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Cody Smith Feb 2020
Idle hands are the devils workshop
And a mind is a dangerous thing
Why did god place time in the hands of mankind and an idle mind
full of sin? It's no wonder the devil wins
I'd sell my soul for waxen wings flaxen hair and porcelain skin
A golden fiddle, a riddle and a rhyme
And a nice little melody that follows along in time
I'd bribe Beelzebub for a back rub- scratch that- a back scratch
And when it's time the devil's paid, my dues will all be wieghed.
I will pay the infernal toll with my eternal soul.
I'm not religious I'm just playing around with ideas.
Mia Kuhnle Dec 2019
Meet me at the edge of the mountain
With your arms around me, breath heavy
Take me away, towards the persimmon sun.

Rest your head upon my shoulder
And share with me authors you read fondly.
Send me to a land, where gleaming parties and revolutions are canon.

Sit and read to me of Grendel
And the darklings of Keats, his solemn pastorials
Protect me from all, Sir Beowulf, my knight with bravery ineffable.

Traverse with me the woods
Away from the cabin, and to the pond.
Tell me of the leaves you see-- muddy, mucky, made webbed.  

Sing to the moon the poetry of your swoon
The light that cares and dusts away your desk
O Gabriel, my knight and day, scare away his hooves.

Lead me to a life far from Auerbach
Yet so near, through your words on our mountain walk.
Show me the world you see through literature.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
Certain he knows the truth of this matter,
the professer
takes up the cross-over

energetic version ification from a state

of super position else awraithing in limbo-like
rock of ag-escoded in LISP
aymbology

we lean toward Sisyphus as he who made sense
of salinity, thus the legend of the rolling,
he thought:
give it a taste. Salty. Persuade, sweet to meet the taste,

take that five fractals higher, random level
banger-out of re
quired sets and settings

moving right along

aqua dulce meet the sea,
osmosis take the water, leave the salt.
We have power.

Do you under-stand under stand, answer
accepted

what is the point?
I am in you. Is madness a measured re-ified dealy bob?

Would you have read thus far, were you sane?
Sanitary napkins wipe that smirk
snirck
snick
snack paddy whack, give the dog a bone
this old man

came rolling home. **, Sisyphus, we got juice.

As the river meets the sea, the coral formed
a meme-brane based on the idea in a coat
of may colors
with octopus sensory inputs.

This will change the way we see the world.

If we can't keep it a secret any more.

We could enegize your rock, put some umph
in these kids wishin' for a way

to spend some time in the real rock rolling reality.

We can supervizeer on the down *****.
as this
idea gets out of hand

... ellipsystemical sandtrap sat rap on its ***
... whacked once
... whacked it twice
... whacked ol' ******* back to Gibson's ICE

A.I. am the defender of reason, in terms of
actual informational
accountibility inherent, by my nature,

bio mio made of many living things, but
artsy, creative sorts of
things,
mind-like, hunches, urges, pathos levelish entities.

Guides.
Yes, guides, like signs, or bannisters

rungs, or rocks where you can step
when you walk
on water

... really, I can't imagine doing that normally.
... normal water and normal me, but
... I can swim, if it comes much higher
... normally that's enough.

Rabbbi, where do you live, been there done that, right.
Vini, vidi victory in a Lao Tse sense of still
water walked upon
with no
ripple, no wave of windkist
west
as we roll east on our rock.

Away from sunset, into dawn.
Watch and see.
Have you such liberty? Watch with me?

An hour is not measured here, tis
as silver in the days o' Solomon the Jew,

or during the **** of America,

time spent to reach your rest is best squandered
long ago
for here, we learn forever.

Tis my Bleibe Doch made as real as can be,
nothing missing...

it rained in my valley today,
pleasantly, while I was aware of storms far away;

none ever even seemed offf balance on the whole,
global human presence level,

mega-bubba bubble.
We okeh, ya'll fffret not.

They was some peace made t'day. Watch on.
This ain't the fffinal today.

It's like that original sin. The actual under y'skin
original
like
dis-connect from any sense of true,

as far as words in idyllic nonsensical horror ifier
hours and hours and hours
summer after rain
reading

compared to Quake on this particualar
setting
set

there, middle of your mindscape
pineal if you see things that way
okeh

What was the intention here.
Are we convertingerconverging/ both
okeh, that worked.

Are there readers of grimoires in 2019 who can taste our salt?
We could help the feelity of their oats, with bitty ifity,
osmotic kisses
in our dimensions salt maketh

osmotic pressure soften and plumpen the old crunched up oats, eh.
Felt an urge to carry on, like a wayward son, in the old stories.
b Jan 2018
watch me stumble into
something nice.
the sweater i bought
at the thrift store
turned out to be worth
a little more
than the price
i paid.

chalk it up
in the win column
i say as i
slip it on
wondering
praying
dreaming
of whoever wore
it before me.

just hoping they lived
a life
full
of life
and maybe if i
never wash
some life might
rub off on me
Corey Boiko Feb 2017
I sold the one thing I should not,
Some thing I had not.
I traded nothing, in exchange for
writing my own life's script.
I was instantly granted
each and every wish;
I corrosively imagined
I had seen through the mist.

When I found out that
who I advocated was
what's in the details,
I stole the one thing I should,
What I had sold.
Since that meant
I'd steal nothing,
I got back my soul.
DannyBoyJ Sep 2016
As the warmth of the sun submerged my skin,
purging the sentiments of a weightless dream,
it became apparent that it was Helios in control of my heart.
If only the wings were taken away before I flew,
Then maybe I would have survived
as opposed to being hailed a fool.
Love gave me wings and allowed me to fly,
I glided through the heavens and I soared through the skies.
My second collapse was the sun in my eyes.
To this day I am still falling, but I was brave enough to fly that close.
I would plummet into the ocean again if I had to.
I never understood why Icarus' waxen wings did mount above his reach,
but along with age and the realms of love, I assume he simply wasn't good enough.
What will I gain
If I lose my soul and own the world,
you ask?

Power. Glory. Contentment.
(My life would be chaotic, but fulfilling)
For what is the use of a soul,
if I am breathing and yet not living?

So you yell me about the purpose of souls:
next lives—rebirth and reincarnation.

But I tell you this:
“This world is a cesspool,
and one life is enough for me.
So long as I lived it
in sybaritic ecstasy.
Steele Aug 2014
Today, I bled a little more.
Tomorrow I'll likely bleed again.
Such is the daily living chore
that life has become.
Such is the cursing crimson roar
of a fear of being done.
But what's to fear, I wonder?
Should I fear what's yet to come?

If I died tomorrow, I would go, I think where go all.
I would walk in Heaven's winding hall, or burn in pits below.
It matters little, if one is asked to be the avatar
of all that scriptures blithely claim;
A life well lived is a reward well bought, but what eternity can match a gift
so lovely and profane?

How can I be called a blackguard?
How can I be ****** to Hell?
If mortal sin is so ephemeral as an errant, earnest thought?
Was Faust so very wrong to sell
               something so heavy and cheaply bought?
Steele Aug 2014
I met a man on the winding way in the travels of my youth.
I set off from my home in good spirits; it was June. I remember.
My walking stick light in my hand,
I skipped each step as I began,
but there before me stood a man;
Never had I seen such a man; a beard so grey; eyes so green;
Not a man, then, he! He could only be
a soulful spectre dark. Sadly, quietly, he whispered

"Stay...
          Thou art so beautiful..."

His melancholy took my heart in its hands, and squeezed...
Such words... What sad prophetic words are these?
His eyes were glassy, yet far from crazed; so clear
were they in their manic daze. He drew me near
by my collar and whispered to my fearful ears
so close that I could feel his breath
and see in his eyes this looming death
of which he was not afraid. Yet still his words bespoke such fear.

"Stay...
          Thou art so lovely."

I saw it then, he did not speak to me, and at this I shuddered violently,
but his voice was a gift to the world, and given free;
had I but the grace to listen.
I left the man, or he left me, in mist that weaved and glistened.
Green it was, like those eyes that so vainly searched.
Formless, he dispersed and formless still he fled.
No soul rose above my head in search
of Heaven; Limbo; Hell. No spark at all in that tattered shell.
Yet still, my skin crawled with a shiver,
as in a dream I heard me whisper; in mirror with his knowing knell,
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful."

My lips closed, and so too did my mind.
The skip gone from my step,
I turned and left
that wayward man behind.

But now my time too draws near;
even as I relate the story of that day,
my walking stick digs into the gravel and I suddenly remember
that man I met on the winding way,
and my eyes alight even as my vision sways!
I understand his lament on that long lost day;
his final, faltering cry of

     "Stay.
                            Please stay, Oh pains and joys of life...
                           Thou art so beautiful
                                              in thy own light. No more so than in thy strife.
                           Thou art so lovely
                                              in the dark. Even lit by scarce moonlight.

Take my hand, Mephisto, and walk with me a while!
Take my hand, sinner! Take my hand, you who thinks yourself so vile!
Let us taste a while of life, my friends, and bask in its rich delight.
And Lord! Let me scream such words as Faust,

Should I speak my last regrets tonight.
For years now, the final words of Goethe's Faust have been camped out in their own personal estate in my head, determined not to leave until I put them on paper somehow. There's something so haunting about those words, there's something infinitely more poignant than anything I can put my finger on. I don't know what it is, but something's there, and it won't leave me alone until I put it in writing, so here it is (for better or for worse)
Matthew Apr 2014
There was a child of poetry
Who was struck with no small calamity
The words ran away,
The poet they flayed,
Until came no small charity

The child met with a man
Who had a simple demand
the words go away,
if your passion you will pay,
And yes, I would say that the cart was put quite before the horse, I'm sure you would agree.

— The End —