
     interest rates, the supposed "pricelessness"
of certain artworks...
        it's way past jurisprudence -
    that meaning has morphed into
a banality, nay, an abomination of economic
ethics...
          the phrase no longer applies so much
to a jurisprudence regard of affairs -
   the term has become more and more
economical.
Reverist Aug 2014
The reaper's eyes were on her,
Yet she never bowed.
The reaper's ax chose her,
Yet she never soughed.

Death was finally in love,
With the girl he could never cow,
For she was something he could never have,
A girl with a skin too firm to swallow.

Why couldn't he touch the girl,.
The girl whose tears never fell,
The girl whose eyes are pearl,
The girl whose voice is a shim of bell?

Her secret wasn't a mystery,
She was too pure to be touched by maleficence.
The reaper desired her for her rarity,
But his hands burned at the touch of virtuousness.

Death chased her everyday,
In the hopes of taking her soul,
But  her soul was too far away,
Far away for him to hold.

The young maiden didn't even notice
The harvester at her tail.
She was too involved in lightness
For her to witness his veil.

The reaper's ax was rotting,
It was yearning blood,
Though who he was lusting,
Was nothing but an illusion set by god.

The girl was a mirage,
God's own penalty,
Towards the slayer,
That gave birth to misery.
b for short  Oct 2016
thin veil
b for short Oct 2016
I wonder what song
was playing in your head
when you suddenly realized
that you were dead.
Shim-sham', shakin' your way
right back into the universe.
And I’m trying, just trying
to follow your breadcrumbs.
© Bitsy Sanders, October 2016

Samhain, thin veil between spirit worlds.
I think I'll find you tonight.
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
Hello old friend...
Across from me he sits, fixed, his cold gaze like a winters reflection
No sun, no motion, just done
I'm not even sure he's capable of emotion
And the real man inside, he's seen by no one
Except me, I see...
I see a semi good looking, moderately attractive man
Doing the best he can to get out of **** it and I don't give a **** land
Trying to hide the brand of a misfit that's been burnt into his hand
Before it gets out of hand
Not even sure if I can, I mean he can, I mean we can
Change the plan enough to rage the river and bust through the dam
The whole things a sham
The t-top trans am and all the glam
Just put into place to hide who I really am
I mean, who he really is, I mean who we really are
He's gone to far in the wrong direction, he's lost the farm
He didn't see the harm in projecting his charm
How could he have known that presenting a false hand would lead to the loss of an arm
Maybe he thought it a false alarm
Maybe he couldn't see the danger through the swarm
Or maybe, just maybe, it was to loud between his ears to hear, confused the warning siren for a victory horn
Now the fire inside is a flicker, the passion for life only luke warm
And he's worn a grove in the floor as he passes, fighting with the desire to have never been born
Feeling like a child from under the stairs or of the corn
Forced to adorn a smile he's worn just to hide the scorn
Being ****** by life to the brink of death, almost a ***** ****
Sworn in my the devil, when the sediment settles no one will mourn
His dreams ripped from his hands, left alone to weather the storm
Cold and frightened, not even a recognizable life form
Torn between being himself or having to conform
The norm unattainable like a hunt for a unicorn
So he gave up, and who could blame him
A Titanic adventure, sink or swim, the chance of survival slim
The future grim, on unlevel ground, in need of a shim
His life a synonym for the darkness within
Told over and over again that it's up to him
Up to him to make a better life but where to begin
His light goes dim as he recalls a hymn
That use to give him hope but now it's like a dead limb
Useless as a possums survival mechanism
He looks directly in my eyes while I listen
Almost begging for advise but there's non to be given
What would you say to me? I mean, what would you say to him?

©2018
JAM Feb 2016
RECORD: PARANOID ANDROID
FROGMAN: RADIO HEAD

BEGIN INNERMISSION 1

Frogman of enormous Brisingierdth
(on my mind sHe holds OUR hearth):

Try to imagine minds without throughtkeeping.

you probably can't.
you think you know the intro,
the conclusion,
the thought of the body and mind.

yet all inside you,
throughtkeeping is instinct.

Brads are not late.
a Janet does not check her selfse.
machines do wrinkle rememberances.

WhoMans alone measure throught.
WhoMans alone chime panic.
And because of this.
WhoMans alone suffer a paralyzing Miracle that no other creature can cure.

The Miracle
of throught running out...

END TRANSMISSION 1

Riff Raff: Hello.

Brad: Hi!
           My name is Brad Major Threes, and this is my fiancée, Janet Twice One.
          I wonder if you'd mind helping us.
          You see, our brain broke down a few moments up the road.
          Do you have an ear we might fill?

Riff Raff: You're wet.

Janet: Yes, it's crainving.

Brad: Yes.

Riff Raff: Yes!... I think perhaps you better both com-e inside.

Tic .

Tic .

Tic .

DING!

Janet: You're too kind.
           Oh, Brad, I'm frightened.
           What kind of future is this?

Brad: Oh,
          it's probably some kinda way-outta heare for real wyrdos.

Janet: Oh.

Riff Raff: This way-out.

Janet: Are you forgetting The Parties?

Riff Raff: You've arrived on a rather special wrighte.
                  It's one of the Chaster's afflairs.

Janet: Oh,
           plucky shim.

Magenta: You're plucky,
                  he's plucky,
                  I'm plucky,
                  we're all plucked-ees! Ha haa haaa!!!

STOP: TURN THOUGHT
The Letter-Ing: for real wyrdos
eighth or last
in a series of poems made of quotes
one part to a whole
its sum has yet to be totaled
may be more than its parts
subject to change
aaah geez, heare we go
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2017
.
Under fish scale skies—breaks the sun,
In myriad eyes, beamed longing across
Stupendous arcs in highest procession,
As we make our way in glittering dream.

Under quilted clouds, in rains we swim,
Wrapped in fibers and whim, a webbing
Embrace and steeples of mind to shim,
As we enter the waters from a shooting.

As child we ask, 'do we return to whence
We came, or do we end, after days, time,
Thru sorrows and bliss and sleep but lent,
Balm for us to bear loss of spent dream'?

Under winking stars and full faced moon,
We sing our songs writing a story loosed
And pray our hands, to a feather will turn,
As we make our way thru glittering dream.

— The End —