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Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
<•>

BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)

•<>•

if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map

where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant

but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones

don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?

the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked

see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap

in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,  
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"

eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem

but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus  
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori

this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)

jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one

but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings

of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem

but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest

won't that be a fabulous poem!
Choudhury


https://appsto.re/us/nxo6H.i
What's New
The bus app can now help subgles locate
compatible mates interested in riding the buses and  falling in love
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
Genesis
****** and his cities,
Peleg the earthquake,

cities of crafts and exchange

waste disposal, chaos control
ordinal first to last sequence
father, physical strong, less curious
mother, fragile smaller, more observant.

Plural spiritual entities, Elohim, watchers,
applications of reason, reporting events.

Balance demonstrated with spinning
and flipping throwing things,
fitting thing piece to piece cunning spun
framing weaving
loose and taut, twanging
whistle, whine howl yells bells song

Eventual progress, time out of mind, slow
and steady,
patient, put down, put up, leaning, pushing
pulling, windwise rushing in, to fill the empty

Mind, imageless, no holds, no solidity,
all is spirit, no atoms even, perhaps, not even,
quarkish pairs of ups or downs that spin
on points in ever after solid state called
Heaven, the firmamental place where none was.

Higg's Field.
Unknown known matter and energy, we know.
We know something power enough to seem matter,
exists,
beyond our individuated mind's grasp.
Okeh.

Spread so as we may imagine, when itself began
with the initial edges, or edge, it would be, inside
any bubble-edge is inside,
they say outside is unimaginable

flat out planed point of anything
pounded thin as any bubble wall,
-blood-brain boundary, shocking discovery

yes, as with point spreads stretched to firm
mental plotted points of possible otherness,

ways one may be seen divided
duty-wise. Needful news.

Drink water from your own cistern,
save rain water for washing hair,
keep the spider in the spout,
to catch most matter washed
from the roof over our minds vidroning view

Googlized minds, in Disneyified Meta Cognosis,

we arrived at our destination,
and they have clouds of cotton candy.

- must be all vain, all is vanity, that's fair.
- Ecclesiastes, my old ****-rod-*****-point
pain on my backside,
such as Moses saw of Him whose name is as the Dao,
the name that may be said is not Ha Shem,
the side that may be seen is not His, you see, the hole,
not the whole,
and once that is filtered through, a certainly tangled web,
where in it seems,
Jews, in cultural roles granted, now, bat und bar mitzvah,
no veiled ****** similarities to the Handmaid's Tale.

No weeping over spilt milk,
never cry wolf.
Never speak of the devil, for … what speak we in,
when worshipping and praising and praying is supplicant
pose, supposed to induce holy awareness of mathematical me.

What might be the odds, set
taking all bets,
in spirit and in truth, as held in the wedom we acknowledge,
you and me, we agree, we become maker of this bubbling state,

we boil the cauldron, wear the caul of the first born-
we take the fat from the caul of the liver, and offer the smell,
to the unspeakably named reality we make believers build
in times of plenty, we make beautiful things together,

we call dreams retellings, but the tellings flow from deeper wells.

We are more ant-ish than sheepish,
we are more horse-ish than wolfish, in the wild.
We are more dog-ish than cat-ish, in civilized spaces.

Nurture native natal ground boundary of any wedom,
go beyond,
in quest of all we failed to grasp, the wind we fit to words,
and hold the gathered sheaves , in fists,
this is it,
why one how come to become. We be. Alwise, always willing

to envision further than we think men by right may see,
the tree the fruit was forbidden from,
bade the birds imbibe, and the elephants and monkey's too,

certainly, imagine, the plan got out of hand, it was
mandatory
in the garden walled off speck of life,
pre concepts weyeken called cells.

E= okay, rebalance all you respond with

who says what C equals, at my scale, in a mind,
in or out of the body, I can not say, significantly
different from saying, I can't say,

see, set, mindtimespace, spacetimemind, point. A.
Daily bread, liquidity.
Barton D Smock  Jul 2014
tellings
Barton D Smock Jul 2014
I will have my own brand of insignificance.

-

to prepare for this character, I meant to gather household items I thought would together be helpful in making the sound of a strange woman saddled with an abundance of me time spanking the daughter of her distant but as yet unrevealed relative in a toy store but instead I was overcome by a pain much like the pain a man compares to childbirth and as such I slowed myself long enough to fashion from three sons a triangle with which I woke my wife.

-

you shoot yourself, it doesn’t matter where, but only if you see a homeless person, it doesn’t matter where.  

if you have a job, you’re issued a gun.
onlylovepoetry Apr 2019
don’t kiss and tell,

meaning
do kiss, go crazy, let passion rule, give in, take out,
meaning

kiss but don’t tell

yet,
the real telling is in the kissing
where your heart gives way,
avalanches into frenzied chain of signal fires,
smoked, clouded eyes, with only one exception made;

the shining, sheer veil see-through when
the other is on the room and the  green spring coverlet felled,
all to see the glow, see all the the blush,
the pretense, aversion skins natural makeup, a liberty beacon

laughing, how it cannot be hid for what’s inside
climbs so fast, blushes blue blood redder, the inside reaction reagent,
the weakening composure, the intense beating from heart to head,
the joyous tearing, the silent swearing, the stupid grinning,
the step skipping, the happy dance springing  spontaneous,
no control, might as well just let it go biology in chemistry class

all these tells that you have kissed beyond reason,
these hidden kisses might as well be on
billboards on the highway into town,
a P.A. announcement in high school,
a hearty button attached to your backpack,
the incessant text checking, all dogs nighttime barking all day

go ahead kiss and tell
go ahead tell and kiss harder,
in the kisses, a million tellings
every body part red swelling,
the tearing of every body part,
concentric circles extended from a pebbled heart

~
9:01am wed Apr 24

P.S. another way of knowing
is the signaling typology of the hugging variety,
which if the hugs maitresse don’t do it herself,
soon enough, I’ll just do myself,
cause how you hug is more than
merely everything, it two comets crashing,
smithereens becoming a new galaxy...
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the mystery of lawlessness is bound to the "transcendence" of phonetic application of phonetic encoding... some call it the whirlwind of confusion, but somes also call it E-près and then write Ypres... well, the confusion is all but apparent... i left that in "     " to stress the ambiguity... yes, the -s is optional... it's neither possessive or plural... that, i could have learned in prison, had i ever been a Becontree purple (bishop)... dictionary moment: cranium, crimson, cradle... cardinal... but all these positions of power are on their knees (there's me trying in vain to underline that), they gobble-quote what they quack... which ends up being a circumflex and a wanking hand, embedded with "touching" Adam. oh sure they bypassed the contemporary-of-contemporaries... it was never a grey-matter affair... it was always a gangster's drill-to-the-bone moment... wait till he squeems! i don't mind ******, given the person is dead, i just hate half-asked half-baked half-bollocked Dr. Dre attempts and then failing and then, like a whining dog with its tail between its legs going back to the mantra of mother fiction... i ******* hate it... i start looking like a ******* ******! i hate it... mutter fiktion... all i'll say of a Jew: don't ******* bring an argument against the Palatine Schting right now... i have as much abhorrence against all things Egyptian as i do about English tea, which i deemed liquidated Werther's Original... and then there's this Russian ***** i'd like to the village bicycle... she's had more spare parts done unto her than the working limbs ever gave her the tilt... feminism and the sacredness of all women... name that movie quiz show... charlize theron... aileen wuornos! woo-or-nose? never mind...
   a 1K spectacle at Hastings... that's invoking quid...
and you'll feel more tonguing mollusks than
                          touching a frightened ****** quill-thread's
worth of deer with that lingo, had you ever had one...
              MONSTER!      yes, they all dream of a breakfast
at tiffany's... and i'm john paul the 2nd, and
     henry viii was a joke nursery rhyme
  when charlie bid farewell to diana...
there was no:
         divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived...
there was only a car-crash... you can't make
    a king out of swine... well... you can... Sweyn...
                  but **** me... and i thought i was naive...
guess the ***** didn't kick in when it was supposed
to; once true journalism became the ****** of what
was once the ****** of the people...
             religion... journalism these days is rotten,
it's an Aristophanes to what's really happening
defined by Socrates... it's a schoolyard...
  journalism these days is best defined by Aristophanes;
and who's the globe-trotting-gobbler of all misfits
is not the would-be diarist of returning back to
the local, the usual, the sanctimonious mundaneness
of it all; you **** only once in your life,
you end up having a **** the rest of the time,
either with your hand, or with another body.

oh i'm not bothered about the "perverts"
(funny how only men are concerned with
being named that) -
                               that are watching you,
those third party incisors of
             the bony-**** (hey, you
could be yodeling **** by now) -
                          what i'm
worried about are the perverts that provide
the "perverts" with material,
it's all very much a Turning test...
               that robotics testing ground
of: i can't keep eye contact...
   the lesser privy of psychiatry?
eye contact and biting your nails...
if that can be engaged with and subsequently
avoided:
you're as chirp as chips! honey b.
          can anyone white
feel glamorous using language in order
to tell a joke?
   that's not the question, the question is:
why call it witty comedy...
     but still employ canned laughter?
it's discouraging, i don't know when the joke comes,
all i know is that the editor finds it funny
as that particular time,
                    and that's when he inserts canned
laughter... you can get it with the most
"witty" comedies there are...
  a bit like black girls trying to be white without
the frizz of afro curbing the afro with vaseline...
i've seen catfights over this "third limb"
scenario... afro is no go in catholic schools...
you have to... yum... cow lick that ****
into place... use vaseline...
      and that's an advert-and-a-half.
but you know what really ****** me off?
philosophers... they attacked poetry because
they couldn't care two-****'s worth about
whether language could be musical
or simply communicative... they're the ones
that wrote books without using
grammatical words such as verb, or noun,
because they made them excuses to
their muddles when hoarding from poetry
words of equivalent categorical weight
such as metaphor... so attacking the practice
of poetry, but then encouraging
the categorisation of the spoke
with poetic categories rather than grammatical
categories? can i see Hegel use a noun?
no... but i can see Heidegger using
  the metaphor with two labourers utilising
a hammer... that's the thing concerning
a building site: you either pass the time
tellings jokes... or you don't work
on a building site and hold a hammer
  and question whether someone else might need it...
philosophy is not about the existential dittoing
of the i...
    it's a book, but there's a new category of pronoun
due to universal bewilderment once childhood
finishes... ? opened the door, in stepped !
and said:
     shouldn't we make the stillness of the lake
into a mirror to banish but at the same time
          domesticate narcissus -
yes, replied ?, i'm glad you thought of it...
               domesticating demigods...
                    narcissus was a stillness of a lake,
sisyphus was a stone,
    hercules was bicep,
              achilles was a tendon...
                                       our current affairs are far
from democratic, but at least our history is,
  you get ******... you get protractor...
you get mona lisa... you get 'let 'em eat croissant!',
       too many points of divergence
  in a democracy to craft a convergent "democracy",
what the politics says is that we are all
slaves to what's called a *status quo
,
  i hate the fact that western "democracies" are
no longer tagged as merely status quo...
abuse of nouns... or how philosophy attacked poetry
and never spoke a theory concerned with
language per se being evidently categorised...
     how status quo is actually a -nomer without a mis-
of democracy...
  funny, the spanish... i have no idea
why can i have some ice-cream?
      has to become ?can i have some ice-cream¿
           i guess it's like the english " and '...
  who said what, and who said what for whom?
    is there a narrator?
      is that " + 1 people speaking, or quoting a quote?
or is that direct convo... '   ',
later retelling the tale "     ",
and after that it's all but an urban myth
akin to the kentucky fried mouse...
                the French that blè blé blé blé....
and somewhere in between was the Transylvanian comma...
hmm...
                             i mean... the perverts...
   thanks for the invitation, r.s.v.p.; of sure, great mixtape...
funny thing is... i never filmed myself jerking off...
        i do a 3-in-1... take a ****, take a ****... and
clean the ****-talk ducts of banal sprechen while
      watching a monkey strutting down memory lane
of when i had a girlfriend... and had to juggle,
and go for lunch, and this that and the other,
and a dalmation... or the reflection: but i had a mother...
huh?     i never felt this much ingratitude
for occupying the premises of the oval chamber
as i did creating a signature or inserting
  myself into the least convenient space to have
later come out off using only one digit's worth of
accountability... but hey... that's life.
          are you feeling the guilt trip drug pushed
by your mother from Syria, or Somalia?
     you owe her! you parasite... makes easier argument
for the billion Blue Indians and Chinese to get on
with it and eradicate the over-sensitive ivory dodo;
or at least in Siberia with the mongols...
              so i'm guessing eskimo is the new
                        squint to what's butchery ethics in Kosovo
as: look away... nothing to see.
               still... why call it a witty comedy when
you nonetheless have to utilise canned laughter?
             and that's a novel in itself...
? went up the stairs and ? met ! questioning <
whether ? should be questioning <... instead ! suggested
that ? should be questioned by >, since ? was already
on the 1st floor, having ascended the stairs from
the ground floor...         can you write me
     a novel... replacing all the correct pronoun usage
with mathematical ambivalence structured toward
a mostly unread existential dogmatism using
  mathematical punctuation?
no one will read it...but hey... either you do something
like that... or own a dog or a cat...
           and yes, they call them diacritical marks
when they're within letters... but in between letters?
they call them punctuation marks within words...
or the microcosm of punctuation: syllabification...
          the French just gobble down a lot of
  deviation... mon fhhhhhhhhhhhhré!
don't ask me how they do it... ask Nápŏlyon,
yes, the half-wit from Li-ą... oh no... not
                                               Monsieur Dynamite.
SG Holter May 2014
This proverbial palace of pen
And paper has room for
Exactly as many as
We are.
Together.
People of Parchment, welcome.
Move in.

Poem has room for your every letter,
Each one of your feelings, all
Pleasure; all hurt.
It's diary, -hallways that go on
Forever-
That you can explore in your mind,
It is birth

Of things that you love, that you see
Your own features in.
Thoughts fit for sharing with minds
Like your own.
It's channel for channeling, channel
For handling the things that arise,
You are never alone.

It's words to the pictures of love
That you witnessed, it's tellings of
Hardships you had
To withstand.
It's more discriptive of lust and of
Pleasure than movies you watch in
The dark with
Your hand.

The Palace of Poem has room for
Each poet. The doors are unlocked,
See the sign: "Vacancy."
Interiour's custom, your personal
Taste as design, and don't ask:  
It is perfectly free.

In here there's no grown-ups,
We're children; just taller.
No bedtime, no said time to eat or
Come home.
In here you can choose to create
When you're crying, or laughing or
Tickled or cut to the bone.
-
It's a palace fit for the Kings and
Queens of Expression
That truly live in your
Every
Mirror.
Nygil McCune May 2013
(For one)
I don't want
(to know more of)
the way seconds never cease colliding into
(something, either external or internal to)
others in a rippling shimmer of
(the consciousness, is)
moments that never possess the finality
(a divine madness of quantification.)
which we cry of to
(The Ego, who comparatively weighs)
others in re-tellings of
(self against anything not defined by)
our lives. This
(the chemical current of self-awareness,)
is a truth too often refused
(in accepting such divine madness)
from our emotional responses
(begins a spewing tornado of self deterioration)
to physical objects
(as the universe which contains self)
and our fluctuating position
(begins to fully exist.)
to them. Yet, in that
(As the universe is more fully known)
i live in a continual agony
(by constructs of the conscious self,)
which knows not the ceasing satisfaction of
(the increasingly perceived universe, which begins to outweigh)
the total fulfillment of
(constructs of self,)
a singularity of identity in space and time,
(makes existence appear impossible)
are the screams of my eternality.
Some people have trouble separating them.
IMCQ  Jan 2021
Read Me
IMCQ Jan 2021
I am an open journal.
With a lock long lost.
My pages, riddled with ink,
Lay exposed.
Wandering eyes waver from page to page.
Taking in the tales of lost loves.
Cheering for the stories of triumph.
Learning from listed lessons.
Come all who wish to witness,
Stories of me.
Stories we wrote.

A cover so unassuming.
How to even judge,
Something with so little to show for.
Title-less, addressed to no one.
The grooves and creases,
Spread across the binding.
Worn.
Lived.
Better days,
A distant memory.
Be gentler than those who payed no mind.

Pages that lay uneven.
Torn asunder,
Blacked out or burned
Many, left untouched. 
In places, the ink
has bled through.
Some made to be beautiful.
Others, defiled.
These pages, all precious.
Even the pages
I'd like to forget.

Sable seas of ink,
Flow onto parchment.
Bringing life to desolate pages.
With it
The tellings that brought this book to you.
The lies.
The hurt.
The truth.
The remedy.
A reminder to be weary of people,
The exalted who hold the pen above you.

There will come a time
When this book is shut,
Shelved for the last time.
Yet, these stories can drift on the wind.
From lips to ears.
From old to young.
The life I lived.
The Stories,
We wrote them.
My world within paper.
Am I the book, or the stories that began on those pages.
There was gold within me.
You only had to break my heart.
NuurSeraph  Apr 2014
Eagle Eye
NuurSeraph Apr 2014
I agree....just simply through my Experience.
I understand the fine tuning acquired & required as we unVeil New & refined Capabilities
~Waves of Revelation, surging inside of You
~ as you feel a Personal Amazement of all previous Moments ~synchronized~
in
Cosmical interconnectedness
The Entanglement
~that directed the bigger Picture of the a transformative situation
(Testing Ground).

I realize I gain in blessed gifts for my service through proper conduct, awareness through dichotomous states of Eagle Eye Concentration, incorporating full sensory ~Engagement~
... at the same time I Release a part of my Conscious Attention into ~Extended Awareness~
Bless my Befuddlement...I..I..mean I am having a recent frustration causing conflicting feelings about the role I see Myself contributing as in the Grand Procession of These Kind of Things....

I am mainly Elated , Honored, Focused, Excited, and, Well, gawddarnitt...*** me ma horsee ma...We's gots a good long ride, Theys'alls a'beans tellings....I hears
...just laugh with me...ahhhh
Phase In,Phase Out
Julia kRu  Jan 2010
Some Of Me
Julia kRu Jan 2010
Would you like a piece of my mind?
It's got fragments of tellings and snippets of songs,
It's got barbarous fixes of music.
All of those crave some clever perusal.
Would you like a piece of my mind?

Would you like a piece of my soul?
There are passion and tenderness - desperate, begging -
To be healed and to finally flee
Into rivers and lakes and wild seas...
Would you like a piece of my soul?

Would you like a piece of my pain?
It would feel like a cognac injection,
It could be quite a picturesque trip:
Your emotions would tighten their grip
And let go when there's no more objections.
Would you like a piece of my pain?

Would you like to try on some of me?..
Though - it's doubtful you'd like how it feels.

(c)kRu, 12.10.-17.11.2006
Julia kRu  Jan 2010
For My Lovers
Julia kRu Jan 2010
My Eternal Lover
Is going through hardship times.
Some Light for His Cloud;
A note of gentle sound, - not much loud, -
Hopefully, eased are confines.

My Favourite Lover
Is going through turbulent times.
Some Laughter and Love for His Heart;
A Song and a Smile into dreams;
And - hopefully - Calm is to Pain overthwart.

For both of my Lovers -
An appetent redstart
Flies out with two oxhearts -
To gladden their slumbers,
To shoo away showers
From lands of their dwelling,
And bring about rainbows
They'll sing of in tellings.

(c)kRu, 07.02.-10.02.06
Jane Tricky Dec 2013
four wheels
gliding gracefully along the surface
holding hands and displaying large grins
echos of jokes and secret tellings and laughs

most often referred to as rink
typically filled with jovial adolescents
birthday parties and family outings
weekend afternoons
coaxing is often a requirement

the freedom to move without lifting a foot
who needs to walk, skip, or jump
when you can roll, roll, roll

you crossover
i stumble
you move backwards
i fall
my legs are bruised
as is my ego
yet
i cannot stop smiling

nostalgia at it's finest
memories of lock ins
hokey pokies
limbos
races to the death

it has never been so much fun to get hurt
it seems as though time has worn on me
im no longer an elastic young girl
don't tell me that, though.
five more minutes
Callie Greene Feb 2016
The noises in the back
Make it hard for me not to smack
That buzzing fly I can't seem to ****.
All the other students do is make the teacher ill.
English used to be my favorite class
But now I dread it due to your sass.
No, it isn't funny when you shout ****** things
So here I am giving you some tellings
You don't have a purpose
No, you idiot, you are worthless.
- to the stupid kid who makes fun of me and everyone else

— The End —