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Mary-Rose H  Jul 2017
5 AM
Mary-Rose H Jul 2017
Five in the morning
feels fresh
and new,
as if
the world has
renewed itself
overnight,
and left
the early morning air
feeling
pure and untouched
against my skin,
within my lungs.

This is air
that the events of the day
have yet to fill;
it is a blank canvas,
whispering its request
to my soul:
for art to be
designed, created,
born, and painted
across its timespan.
Written at 5 o'clock in the morning.
Martin Narrod Mar 2015
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.

Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.

Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
stairs love harness ache smog organic black mandypatinkin time life recipes kosher pinotnoir wine wines naked smoke people discussions hypothetical britniwest philosophy illusion pathetic girls boys girl boy men women chicago systematicdancefight piratesofthecaribbean quotesonlove quotes quote text writing writersfromchicago chosen blessing gift god gratitude peace serenity loveletters missingyou  personalized personal journal poetry prose nonfiction creativenonfiction explicit dark disturbing evil  martinnarrod
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
it became such a mess, such a spontaneous persistence to change the subject and involve too many, that it just had to be cut up into four sections.

i

it really wasn't enough to create diacritical distinctions
for the letters of the Latin men,
Christianity had to come along too,
a mixture of what Russell described as
Platonic and Neoplatonic populism, derivatives
of Judaism and the cults of the near east,
notably Orphism - as a way to pacify i guess,
the ardent spirits into submission -
the only success story being in Scandinavia;
but it wasn't enough to introduce diacritical marks
to the Latin alphabet so that barbarians could retain
their uniqueness of tongued-stress,
so too the emergence of the linguistic topsy turvy alphabet,
like the upside down omega - a natural born congestion
of the educated class, they weren't satisfied with memorising
the alphabetical atoms as the specified sounds,
even when given revisions of c (ć), n (ń), s (ś), z (ź) -
this second revision of the alphabet like ˌɒnəˌmætəˈpiːə,  
or the trans-atlantic version:
on-u
h-mat-uh-***-uh, ‐mah-tuh* -
and already i can see the tetragrammaton working
intricacies in this pronunciation - italicised,
but barely pronounced, or in Essex: 'it's 'appening'.

ii

indeed the aesthetics of excess, orthographic,
the alter: in polish u and ó - same sound - knock knock,
the latter ruled as prettier in certain spellings
than the other, a bit like fashion, a blue turtle-neck
sweater with a long purple skirt - or some other
dalton misunderstanding: translated into greek it's
the same with ε (epsilon) and η (eta), depends which
looks prettier, but why are there rules concerning
what's correct? none, of course one looks aesthetically
pleasing, but why bother schooling children in
rigid aesthetics, even joke about it on news channels
when both are correct, you end up saying the intended
sound: i can accept the handwritten argument,
namely which letter best suited compounding letters
into a smooth connectivity, but in this digitalised
world, my hand writing was already based on the
principle of typing rather than handwriting, i.e.
no letter was joined up in a word, all of them looked
like this, i guess that's why 'αδης spelling wins
given that you'd connect the longer leg of η to the tail
of the ς, which is where the french ç (s) in the word
garçon comes from, the greek sigma (used only
at the end of words); never in school where we taught
french in units, these distinctions were never explained
to us, they fed us the language like turkeys, entire words,
not explaining the distinctions of units, hence my tongue
broke and never learnt anything.

iii

Hades, the sole greek god who had no temple:
as with the vastness of the universe -
that great dawn of thought in man,
and subsequent ratty scutter, hardly the admirable
sloth of a centipede, out of panic first
man's religious organisation into ranks -
out of fear - where too the barbaric bewilderment
of the talk of soul - a breath in wintry conditions
seemed less bewildering concerning proving
unseen things - or writing, hearing unsaid things.

iv

you hear this from journalism, you hear it from
historians, enough time passes, and real events
became labelled: non-existent, famous people back
then end up labelled non-existent - esp. now given
the omni-literate populace, writing something these days
isn't as significant as it was with quills and papyrus.
i don't think it's as easy to outright deny something's
existence, the modern journalistic onslaught and
relentlessness over-feeding us world events
is hardly worth a history other than in itself, a day,
the journalistic onslaught and relentlessness,
it's history on αmφeτaμiνeς - so much passes through
the mouth of time, so much is recycled, regurgitated, lost,
forgotten, it's no longer that if enough time passes,
historical events become mythological events, that's
natural, that after enough history has been recorded,
lived, remembered - the Grand Logos (abstracted god)
enters and utilises the logic of changing history into
myth... hence it's logical to have myths, since there's
an applicable logic involved, when history becomes strained
by too much time, mythology enters, after all the
contemporaries die from a specific event, people are
prone to forgetfulness, as is natural and therefore require
mythology, to retain some memory of the event
or person - mythology isn't necessarily about denying
something's existence prior, it's the blood timespan,
too much time, history becomes mythology given a certain
number of centuries necessarily having to pass,
epochs - not centuries, epochs - enter the realm of aeons
and you enter astrological domain of the zodiac 12.
Walrus Fat  Jun 2013
Faith
Walrus Fat Jun 2013
God is always something that has appealed to me,
I've always wanted to believe in him,
A comforting thought,
Someone always looking out for you,
A guiding hand,
A meaning to life,
And most of all,
More than nothing after I die.

Thinking of life,
As a flash of light,
In a never ending timespan of darkness,
Scares me.
I would much rather,
It be the opposite.

Why can't I let myself believe in god?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
the blank or nothing, forged in the frost,
                                                          ­         harrowing,
thumb and time consuming,
     toward the rally of "thus" heard,
          as ever a language of lawyers, but no law
being passed.
             churn out charcoal.
           pencil stirp stimata sharpen a few digressions,
but nonetheless the main
narrative comes back....
          and it comes back
nuanced, relative, muted and
      somehow mutually exclusive:
the idiot always appears:
        he never is.
   same talk of god & genius,
devil & idiot,
                     & gentleman...
           we are clearly making
a new prototype of the Belgian countryside,
or the talk of Trenches,
          but no head to be hunted...
     no "bad guy",
         just a guy that's there to be respected
because enough philanthropy sides with him...
  or dittoing caption:
   no matter whether heard, misheard or
            unheard,
           it's called the Thesaurus Rex stomp,
the Panzer pulverisation assault -
                     i don't care what words you used,
iron grits iron
            iron nibbles iron,
                   both sides are given hammers
and made to talk about nailing nails in
rather than investing millions.
       talk easy? i'll iota a séance...
but tell me... why is diacritical markings
disregarded when a name like Bartók
suggested? why is it Bartok rather than Bartuk?
or why is that umlaut arithmetic?
       enlighten me!                      please!
    are you educating people for free while
ensuring you own the fisherman's keys?
i guess you are!
       if A is universal encoding from French
to Norwegian, diacritical markings can employ
transcendentalism, in this case alienation -
       it's Bartook -
             the acute incisor cut open the o
and made a parabola of u -
                     don't squabble for what's already an
incorrect answer: diacritics unanimous
is a bit like alcoholics anonymous:
         feed the ******* shame of not asserting
the prescribed marching orders;
the squabbling hogs that you are: pristine my ***:
it's not a ******* birthright! squeem!
  and, go on, squirt out another adolescent
   piglet oink of pseudo Auschwitz!
    i'm saying: why bother to use it in the
first place? why not do away with the whole *******
Belshazzar pantomime of insurance Latin
      for adaptability of working on robotics?
                          sure, effective in Poland as
an aesthetic-variant of u, but elsewhere: no point for
the acute comma above the o, it's still an o -
we implanted that diacritical mark for jokes,
to create an economic sieve!
                  it was never Bar-ticky-tocking-*****,
           but Bar-took -
              otherwise stop pretending,
  or i'll slap you with a raw herring across your face,
and it won't be a politicised red,
  and fish included, or colloquial for a: white lie.
          my advice? either respect the diacritical
application, or go away with the Latin alphabet
altogether...
                      why?
      the soul is born when the words are added /
reason...
                  no words, no soul...
the argument counter? humanoids and that whole
Darwinistic debacle to connect the dots?
     it's called a zoo...
             and a zoological investigation -
self-reliant logic, not something individualistically
accountable for in terms of man...
              and humanism as: less zoo
and more university...
                 or cracking the coconut Dostoyevsky -
but as you do, love the semblance -
            i guess history only exists within a timespan
of 1.3.2015, and the ancient Greeks
       are but a yawn.
                         i don't mind,
i have built up enough qua
                        to answer quo -
                                            qua? as being thespian....
quo (vadis)? where are you going...
                a place called the submission to applause;
the place i'm act? a bunch of neurotics mumbling
toward a statue they're desiring to *****
but never do... they are a bunch of people
mumbling and gesticulating toward a statue they
desperately want to *****...
     or as i said in my Holly Valance kiss kiss video
to a poor Syrian girl:
                     so you too? less exposing the frantic
differences between us but nonetheless attracted?
or what said masculine blonde to the olive-tan girls?
    well, listen, the girls kindred of my impression
         on the word bone are prone to play the
bad girl who-did-it ***-appeal...
                           i just drink to fall asleep,
    i might talk before i do:
god - don't you think that "spoken word" requires
a substantial consideration for lessened poetical optometrics
of complication, and and an eased consideration
of language?
                        well, whenever you feel like it,
it's a grand schematic of a Taj Mahal daydream,
had i the marble and the desire to ***** something
comparably worth a number of tourists
that the original attracts -
oh **** me! poetry can plagiarise everything!
i say plagiarise, but i mean: take the mickey out
of every mouse...
                                or the peppercorn ****
you try to get rid of...
             once i caught a mouse, and it committed suicide
by jumping down the stairs.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
i

Afore there was an astrobleme, deep within me
Though now an astral queen, serenadeth gleamed;
Canorous and splendorous, her cantillate I repeat
I mimic her dancing step's, jumping on mine feet.

ii

She's sad when the past awakens, crying dreading tear's
Though tis what she don't knoweth, her king is all right here;
And through the year's, the catoptromancy shalt tell it's fortune
Chiliad timespan, her body to be mine land, water flow sourcing.

iii

I wilt constellate all her worries, and collect them on mine head
Her Burden's I shalt maketh as mine, and taketh all her's instead;
And the cyanic water's shalt we swim through, sail to the glass
The brokenness shalt leaveth her, as no time exist's, nor our past.




©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©あある じぇえん
Cate  Dec 2015
Untitled
Cate Dec 2015
It's a "getting tattoos for the feeling
Instead of deeper meaning"
kind of reasoning
Digger for personal treason
For an egregious timespan
That left you less leisurely
Shaking hands
With your palms tattooed
Too deep to let the ink wear thin
Skin calloused and questioning
The original intent.
You resent
Your inability to repent
And question
How truly resilient
You were.

C.e.M. 12.7.15
Once there was a troubled man,
whose thoughts are gone in a timespan.
His puzzled mind tried to recall the past,
But some of those memories are gone and passed.

He began to ask whats wrong and right
To his simple mind whose memories are vague and bright.
Whats true whats not, What exceeds what lack
Who knows but he who has his mind.

Please bare with him for he's not alright
Confused by his own mind and might
Now's the time to stay, please dont leave
For he needs you now more than you can ever be
Carl Velasco  Aug 2017
HYPERSENZ
Carl Velasco Aug 2017
I keep forgetting. There
was a commotion in 1995 when
a bird flew inside a house to
eat Chia. Then, a truck killed
A boy’s pet dog. Leaves flew all around,
and a cockroach kingdom
feted underneath our road, in
The labyrinthine sewer systems.

These are my questions: who records
the super intimate crumbs of human moments?
Do they even matter in the blip of time?
Where are the books that failed to sell?
When a woman looked at the painting, it moved her.
What happens to that painting when she dies?
Will it look back at the woman staring and remember
A profound solace?

The music of 1995 latches
to the memory of a given, limited
demographic. But they had other things going on, too

at the time

Humans similar to them collected their bill payments
and sold them meat and sandals.

A fabric of time
taut, invisible

It streamed down naked with pollen. People of 1995 inhaled and sneezed it.
Where did it go?

It’s 2017 now. A stranger with fireworks looks me in the eye.
What do you think of your birth year.
The people that came before, who moved and admired
the Systems, the Comforts. As if each time they spent
Looked like a wholly different world to the future observers.
Just that, **** happens — and there’s nothing
you can do about it.

But maybe there’s one thing.
We can talk about it, yeah. But only
Say it in words, mime that whole timespan in pictureform,
Or mimic some simulacrum in moving pictures.

Once a fossil, always so, emotions.

By design.

— The End —