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Nat Lipstadt Nov 2023
At What Cost?
This Purchase of Our Future

a thousand answers + variegated shadings, a summation:


of millions layers of our owned chosen complexities,
so many possible outcomes, it makes infinite randomness
seemingly simpler than our googolplex crazy preposterous
notational choosings, our owned decisions which though false,
cause nothing is tandomn random except for love at first sight

it’s all  just *******, we conditioned from pre-birth,
the expectations subtly subsumed into the woman’s womb,
overlaid by the ***** donors whisperings that you will be a
great third baseman, or a great bass player, or both, but
“your” fate, ha!
is anything but yours…
to purchase!

if you were born to live in a home with no heat, and water was
obtainable by walking 100 yards away, you would still be a
pianist, writing notes of plaintive need, grand desires, musical
words of agonizing delight just as when
you first blushed when the brain
connected yellow rays with a word,
sunrise,
and an experience was synapticaly imprinted,
that real things could be defined by an ordering of letters and sounds
and you were tongue burnt by a need so great
to collect these pleasurable things and put them in a right order
of your
peculiar
particular
personal
inherited inputted
design

=
and
you yet debate
what is my instrument,
knowing that the multiples of your fingers
are the engine of your existence,
and on any particular day they, your well connected perma-crew,
will pick which is the chosen one,
and
no matter which,
for you had nothing or little purchase,
it was coded in your pre-history
just as you prepare a transmission list
of your own,
when you daily first touch your face,
closing the sensory sensual connection tween
the ephemeral and the physical
and
the new combinations
that you will imprint upon
someone’s flesh,
that is your right,
that is you write,
that is what you were
predestined,
to
create

but,
(what the heck)
you get
to-pick the instrument of the day…


(
that,
is your purchase, your only cost,
everything else has been
pre-paid
)
Thu Nov. 9 2023
8:51am
ny
Amanda Kay Burke Jul 2023
She's starting the motor on her mouth
Revving it up a little bit
Engine-powered phrases spin out
Accelerating with each word lips spit
Wish I was as great at rapping as I am at writing
Man Jan 2021
woke up
with the sound
of jet engines
thundering, overhead
streaming the sky
brush strokes on high
of red and black

jumped at
straight back
from the bomb
they dropped
square in my living room

walking away
another day
i'll be back
when dust settles
amidst no attacks
on the sandy soil
of my
homeland
in 1996
when i was seven years old
my father introduced me to my first ever search engine
he told me i could
search
for anything i wanted
anything at all
so
i
typed
in
dolls
my first experience with a search engine
Àŧùl Sep 2020
Our petrol sedan,
Looks so elegant and
Classy

Now running in its 7th year,
Still appears so new and
Sassy

Škoda its maker,
Runs on a VW engine and
Chassis
My HP Poem #1888
©Atul Kaushal
Sage May 2020
Underneath the surface,
the earth is the microwave.
We are the engine, we are the heat wave.
The earth and it's rhythm is enough to move the world. We intercede in the natural process, so we corrupt the cycles.
Somewhatdamaged Jan 2020
Closed every door by myself.
Struggling even to stand up.
Burning within, back facing the floor
barely breathing
barely alive.
one thing running through my mind,
What if I knew back then
what I know right now?
What I really was
and now I'm ****** up in between!

Now is no time for whining
no place to complain.
Your aggression, turn it to focus.
Its like the fuel,
burn it to race your raging engine!
Might've been failing
but never stop trying.
After all you've been through
Or all that could've been,
now you've come closer
to what you've been doing!
Poetic T Sep 2019
I'll swerve in to the path of your lane,
your words are never enough
             to make me hit the hard shoulder.


I'll 911 your **** into the submission,
     you'll never swerve by..

I'll make you,

        barrel roll in to the suburbs
                          and
                          you watch....

With a pipe
                       and smoke, submit to my rule.


You'll never drive your words like my rules,
                          Irregular rhyme,
  that the wheel will lose its traction...
                                and you'll lose,
        the tread of the road..

Only the tarmac holds the tread of decent,
                      wording that doesn't slip...

You cant hold any traction on the words that
                drive faster than anything you try...


                                to grip beyond the first red light.

I'm green but I run faster then anything
        that you have in park..

              you'll try to rev, but you stall before
         I've even passed you on a repeat...
                                  repeat
                                                    repeating
the same round,
                    That you were playing when I
started this course,

                                    but you haven't even started.

Just park up,
                  you haven't got the petrol to race my words.
                            your engines  already stalled...
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