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Today I am reminded of a story
Everything was hunky dory
He was a friend on Facebook
Occasionally, I wrote on the wall
He liked and praised my posts and poems
There was never a whit of annoyance
"God made them of excellent stuff
They reduced to garbage dump..."
"Time teaches time and again
Lessons not learnt is a shame
Shame to the shameless
Doesn't make breathless..."
Etcetera etcetera he liked
Jackals stalking read such lines
Consciousness of guilt in them woke up in time
A crow flew and sat on Facebook friend's head
He pulled up his mental threads
Brother what are you doing
You like what jackals are guilty
An electric shock and enlightenment arrived
He showed concern for what he had praised and liked
Ended friendship on Facebook
Reasons he never tried to find
He was a friend only on face on Facebook!
Jordan Gee Feb 9
I miss my old hair clippers
I had them since before I got sober.
at the rehab near Philly, I would trade rollies for head shaves
until I learned that I could shave my own head without a mirror.
that was ok with me,
I saved on tobacco but I still had my cup and bowl out.
like an anchorite begging for alms by the road side.
some 3000 shaves of the head later and I don’t need a mirror
for much anymore.
I set the old clippers aside and I don't know where they went to.

When I wake up the sun is going down.
I do my shopping beneath the cold chalice of the moonlight,
cold glistening, somehow still reflecting of the Sun
even though
I said goodbye from
my window to the early evening dawn
9 hours before the burning
of the midnight oil.
I chant and ring my bells
so I don’t drift back to sleep.
but I can still smell sulfur so I
Aum and pray and ring the bells a little louder.

I found God on the carpet once.
It only took me 14 hours to pick through
every crystalline crumb that glistened in the kitchen light.
the next morning I had a half soup spoon full of the Almighty
but the hook and the plunger swallowed Him whole
and with haste turned me back to dust.

sometimes I’ll make a to-do list
with every strike of the pen another performance for
the bushels and the bones,
I like grocery shopping at night.
normally there are only a few souls and
old drifters wandering about and
they usually keep their eyes pointed down.
sometimes I practice small talk
with the clerk,
endeavoring to exchange appropriate
amounts of eye contact throughout.
personalities and performances and
I am so tired of caring.

when I’m waking up the sun is going down
but monica gave me a hand full of vitamin D and
a fire in the hearth and
sometimes the world
Is like a seven pointed centrifuge.
the heavy particles are all hitting the
chalice walls and I’m spinning so fast
all I can do is look up and breathe.

The swallows are singing swooping for the
Black Madonna and the Popes of the white smoke.  

God jumps from the sky to the spoon to the corkscrew
and L/L research put up a new tweet:
more from Hatonn about the bitter wine, and
this being quite a dense illusion for the thickness of the veiling,
and the chakras being tuned like strings on a harp
to be plucked by the Hands of the Creator.

This isn’t the density of knowing
as faith is the evidence for things unseen.
I’m still half blind but I can hear them chanting and
I’m just this side of single pointed thought but
facebook keeps breaking my ****** attention.
so I stand here
awoken to  the sun going down over the highway
and the snakes winding up my spine
and a mouth full of Vitamin D.
kundalini rising
Homunculus Jan 13
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.

We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.

And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.

If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.

**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.

Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.

Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call

is it that you feel something more. . .  
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?

When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?

The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.

Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
A bit too much wine is the culprit here, I suspect.

1: Murray Bookchin, radical social theorist and major figure in the ecology movement.
2: "In societies where modern conditions of production prevail, all of life presents itself as an immense accumulation of spectacles. Everything that was directly lived has moved away into a representation." - Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle, 1967
3: The Borges story, credited fictionally as a quotation from "Suárez Miranda, Viajes de varones prudentes, Libro IV, Cap. XLV, Lérida, 1658", imagines an empire where the science of cartography becomes so exact that only a map on the same scale as the empire itself will suffice. [source: Wikipedia]
Daniel Cuzzo Dec 2020
A little story to tell.

Never had many friends.
Was just hoping new ones
would be more accepting.

Getting back to the story…
I had HOPED my 200th
Facebook friend would be
like that, but I had to backtrack.

As a few friends appeared
in quick succession.
But the conclusion is
that you’re the 200th one.

NO WORRIES though,
if it’s too much pressure
you can back out and leave
that space for a Shaman from Maui
(that just friended me).

NOT SURE if it works that way
but hey, it’s a thought.

Anyway, with that said:
nice to meet you!
I highly doubt, any woman
wants to be called 200,
so, I can totally stick
with Charlotte.
Yes, my few readers are in luck.  I chose the lighthearted poem to type up.  Enjoy the fact that YES, poetry can be happy...Let's hope for many more :)
Samantha Dietz Dec 2020
I'm a popular monster
I make you feel insane
Take all these dark thoughts
and place them in your brain
Play them on repeat
until fully ingrained
Already a part of you
Soon you will have no say
Try not to hurt anyone
so you push them away
Cry about it later
call and beg them all to stay
Never leave your house
then go online and complain
Toxic validation
from those who only know your name
You're a popular monster
They all think you're insane
They laugh at all your updates
They think it's all a game
Projecting sense of humor
when you're really filled with rage
Numb yourself by scrolling
you just want to feel okay
Say something real, they ignore it
your honesty goes to waste
So you return to performing
This platform is your stage
I'm a popular monster
I'll keep posting from your grave
Josh Pampam Nov 2020
He rested
on the shoulder
of a tree -- with his
crimsoned eyes.
Stripes of sweat walked on his face
as thoughts sought his attention.

had eaten up his strength
and wreathed
his body with aches.
His clothes, like a sun soaked sack;
caked the air with cruel smells.

in the coo that stood
on his lips -- psyche
left him for home,
As he watched the sapplings-
bid them bye.

He was a big fish
in a small pond,
Before the drought.

Josh Wealth Pampam ©
25/10/20 GMT 13:22
The effect of covid-19.
Heidi Johanna Oct 2020
I’m doing just fine
Tells my extra filtered life
How fulfilling it is to hide
Behind “Coconut Creme”
Flawless head to toe
No one can deny
But should I give you a clue,
It might not be all that true
Alienpoet Oct 2020
Deep in a forest of fake news
Where headline games are people’s views
where pandemics become plandemics
where anti Vaxxers avoid vaccinations
and billionaires avoid taxation.

The forest of fake news
didn’t just spring up
watered by raining lies
governed by media moguls
and Facebook spies

Google and the internet shows us what we want to see
inverted mirrors of reality
each showing trees
a forest for all
with no clarity

How do see the forest from the trees?
or the trees that are fake?
life is forest full of trees but they are increasingly on the make
or plastic
or diseased
or just tricks in our sight
digital trees born out of spite

then cut down into newspapers
there’s no one to save us
we want to see the truth
that wasn’t always hidden
but we’d rather see the fake that’s not guilt ridden.

Truth the tree of life is now overrun
No one can see it
It’s been over come
and in the dark all trees look the same
it’s you and I who are to blame
We allowed them to plant
there fake news trees
and lies and untruths are a disease.
Ces Sep 2020
The Facebook zombie
Distorts its face:
Contorted, convulsing
A spasmodic smile.

Ignoring internal scars
Emotional wretchedness
Faking with gusto
What the good life is.

The Facebook zombie
Hunkers not for brains
But drools for likes
And virtual applause.

Like dazzling neon lights
Its ego shines bright
"I am the best"
"I am number one"
Says the connoisseur
Of filters and fakes!

The Facebook zombie lumbers
Towards the next bite
The next hit
Mindlessly raising its
Bony hands
As the camera sways
Finding the perfect angle.
Jada Sep 2020
A heart symbol doesn't count  

There's no love in that  

I want your real response  

How did you react?  

I shared my poem with you, took a real risk

Opened up my soul, received no closure for it

I don't want to have to beg you not to be brisk

But like bruh please use your words

My fragile soul craves this
I shared a poem with one of my peeps, but they didn't respond, so I wrote a poem about them not responding to my poem.
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