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Ken Pepiton Sep 20
Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
Pythogorean sorts:
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains. 
----------------
Ah, now, now

There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
to lashout
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
in this
only race that counts,

first and only, no second place in this race
to pass
through
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.

All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into
her.

Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.

Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg

and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?

Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,

slow and steady sets the pace,

right

up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,

pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye
maybe,

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
complex knot
lock meet for me, the key
ingredi-ant,

in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
----------
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/IsaacBashevisSinger>
Shorter breaths, longer steps
Anna Sep 15
This is not what we thought it was
This is not a poem about love
I promised you I would write our love to the stars__
But what could I write if that was not what we thought?

I gave you half of my fried chips
Shared other foods
As my bed and my heart
But all you did was take it and leave
When you felt satisfied.

I don't see the fairness in this
Miss the smell you had in the mornings
Soft maritime lull mixed with pumpkin pie
My favorite childhood memory
I could hear birds singing in my ear
When you whispered at it.

In the end all I had
Was my body thrown into the sea
Tempestuous and deep sea
I could see the lightnings through it
As my body was taken by the waves.

I'm a little drunk, trembling like the touch of your fingers
Before throwing me overboard
Without shouting that there I was
On the verge of drowning.

I asked you before all that
Turn me into the memory you would never ever forget
Lock me in your depths and keep me there
As I will do until I die
Drowned by the love you said it was.
Close your soul from curesiry eyes. Close your heart on 100 locks.
And never open till met the special one.
Who find all keys.
Pupils beamed with radiance,
and naive genuineness flowed
as the illusion of love came her way.

But behind the tugging of strings
was a skillful maneuver
with his foxy intentions.

As the strings were played
back and forth,
emotions began to be strangled
and the cords that were struck
created a melody
to the tune of his accordance.

The fortress began to whither
but he was tired of his own maneuvers
that he gave into dispelling his intentions
before the frontier guarding her heart collapsed.

Though the barrier to intimacy
did not collapse completely,
the intention of ones kindness broke,
the illusion of ones amiable action broke
as it became the an act
just to open the gate of letting one in.

Trust withered,
but hope seemed to still be lingering
as the good in them, she always saw.

But after multiple tries,
of her heart being played with.
It was locked,
to the ones who would come along.
Silver Jul 29
i am a lock

and i have spent so long
pretending
the key
wasn't in my hands

that i
can't find it anymore.
The closed circle.
The metal cage.
Under lock. Under control.
The labyrinth from which so difficult get out.
A set of templates and stereotypes. That everything should be exactly that and not otherwise.
Maria Etre Jun 11
I stumbled on a rusted key
pushed by curiosity
I tried it,
fiercely breaking
locks
with
no luck
of unlock
ing none
one day,
I
w
ore
it
ar
ou
nd
my
neck
and       felt
my             chest
open up
Move your head further, the key is in front of you.
Ken Pepiton Apr 30
krause asu
AN accident.

That's how, but why?
Many universes, many realities, imaginable

conceivable

how long must one live in a cardboard box
to confess the experienced
boxtime
altered next from then to now.

Copenhagen Calvinist or Lutherin or Anabaptist

holier than I, as was I, as the Hermit hidden
in the fool on the hill,
telling secret meanings to nowhere man, now
here
we're...

touching a time when knowing out paced known
knowables, imaginables were

imagined, not evil, but fine tuned to approach
per fection in effect

what more can I ask? All my debts are paid.

Accidental debt accrual demands accidental debt relief.

Political-lic, that's where my party stands.

Jubilee, nowhere has the ver been
a time like

now. We being at all, as mere words, heard only once,
never uttered

utter non sensed tone tuned to augmented minds

-- bio logic circuit
-- try a spark

Gleam in grandpa's eye, try umph, boy. Better up.

Swing and there is the crack of the bat

never heard, a clap

just now, you are on the ball, and this is
what that always means,
history-wise.

Okeh. Like safe. No war. Okeh. Mark to follow, someday.

biologic circuitry is so unbelievable,

to whom? All who see the supsumpsystems and the info resources,
re re re, every, meaning as if ever were in
finite, every things reasonable countable and measured,

AN ark is a box. Rectangular, most oft.
A box. Hermits live in boxes, some times,

with a coven-ante-cipitate, tincture
of this and that, with a drop o' Paracelsus fave,
Hermetic hermenuetic magishit.
Mercury, liquid conducter, okeh.

You axt a reason for the faith in the wrong *******
autodidactic augmented and medicated old man.

I hapt to save a dammercury switch from an old thermostat,
with a bi-metal coil we could
spring
into action and launch afacethefact face that fact face of fact
fracture
tap. Twist it, there, balance, level, spirit levels bubble
hermetic form flow act
ioncat ion quest
ion--

spark-- the idea imagicish dealybob- gleam
right

the feeling of gleam. Toothpaste imparts
*** appeal, I pana imparts diligence, pepsodent is perfect
for explosive types averse to yellow,
stripe,
oh my god,
game changer. Hidden persuaders never saw us,

by stripe are we healed and made bright white and loveable,
said the tooth from the future, we learned, in school, to love
each night, with a brisk brush before our
prayer for no cavities could be answered.

tap right there.

Gem quality. The meaning of life, I magine, is more.
a simple, as they say, muse. A little think on being the ball.
She never said,
"Just relax, and let me tend you."
I never wanted to be right, I just --

what's it like, you ****,
to hold your home close,
confident it will hold you?

He never said,
"Just relax, and let me bring you happiness."
I never wanted to be normal, I just
want to be found -- what's it like?

Joke's on my naivete,
ability aside,
I'm scratching asphalt
smooth with my shoes.

As time moves, I move, too.
No key for the lock on my youth.
What's it like having a night
ahead you can look forward to?
The heavy, metal door.
Shut under metal lock.
And stacked with iron chair.
Inside that old, gray bloc.

Inside that house no more hopes.
The empty walls so cold.
There's nothing can warm up my heart.
There is no birds, nobody live there.
Ghost town of empty memories.
Ghost town of empty hopes.

The door is lock, the door is lock, the door is lock.
They knock, they knock, they knock.
I hear that knock like own heartbeat.
But still they knock.
They mad, they rude, they want my blood.
They want to broke that door.
But they unwelcoming.
Nobody live there anymore...
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