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Zywa Jun 17
A worm in my head

wants to wriggle at my fate –

it drives me crazy.
#125 – “Heer Bommel en de tuttelwurm” (#125 – “Sir Bumble and the cavilworm”, 1968, Marten Toonder)

Collection "Bearer Toonder"
Shwetha sb Apr 16
why built me ,with a heart to understand  others?
its killing me!!!
Brown Brown brown
A majestic salute
Of this **** on bone
Into my mouth
Irreverent despise
This effigious moment
Of makes my surmise
Of this meat from this plate
Surety tu sate
It's Satan's will
In deep do I swill
Of all the kingdom's fawn
Fauna's adorn
Adorn ornate
From the midth of my plate
Into my bellies belie
Belittle my sweet tooth
From tooth suit sooth
The feel of my carnivorous desire
And it's encroach
To ****** from the animal kingdom
A bane or benign male
Or of femality
A skinned creature or scaled
Once skinned then scaled
To the nth of my teeth
From it's evolutionary course
To my 'mmms' whence eat
"I farm therefore I am"
My requite
My requiem
It's internment within my duodenum
If we as homosapien
We're a little lower
Of the evolutionary ladder
A little closer
To the whipchuk and adder
Perhaps this incongruity
Would seem of insurmount
That we would not take from the platter
Of that skitter skatter
Of paws and of hoof
Of feather and of scale
For it not our right
To interrupt the plight
Of species cultural agare
And of universal development
Of ******* disposition
And it's extant
Perhaps we'd be more likely
To drop a tear
Than a mensonge long of langue
A salivating spittle
Like the whistle and the sizzle
Of that press upon the plate
Of heated black iron
The steam and the vapour
Testament to the savour
To the saviour of the meal
As any connoisseur can tell you
Unless they alien to meat
The saviour of the meal
That muscular tender form
That reared from the twinkle
To the wink
The seed met it's drink
The phoetus
To the expressed
******* delight
This formling's fledgling plight
As it's eyes burn to new light
Of its heart and marrow and sinew
All fodder to our ensue
Of it's marriage to this world
Now married to our plate
Its existence to sate
Our sensory intuition
And if questioned
The lesser the tuition
Of salt and fat to the sate
Of blood and metal to the taste
Of bone and cartilage the waste
Unless hungry enough to chew
And **** it's marrow clean
And this meal
As if adieou
Of all memory
Of that beast's sense
Of this reality
And this brown brown brown
The king and capital of plate
And our position upon the evolutionary ladder
A little less seemingly madder
Of this culture of interrupting culture
For the satisfaction of our tongue
And of this insanity
Most seemingly insane
Shall affirm of our humane
As our cultural attest
To the other species detest
That the brown brown brown
Be a salute
From fork to mute
Of our common humanity
For whose going to stop us
The birds or the bees
And this brown brown brown
Be the flag of the humanity we wear
From infamy of mind
To the pork and the pear
Laid bare
Upon our shirt or lapel
Surely if we are to grapple
With ideas of genocide's justification
It's after picking the brown fibre
Of a pig's won't to pork
Upon your new shirt
With a clean silver fork
Or after dessert
This is a subtle variation of the original poem named 'Veganism'
Ken Pepiton Mar 31
As a sculptor, I think with a hammer,
another says,
as a nail driving man, I think, with a hammer,
- and foolishly,
- let my mind wander into the future
- when I am framing peace of mind for earth
- as it is in heaven, when I pray, with everybody.

Sing it wit me now, IF I HAD A HAMMER,
sing it, children, like it's 1963
- jump cut -
- drama ****** trauma Glynnis Johns dark, dark
- kiva experience, in a Saturday matinee, for Goyim.

It is literature, and certain cinematic forms of thought,
first formed here, where angels lead latter day
losers out of the maze by the the sheerest merest thread
of extended gnostostical snot-tis-snot-tis
but but button starters
lack of a nail,

no, no, nada fails for lack of a nail, but
for lack of move made with intention to make

a fact, form a circumstance of nextifity,
actual knowing
conscious ware being, acting in the role of soft,
gentle ware of ancient patience
wisdom work
as one wise in the ways of simple truth, take sublime,
for an instant
stitch take
stand, as a ware waiting a command, apps to teach
extending reach, games we teach our selves,
after watching constant streams of data,
very matrixy cinema allusion to the illusion envisioned

as if
belief is not a factor in what you think I am. Word.
No ethnos misappropriation, child. Word is all I am.
I ain't no body.
I ain't ever'body. I am consci used sense since when
begins for us, me and you, writer/reader amusing device,
in the mind of a truth as true as any everwas,

come on, tune to the news, good news don't go bad.

reconcile a while. breathe and wonder if…

then wonder if the author knew
or if he dared to learn. Asking allowed, Truth,

what lies do I believe about you?

First answered prayer this one character claims true.
Truth says, you believe too little.

I accept that. Is there ought I might do?
I do recall, all I know is in my bubble of known, so

pops are inevitable, as thumbs stopping hammers, midswing.
Amusing myself, and others who frequent this end of the pond.
Adam Kinsley Feb 20
I stumble recklessly through my timid thoughts
This bridled resentment destroys my conscience
Despite my intention, I ceded my morals
The morale of my virtue plummets by the second

Dissension among my synapses seethes to the surface
I am a house divided against itself
Regret lovingly entices my bloodthirsty demons
She shrugs surely with shivering shame

With my vision impaired, my dreams are soundly asleep
Kept calmly in this cavern of my cantankerous crimes
My respite is met with malice and spite
I cannot escape what these two hands have done

My distress is hidden in silence
I had already dashed my untarnished ambition
I awaken in sweat and confusion
As an empty bottle mocks me with cruel contempt...
Tif Jan 26
Into a dream I slipped yet my mind was still equipped with the sub avert in tact I was free to than react
My belonged freedom
Has no longer vision

And it's beautiful
How everything falls
In the rythm of chaos
I don't know reality

We are seeing as machines
with no feelings
with just pretensions
And then just fall

Why does anyone don't notice?
How disturbingly normal is this
Maybe they like their masks
It's safe and empty

Just like a machine
"And then everyone will be blind, but they would like it in that way"
Gabriel burnS Nov 2020
In our sleep
There are sparks
And when the flags of nations
In the hands of tyrants
Strive to suffocate the fires
Of our conscience
There are those
Whose lives are palms around the flame of truth
And she, the truth, a moon at night
Will never fail to summon
Her champion, the wolf
The lone survivor
Whose howling can’t be silenced
Taking flight
And overwhelming every obstacle there is
So that we know
That freedom’s not for free
When men are driven
To become the wolves they never thought they’d be
Only to remind us
Of the value in humanity

* * *

В съня ни
има искри
които не мигват дори
И щом на нациите знамената
във ръцете на тирани
устремени са, пожарите да задушат
на съвестта ни,
Има ги онези
със животи като длани във заслон на пламъка от истина.
А тя, истината, на нощта луната,
не ще пропусне да повика
рицарят ѝ вълк,
последен оцелял
със несломимия си вой,
издигнал се във полет,
препятствията всички превъзмогнал,
за да узнаем ние,
че не е безплатна свободата
щом хора са принудени да станат вълците каквито те самите не биха предполагали...
да ни напомнят
стойността в човечното!
Google translation, unfortunately, provides a one-sided, negative, politically-biased translation for the word "whistleblower" in my native language. However, I found the correct one, the intended one, the accurate one -  people who reveal the truth.
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