Ken Pepiton Mar 2
Anom o ly

Non-named, never imagined much less realized

The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine you unique. task, yours, not doable from here

We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.

Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?

Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions but the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.

Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right, is used up by the other side. Right or wrong, is not a chiral question,  nor is good or bad. Screwing Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong. It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way. Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind. I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain. Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.

I am certain life wins. Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be? I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.

First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.

From <>

Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice
Dude - totally don't read or watch Thirteen Reasons Why
again - unless you seriously want - or need - a reason to cry.

Like every day.  Like a freaking ugly-cry sob-monster.  For 13 days.  

Dude, come on.  Remember the times.

Remember how you'll cry for like for a week after you think it's an awesome idea to buy the soundtrack from iTunes and listen to that Lord Huron song on repeat eleventy-hundred times.

Pick a comedy special (or anything else) instead.  Netflix has like a mega-jillion of them.  Poll your friends which ones don't suck and make a list.  Hell, rewatch Black Mirorr or Arrested Development.  Or totes - Flight of the Conchords! You have choices, dude.  

I know it's an amazingly well written book and a brilliantly done series.  Don't rationalize based on your cinematic expertise.  Reliving your high school experience and temporarily undoing years of therapy isn't worth it.  Don't be a dummy.  

Keep your eyes on the prize.  Remember there's always money in the banana stand and that they are illusions - tricks are something that whores do for money.   You can use your time so much more wisely.  Damn it, how long has it been since you watched This is the End?  It's time to bust that classic out, dude.  You can't beat Rogen and the guy from How to Train Your Dragon.

Get it off your kindle now.  Don't think you won't regress because you already read and saw it once.  Write a program or tell Alexa to show this warning if you try to pick it off Netflix.  Or better yet, write it to redirect to Parks and Rec or 30 Rock.  Remember how you're going to Knope and Lemon your way through your career.  Get inspired, don't get sad.  Don't think back on loser high school and how traumatic it was.  You're better than that dude.

Dude, simply be amused by how many times you called yourself dude.  Isn't that way more fun than crying for 2 weeks?
I've been toying with rewatching 13 Reasons Why - I watched a year ago when it came out - even though it affected me unlike most anything I've ever watched before ever.  This is not really a poem but more of a humorous attempt to talk myself out of it.  Both the book and series are very well done - but if you can identify with the subject matter it is easy to get back into a bad kind of headspace.
Pennilessness shadows black
unemployment endless track
rails tie-er less lee when dumbly staring
overdrawn account issues
   another clattering smack.

Income pleat undergraduate degree
contributed to the role of a sporadic employee
time to acquire handy dandy blues clues key
lost within vacillating undermining spree.

Mental state can be a precarious widget-like thing
directly at the whim of financial sliding swing
self-destruction demonic ring
courtesy of pauperism
delivers the destructive poisoned scorpion sting.

Immortal force of please hear my cry
provide support while
   under the sheltering sky
steady (just out of reach)
   sought income bolster up high

mirage vision brings transient delight
to this great (former
Civil War Yankee) supreme guy.

If no breakthrough I do not foresee
charity not for profit (but only prophet) I will bee
and this blurb carved outside my cave-like hovel
many moons and break of the day find me

imploring existential vagaries this baby boomer
sans middle-aged man who hankers to be free
thus though aye to be a schnorrer

who scrounges parking lots for scattered change
yet...decries blubbering the beggar's credo
write out a check and mail to me.

Philanthropic persons
   may rightfully balk and get irate
at such brazen plea to squelch
   ma pecuniary financial state

yet where the crossroads of mine future
most likely crop up which
would cause far a tete a tete
meanwhile, stoicism bids me wait...

For Godot, Curly, Shemp, or Moe
the stand-in for a Stool Pigeon
or even an odd antagonist
   or protagonist dreamt
   by Edgar Allan Poe.
You can right the wrongs,
Just get in my bed nude,
And throw away your thongs.

I will be your buddy & dude,
I will take you for long,
And it would be so lewd.
My HP Poem #1651
©Atul Kaushal
I scream for you to understand
But you will never get it.
I am forced to be confined,
Inside my own mind because you can't, won't, understand it.
Understand me.
Took a bat to a truck at a party
It wasn't my truck
I was pretty drunk, it was at a party
Struck the glass and made the truck bleed
The owner wasn't even mad about it
He let me hit it again
He started beating it with me with a ski
Rich people have skis in their garages
Owner said it was his dad's truck
We beat it until it bled out in the street
It felt good to beat something
Feels good he said
To beat instead of get beat

-E (c) 2017
Beyond redemption
Beyond salvation
Beyond emancipation
Beyond recognition
Beyond hope
Beyond imagination
Beyond contemplation
Beyond designation
Beyond conception
Beyond understanding
Beyond comprehension
Beyond transmission
Beyond all illusions
Beyond confusion
Beyond categorization
Beyond separation
Beyond integration
Beyond recognition
Beyond transmission
Beyond intellectualization
Beyond any manifestation
Beyond any origination
Beyond sanctification
Beyond condemnation
It's All
Beyond Me!
Jasmin A Dec 2016
Hers was always the only soul I ever wanted to absorb entirely.
She's the only reason I write weird shit like that.
Before her, I was plain and thought words were just empty sounds breaking through our silence when we felt like.
Before her I thought movies were for entertainment like Insidious or Rambo,
not feelings like The Perks of Being a Wallflower or Blue is the Warmest Color.
Understanding the world was the least of my worries.
But with her gorgeous insightfulness waking me every morning, I'd gotten used to curiosity and enlightenment.
I wanted to feel the world's love and soak in every perfect ending.
I wanted to listen to the voices and grasp the thickness of the meanings etched into their words.
Every laugh I heard I saw happiness.
And when I look at her I feel the entire universe hugging us as we dance along to heartbreak in The Front Bottoms' lyrics.
I want to hear her voice above all others because making sweet love to her and drenching her body with the promise of forever, well that's the one that stands out the most.
And she calls my name like I never dreamed anyone could.
The poetry she reads me is the most imaginative and splendid and I want to write like her.
To put more beauty into my font.
And I try to make the world my muse.
It'll never be as good as hers.
Because everything that ever was, is her muse.
And mine could only ever be her.
Wrote this from a man's POV. Not the best but her, idc. (:
Bailey Cohen Oct 2016
it is three in the morning, and it is cold,
and i am sitting in my car, which is
parked next to the sidewalk on the right
hand side of the street, meaning that
there are houses to my left and a playground

to the right. there are a few streetlights,
meaning that it is dark, obviously. obsidian. or
whatever. my english teacher tells me that
there is no such thing as synonyms and i
have to agree, so: there is enough light to give

way to a destination, that destination being
directly under that light, some feet away,
but not enough light that you would
be able to see anything past it. so when i
look to my right, where there is no

streetlight at all, it is dark. obviously. but
i know this playground so well. it is
a large playground, the largest playground i
have seen so far in only a neighborhood
park. i know this playground so well. it is

seventy-three paces from where my car is
right now, but this will only bring me to the
mouth of the slide, where i can imagine
childhood versions of myself sprinting up,
in the same way that children love to
ruin snow just to give birth to a few angels.

so i would have to walk left about
five paces to get to the first staircase onto
the complex, and then, to get to the
slide, another five paces, obviously, but in
the same, initial direction. but at this point,

i would turn around and see another
slide, and a rock wall, a climbing rock
wall, plastic, obviously, but outlined by the
woods behind it, about another seventy-
three paces. the playground, it seems,

is at the center of everything. i
know this playground so well. and if you
were to be barefoot on this playground,
then the wood chips underneath
your feet would be discomforting,

but only if you are trying to make it so
that none of the steps you take are
discomforting, or if you are trying to
not notice that every single one of
the steps you take is discomforting.

you walk, still. the slide, or the
rock wall, or whatever, promises some
reward, some enjoyment, so paramount
and so pure, that you accept the
succinct discomfort. it will end, and

then the joy will come, and then that
will end, and then it will begin again.
and i know this playground so well.
& this is how i hope to love you.
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