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People always find me such a mystery ..
It's how and who  , I am
I am always a bit hidden
I don't reveal it all
For that I leave it up to you
To ponder or guess
it's always interesting the things
that people come up with.
Some funny some so not me
It's not that I'm hiding
or crazy
It's just how , I am it's a bit of my witchy my spiritual self
I find it quite **** actually
So be what it is
I'm just a mystery but if you
really pay attention
You will see I'm not all that
mysterious but you must admit
you kinda like it
That I leave a bit for you to ponder
(C) Jennifer L Dlg 9/2019
girl gonzo Sep 5
the sun rises out of your pocket
that's how I've always known it
you empty the lint along with the golden threads
and weave them gently into my sleep addled eyes
when I wake, you're gone
but I know you've been there
I can tell by the way the chair is facing the opposite wall
the shoes on the floor have taken the shape of the last step you took
and your ghostly perfume still lingers as a full figure of air
dashing through the vents just to come out the other side
full-fledged and yet fleeting as I make my breakfast
you rattle the walls and that's how I know it's time to take out the trash
the black vinyl plastic bags seem to melt under the heat
just as I do when you tell me that love is problematic
but you've always been resourceful
Ken Pepiton Aug 23
drumm drumm drummed in two
ranks of
filers whacking keys and levers and springs
quantum of scripture
i e o u y vowels of no need-- back in cunieforming time
then came those monkeys with the typesetters
whose keys never got stuck
marko per stroke
five 'undred per bit of etaoinshrdlu
click click cliche'
time measured by degrees in fractual
sym-metry wit' bio me

Tumeric kicks in,
eases the swelling of the bubble.

Imagine the imaginings of a child reading
funny papers
in the privy, smokin' grapevine for no

known reason, or,
maybe it appeased the flies, while I sat
upon the throne
in a tower of my own

wandering through memories of
Terry and the Pirates saving Dalai Lama
from the clutches of
the abomb-in-abled snowman,

Yet-i isis now, the Prince of Persia, once more?

No, this battle is not mine. This

at that crossroad in Perry's Cafe
when the offer was made: star a footnote here
aster-risks have not been invented... we must reduce opacity.
histoical he refused the deal but  did Write the course
"The Internet in One Day"

work for hire, a good gig, then Netscape went public,

reality validated verification of the efficacy
of Feynman's reversible NAND gates,

the future was super positioned
No taxes, tarriffs or tithes; pay flat
twenty percent
for eighty in return, guaranteed in for by of
we, the people's adaptation to

Paredo's Principle versed in Solomonic Wisdom,
re-de-clearing no non new things
under the sun,
trial by

total emersion in a sea of green sans
yellah submarine,

acid etched re
collectibles dust and debris,
flotsam jetsome wetsome old girls dream

it's now, the future, 2019, and some
of us
survived the seventies in hiding,

we're back.
wee voices you ignore at your peril,

not every inspiration is from for by good.

Some are.
Some words live in the sounds they make,
hocus pocus
cadabra, for instance... is heard by children

as the leaven-less wafer
transmogrifates at
the spoken words Hoc es Corpus

Genutim, non factum
thinking is nothing like

what you thought, child.

The message is believable, the messengers
be otherwise. EH? ***-eye-say-- eee- eh?

Self-evidence is acceptible, take a hold,
get agrippa comprehension

persuasive enough to mask the bitter
after taste of century eggs left in the fridge too long

Biome, bio-me, self-effident-icacious
ness, ac
knowledged... these words lived
the eggish-isms egging us on, go
on, only you...
not me, I'll wait
I've slipped, I've fallen... where's the beef? Was this a common quest?

1972. Sheizbomb, pirate orange sunshine.
1973. We reached escape velocity
1974. Trajectory changed
1975. Lost contact, she's near Cuyguna
1976. Prego
1977. Aha, the reason is born

Future 2019 will seem as real as you may
imagine. I promise,

Ever after, all, as real as you may
imagine. I promise

look, see self evident truth, act asif you know
and understand
angel talk

there remains a rest for the cadabre we inhabit,
"Dancing Queen" "Fernando"
Abba's body of disco hits, missed
by missing one decade and a half,

in sanct-if-ication vacation
to become a hermit when I grew old, if ever,

hoc corpus, eh, as long as faith remains
rememe-r-able post Sini-ification of Suffering,

(the Dragon from the East is not the beast
embodied in the west with golden head,
silver breast, brazen *****, iron legs
and flaking rusting feet of steel
in sludge ponds and stump ponds and undrained
swamps and sloughs {called wet lands by frogs and ducks})
Ah, so

The golden-green-blue dragons gracing slotmachines,
lure hopers to the slime, not
green Nickleodean slime, real slime from century eggs white
jelly gone dark, dark brown and stinky...

even if i'd tried, I'd never have imagined
eating a century egg
sans chewing, just
swallow it whole. Din't choke gk kg.

deja vu? no, you missed something.

waiting is being
Dalai Lama, half-scientist, half-otherwise aware
there, in exile,
remains hoping a peace past standing under the
acknowledging of good
and evil,

new mercies on one side, meaculpa, mea
maxima culpa,
on the other.

Who pays? Me or Jesu or the pariah one step
up from a cockroach?
Wait and see. Be still.

Don't ask Mother Teresa, she had no clue.
But she finished what she began,
that was her plan,

skip as much purgatory as abody can stand
imagining worth it all.

Me, says the hermit,
I took the grace Noah found. Wait and see. Get ready.

Google translate the Latin Mass, then imagine it
being a message you must hearken to

drum drumm drummmed into your brain before
your prefrontal
cortextual tester circuits formed and your responses

were ever etched
on the tables of your faith belivin' childheart,

just think, what if good news gathering is
even-jelly-if I can. Evangelical, if I say-tion sugar pi,
event-tually we see, fine,
details, points to every true story

a bed of nails no liar may rest upon

'fi say so, semper fi.

{evangelicum laude graduates bher no bad news in ever}
--phi beta kappa, key that opens what?-- do you know

what meaning signals breathe? beat?

Take great gulping gasps of air,
affording your self
evident right

to surface, as a bubble you can breathe in.
I think we're alone now

there doesn't seem to be any one around, now

1977, that was four whole decades ago?

Right. And whenever you are, dear reader, this was
ever ago. I testify, I examined this life.

It has been worth the effort. Now I wait. Still.
Try it. Here, there,

no condemnation, the act it self just
is null-ift before asif goes whatif and we lose our value,

we balance madness. We work closely with Cleo,
she handles historical re visioning.

time out-- essential term screams for discretion, get to the grain---
What noise is this... mmmmm
Muse- muse- just, muse like
music, drummm drummm hummmmm
Define, fine, granularity, like salt or sand or sugar
but qualia
mysterium familiarus

Term definition. Lord means h'laf weardan, {Welsh}
protector of our bread,
by which man does not live alone,
owner of the tower in the vinyard where your captive enemies
languish in your wishless hate.

We wait,

we companions be, joined by the leaven from the sky

leaving footprints in granulated sugar salted sand,
feel it,

sorta sticky, like toe-jam. like mebbe toejam spreader
and the Walrus was
CS Lewis level mere signposts at degrees of little thinker
steps tick tic tic
clock wise from up,
counter-clockwise from down

forward, ever onward, off is impossible in the land of on,
here for ever is
too much good stuff,

but that lasts (to the same level of qualia judgment degree)
mere mortal moments

flash. Here we be, wondering and wandering, to an fro,
to get a feel,

for real. This can't go on for ever, they say.
Shall we see, I say... as I passed away.
Life goes on, and no lie follows

it's finished, that's all we need say. Live on. Be good,
or die trying. No lying about anything.

What if ever did begin and you simply failed to be aware?
Musing, as a pass time, not a wast of time nor a killing of time, but a use by right of time. This is my examined life. I find it worth living more loudly as I age. The ripeningin, reminds me of cheesy-ness.
acacia Jul 7
Postured up high
green vertical sign
vertical is blue
after green comes blue

He takes it in all night
sipping from a cursed chalice
pull down your armor
show the world your undergarments
take off your hidden charms

Drag a sword across the way
stab them in the chest
they pray to your name
they pray you find their way
Uncoil your serpent
let jets rush through your ears
feel your soul detach, feel your spirit detach,
let this hole detach, keep your spirit in tact

You'd look softer in moonlight
you, the God, calls upon Mount Lake --
you dip your mind into the "A-ness of A";
flail all of your belongings, they belong to the ground
everything is all natural, everything you do is a distraction

Contemplation -- is that what you want?
contemplation -- is that your goal?
Followers think you're their only true lover,
they lay down their kidneys for you --
pedestal, you lay on, above the matrix,
above the world, above (y)our citta, above the soul;

take back everything you say,
purge all of your thoughts: you never had to be this way,
your ghosts now lurk in your pocket, bees swarm your eyes,
they will never stop until -- don't ponder stupid questions like that,
don't assume I'm higher than you, don't you assume I grovel at you feet --

go to the planet of nothing, see what it all really looks like
grandiose can only get you so far
your arrogance stinks up your soul
this room wreaks with cynical fascism, the carpet molds
and your contagious bacteria grows

I will clean up your mess for you,
I'll bask in this narcissistic stench of yours
they take your pictures, they curse at your name,
they see you smile, they lick up your blame
I'd want to be your only true lover
I'm not a spatial thinker

You follow up the road to the stairs
to the highest door shrouded in white
Here,you sing in hymns and snowy tundras,
Here, you are clad in black
your skin is white as carbon
your heart is browner and darker and blacker than below

I burn down your trees
you burn down my city
they aid in your destruction
pseudo-knowledge is their best bet
you've tricked them all now

Get out of my castle
this could be Our castle
I'm ready for it right now
give me the Green light,
let me be the blue-black flame,
the flame to hold your white up high

O, my flame
I still hold your vision in my mind
the walks we will take
the grass verdant and the water trickling
down our steps
it's all there to remind ourselves
that we are interwoven with ourselves and
the birds and trees and bees
these bushes float above the grassy hills
Do you still love the fairies? The spirits
are nothing but our own mind, we are the spirits
in the garden, in our garden, in your garden

O, my flame,
some things will never change
some things have never changed at all
though it may seem that way
to our unseeing eyes
to our veiled eyes
we cannot see all colors, anyway,
so what makes you think that we
see it all? we cannot hear all sounds, anyway,
so what makes you think that we
can contemplate it all?

I will always be there for you, Ground,
to feed you and to water you
O, my flame,
the night-light breathes through
our trees, we walk the distance in the night
the rain won't touch us here
Do you want it to touch us there?

O, my flame,
swim towards me, swim through the fields,
swim through the meadows, swim through the air,
swim through the porous clouds, swim through the smoldering
smoke, swim through the smoke-soaked toads, swim in a knee-length
whatever it takes to get towards me, whatever it takes to get near me,
whatever it takes to fall in me,
say you are still kindled
Some things will never change
acacia Jul 5
He lied down and smiled at me. Whimsically. His eyes were halfway open, and words poured out of his mouth like the coldest water. “Read for me.”

“Read?” I looked down at the stack of books surrounding us. It was our personal moat.

“Yeah, read for me, darling.” He blinked slowly, the whimsical smile remaining.

I reached out for Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West. I read the first page.

“Mmm, maybe you should read something else.” He rolled onto his side. His hair cascaded like a river of black matter above him. Fibers of waves, strands of silky straight flowed from his head.

My eyes hopped around each book, he watched me, ultimately landing on The Waves by Virginia Woolf. I’ve never read anything by her before, but he swore by her. Being one of his favorite authors.

“She was inspired by Joyce,” He said. Also one of his favorite authors. “This one reads like Joyce.”

I picked it up and briefly skimmed through the pages. The lights were low, his carpet was blue, and the morning sun was starting to kiss the sky. He looked so quaint here, a look of his I’ve never seen.

“Read for me, my little jewel. I love your voice,” He pleaded, but not with desperation. It came off as a light command, a command in which I obediently followed.

I read. I read and read, messed up some words, felt his warm smile, and read some more. I read twenty pages. I read it for him. I read some passages as if it were my own words, as if I was pouring my heart out to him. In half truth, I think I was. I know I was.

I stopped when I read about the elephant and the malarial jungles. I called out his name. I echoed his name again, softer. He was asleep.

He looked so soft, so rosey, so sweet. I’ve never seen cheeks glow as much as his did. The sun moved as the minutes past, and the clouds allowed the sunbeam to stumble between his blinds, stumble into the room, stumble onto his then-callow face. The shine lit up different areas of his profile, making him glow as if he was a god.

The level of attraction that rolled off of him overwhelmed me so I was almost projected out of my body. I pushed the book from my lap and crawled towards him like a baby. I was so drawn to stroke, caress, and touch his face. Burn his topology into my palm. I studied his face more than I’ve ever done, etching each and every line and curve and perfection and imperfection into my memory. My eyes moved to his neck: so pretty, so long, so mature. Yet his collarbones protruded, and from what I could see from the open-v of his shirt, his chest looked soft, it glowed, it was boyish. I was entranced by the way his chest expanded and collapsed. He breathed unconsciously, he wasn’t self-aware.

I fell asleep after some moments of watching him, letting the sun blanket us and the books cushion our traveling heads.
an excerpt from something im writing, based off an experience; noah and rosaline

this is prose i guess
Apporva Arya Jun 24
I closed my eyes,
From light
And when opened them,
It was already night.
I guess,
It's a part of life,
To regret life,
While living life.
Expressions of life simply beautiful.
Apporva Arya Jun 4
I left my work saying
"We can spent time together"
He left me saying
"I guess you really have no work to do .But I do".
I still can't get over him and over the fact that how replaceable I was.
from the minute i open my eyes,
the fixation overwhelms any other thoughts.
it never goes away.
my nose twitches simply at the thought.
it's too late.
my brain chemistry,
has already been altered.
so shut up,
and get me my fix.
can you guess?
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