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Nat Lipstadt Jul 13
From the Prayer of Saint Ignatius of Loyola (see notes)

<>

the phrase grabs my eyelids,
a forced opening,
nay,
a denial of closing,
our most human
and natural
escape hatch


and I wonder…
is it self~slander,
or is it the obverse,
that explores a desire
to enumerate honestly
for what is…is…
let the costs count us!

is that it?

merely
poetry
airy escapery,
what passes
for  t r u t h  in
these dark days?
<>
the damning costs count me
in their number!p
as ******!

<!>

hapless victim of living,
pondering ponderous
divination of saintly
defiant definitions
of ‘greater good’

’tis the difficile,
entre the pill and the
bitter, oh so bitter the herbs,
for it is
so plainly & so hard
to differentiate, et
distinguer mais être distingué(1)
distinguish tween but not to be distinguished

memories that are costs disguised,
reverting as dreams, in the true~alone
hours of the twenty four, when it’s
just you, & fighter and worthy opponent
them costs,
who needs no definition
tolling the steeple bells
of utter anguish,

as you're thre greatest living expert
in these matters,
(le plus personnel)
the sins of action and transaction,
And the worst, those  truly heinous
inactions,
face off in opposition in the boxing ring
<>
and the costs paid, a savage skilled
opponent, intimate of your every trickery,
the bare knuckled brawler, whose knows,
knows! the true tally, the bodies you’ve
buried, the children witnesses to your
creative abominations, lies you tell no
one else, but yourself- every single day!


the urge to cease here
grows stronger by the second,
minutes past and les défenses have risen,
what disclosures revelations bring forgiveness?

this my spotlight,
caught in the headlights,
where fessing up is in reverse,
fessing down to the black bottom,
where ugliness is the normative and
vain attempts at denial offers no escapes
from glutinous disgusting mess of gelled of
nothing but the truth

nah,
you don’t want to know,
what a human can accomplish
in a short seven decades of decadence
and recount constantly the costs of consternation
<>
so I‘ll let you
retreat to the gray masses
all your own where your very
owned
wonderings
are intercepted
for where I go now
willingly, unfailingly,
failing
needing not, requiring not
no company
Teach me to serve as you deserve,
To give and not to count the cost,
To fight and not to heed the wounds,
To labor and not to seek to rest,
To give of my self and not ask for a reward,
Except the reward of knowing that I am doing your will.
http://www.stignatiussacschool.org › ...PDF
St. Ignatius Prayer

SB- threw in some french for you to learn

(1) to distinguish between but to be distinguished
<>
writ, second week
of July 2024
Nat Lipstadt Mar 23
Tessellation & Interstices


”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”


the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,  
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.

creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and

the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.

it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.

I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.

that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s ******* of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse
saturday sabbath
march 2
2034
9:50am
Anish Goel Jun 2022
I can still see
your lipstick stains on my bedsheets
I haven't washed them yet
The memory is all I have left
Anais Vionet Dec 2021
I got this glittery, ruby-red, smudge-proof lipstick the other day
and I really have to say technology is what separates us from the apes.

Well, technology and hair.. and.. - ok, let’s not dwell on the ape thing.

Remember when lipstick smeared like news-print? Well, neither do I - it was one of those old-timey things you hear about somewhere like phone-booths, CDs and smart republicans.

What about the young teenage girls who aren’t supposed to wear lipstick - who put it on, in the morning, at their locker, at school only to discover - seconds before their mom picks them up - that it's practically non-removable?  Try hiding your lips from your mom.

I want breath-freshening, pizza flavored, ****-repelling, morning-after-pill lipstick - that glitters, irresistably, like cotton candy ***.

snort If men wore lipstick I’m sure we’d have all that by now.
If I can’t think of anything to write, I’ll just start writing something…
Savio Fonseca Oct 2021
With Her Lipstick on My Collar,
and My Kisses on Her Soul.
A restless moving Body,
was eagerly shooting it's Goal.
My Desires were on Fire,
waiting to be Burnt.
I kept changing positions,
so all Her lessons.....She Learnt.
It was Our weekend Romance,
the Moon was no where in Sight.
All Our clothes were scattered,
in a room which had no Light.
With all Our Chocolate Fantasies
and a Butter Scotch full of Dreams.
The Night passed away silently
with Whispers, Moans and  Screams.
Dereaux Sep 2021
You would never tell
that you would be unfaithful.
But lipstick told me.
pn Mar 2021
her
your lipstick lingering on my coat like wine, like blood. the lights shine and the music stops and there is the epiphany, your figure on the floor, on the road, in my closet. on the bed. on my bed. your hair like a prayer, your eyes whisper things that make the sky turn crimson.
your hair, draw a map, a pattern of a faraway land. on the sheets. between the sheets. your face like a remembrance. your kisses are slow-paced. and it rises and rises and rises like fire under the ash. im burning. i dont mind. you're all I see. the way you laugh and make the wind shiver in jealousy. the way you see pain as beauty. and if you watch the moon I'll watch over you. if you fly I'll go with you. to the stars. right through the sun.
i like guys...
but i also like girls
why?
i dont know
how could i not

the soft curves and delicate touch
my favorite lipstick, just can't get enough
the sweet perfume
and her lighting up the room
the long legs and mischievous smile
feeling things that took a while
to fully process and realize
that i cannot continue living lies

now don't get me wrong
i still like men
but i can't resist  
my cravings for them
still figuring things out
i made up a fairy tale for her
about me and tiredness
(about us?)

but she put on her lipstick
she was glad to see me

and took a bag with things

we were supposed to spend the night
together with the same story
Take your favourite lipstick!
Now,  quick!
Use maroon, vermillion, or desire,
But it -must- be red.

Take your favourite lipstick.
Do you have it?
Good.

Write nuance on your knuckles.
And kiss the world hello.
Just something quick I needed to say.
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