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I'm lost without you

you glanced my way and said,
"how do you know?"

I don't.
I won't.
I can't.

You glance away and say,
"maybe so."

Life's the test.
----
stand alone or be rejected
objected
the subject of the action word
conjecturing the meaning

Hector's pride brought the mass.
Was that made sacred? Yechhh.

Higgs's made real,  massive change
end of the world
as we knew it, 2012, mass means more than x-mas

The message in the messenger from Greece's ***,
"Hold fast, hold on, Hector, be
hold-- what a drag"

Achilles, shoulda had anger management.

Suppose, Achilles's momma had trusted
whatever the protection was to be,
divine, that kind o' dad,
it warn't gonna let 'im drown.

She coulda just tossed 'im in,
sink or swim, knowing, in her inner parts,
the protector's promise,
memorized, since the red tent.

Pandora's last hope trumps fire,
and flood,

Wee Achilles woulda squirmed, and swam,
invincible, every inch soaked,

it could been, but, you know,
Achilles's momma could not let go.

And the rest is mythtery.

---
the sign said follow the money,

but money is invisible, so I played like
I could see what other folk
saw.

Lot o'them took time to tell me,
"Only believe", or "trust, and obey".
Streets of gold,
we'll slide back
down on silk stockings
hung on spider thread

above the flames

that boil the kettle in the center of
the whole round world,

nobody in our family ever once
believed the world is flat,

nor that Jesus once was blue and had four arms,

stop me.
I was wrong, I, myself, can imagine
Jesus dressed as Rama,
who was blue and had four busy arms, in truth.

hallowed ev'ening of the light,
settling sun, lead in the night, when all
see monsters, every where,

no on will notice me. Watch and see.

OH OH, ****** me by my pigtail, lift me to the third
floor, two stories past tellestial,
kingdom come,
which the mormon at my door testified
the angelic ***** had told Brigham 'n'em,

in the spirit, he agreed, not face to face.

tellestial is as close to **** as a Mormon man can go,
and,
he said, "If you could see it, you'd die to go.
It's so much better than this."

Joe Smith, said that, according to his agent.

I pondered,
chewed a cud, as I could recall, holy cows do.

I leaned back, put one boot to rest,
on the bricks behind my knee,

A modified Crane pose, I suppose.
I folded my arms and stared that boy
right in the eye.

I said, "Wanna try?"
"We gotta bridge up the road a piece,
sure as haell,
we'll see if it's a lie, at least."

Then I repented.
That **** imagined by Joe and all them zionic-messengers,
they was guesses, at the best. But the feelers at my door,
they was bein' tempted
to put their own faith to the test.

I grow bolder. The experiment worked.
I know.
Same ol' story...

-She said it tasted,
okeh,
first time that word was ever heard or tasted.

Cool,
****, cold, evil, winter, summer, sweat, mosquitos, evil cold,
I'm sorry!

How do you know?
What's blame?
Oh, that, and shame, I know that,

epi genetically be guile-ish. gullibility
gone in one bite.

Taste and see, he saw her say, or thought
he did

Like a switch, with more capacitance,
than the cells of knowing can resist,
in the first few months of being matter in time.

Knock a fella in the head
with knowing all the hows of evil,
along with all the why of not,

the most beautiful woman in the world,
no contest,
*****, and he knows.

Thinkin' straight ain't in the plan.
Precedent set forever,
no plan survives first sight of a ***** woman after learning what ***** means,

according to the tutor in blame,
who sat glumly on Adam's shoulder
explaining as the jist
of the story unrolls, "***** is evil,
you are *****", no word, just
thinkin'

good luck if yer helpin' him stand,
Wham

spoken words heard and
obey essence initial instantiation
revere
lionize,

oops, Idols. The idea of idols. Don't imagine anything like that.

Gabriel came with that very message all over his face.

Knowin' evil and doin' it, not the same.
Learn to drive and do the math,

Then we talk about artifice beyond the ken of mortal minds,
not worry,
it is written, We have the mind of Christ,

but as an augmentation really,
we can fact check,
but, honest,
a heretic has to use any augmentations right,
or the being powers will

objectify his reason for being, and reject him, for

the sin of defining the happiness he ensues.

You with me?
----
This was to be my comment,
but it called out for search engine priority of purpose

Nothin', I was thinkin' --
we never get trick or treaters,
tho' an occasional Mormon team will try to climb my hill,
then I un cussed my thoughts
with my inner self and we agreed.
He who would catch fish,
must venture his bait.
Net criticism's needed, if anything is to get better than this.
Wise ones say, it ain't easy,
but true rest,
I can testify, it's found along the way.

Hallowed be your even-ing, level up,

trick or treat?
not on that old man's hill,
somethin' weird, too peaceful there.
Nothin', I was thinkin' -- we never get trick or treaters, tho' an occasional Mormon team will try to climb my hill,then I un cussed my thoughts with my inner self and we agreed. He who would catch fish, must venture his bait. Net criticism needed, if anything is to get better than this.
During the pensive seasons of Spring,
I felt rotten, as if a puck of ghouls
splashed their bitten sheets on me…
Sometimes, if my mind is playing tricks,

The piercing pink heaven will sing
Of honey anti-love that bites the
Soft drumming of jelly like me,
Who dance in the waves of instability.

My imaginary friends will scream on anchored sailboats
Coming back, shouting, "There! From the distance,
we travelled with Trouble up our shirt-sleeves,
And notice, they are quite unlike any other…”

I welcome them, the fairy-tale stray-people
The deluded and lonely, what are they doing here?
We only sleep when the sun stops, but curse Beauty! I say
That sun, what embers brighten your linear touch?

What heroes can beseech the crown of Love?
We bring them to the centres of the earth,
But there it’s empty, there spring wed-diamonds folds the earth
And silhouettes dance on our *****-land bodies.

I know what bitterness I hold inside me, so I crawl  
Inside corruption, let myself choke,
into my comfortable dwellings of my modard youth,
It is sad to hate it. Let the men **** on my shame,

Let me highlight mortality in a word
That death near touched me through a veil,
With a bicker finger-point to my delirium-brain
That death seems a golden merriment, except

In night-time I will continue to rot,
In angst, in mourning, in ****’s sweet wit
That I will soon die than have perfection kiss me
With a bow, I wish to leave, it’s time to turn to Love

I told them instead to set these verses, &
Sing all they want, to the azure chorus of Spring
And to keep recklessness in your pocket,
We are lucky, to have Love bleed under our skin.
Part 1 of a Cantos of hallucinatory experiences and journeys with my fantasies and reality.
Jones Ayuwo Sep 25
“Lool, maybe I could come whisk you away”
He quipped

Be serious! I’d love to
A date, on a date with you,
Nothing too serious, of course.
Maybe lunch, dinner and discourse.
I’d love to watch you laugh over a meal!

....delete

Well, if you’re serious we could fix
Something. I think I like you and it’d be nice
To meet. Let’s do something, Maybe ice cream?
Rufus and bees? Or a movie?

...delete

“Lool, big head”
... Enter.

“Hehe” – he goes.
Kylie Sep 25
I hate being blamed for another’s crime,
They asked me my clothes, they asked me the time.
They said it was too short and it was too late,
So it made it okay for him to ****.
I don’t avoid the word,
It happened, it did,
They asked me if I were sure, just to get rid,
Of my strength and my power
That I chuck and hurl,
They don’t listen, cuz I’m just a girl.
My mum said,"Son time you had a wife."
I said,"What's the hurry,let me first enjoy life."
But, she started looking for one,
My panic button was switched on,
I didn't want a desi wife like my mother,
Or simple middle class wives like the ones of my brothers,
Who treated their husbands as
Demi-***'s,
Their masters, their Lords.
I wanted an ultra modern wife,
Trendy, ****, lovely and an equal partner in my life.
So I went against my family and married one,
I thought I had won.
I was head over heels in love,
She was my beautiful dove,
For several months life was paradise,
I felt nice,
***, theatres and parties.
Then the honeymoon  was over,
Of that I had surmised never,
I was tired eating out,
In cooking she was nought,
The house was a mess,
She cared less,
She was never at home,
And when she came she was ***** some.
Everything was not well,
My life had become ****,
I ended up at mum's for dinner,
I realised  dad and my brothers were in fact winners,
Loved and cared by their wives,
So much happiness in their lives.
With me my wife didn't want to stay,
So she ran away,
After my divorce I married again,
My heavenly life began,
My desi wife, mum's choice,
Lovely, homely and poised,
I, her Lord and she my Lady
Our married life very steady.
Desi wife is an Indian woman who is sincere,honest hard-working and also lovely.
exist Sep 22
young people’s dreams are crushed
by the place they go where they are taught
to learn a cookie cutter way
and that their gifts are not gifts
in a world like this
we’re meant to be robots
creativity and originality is
simply dismissed
school *****
Andrew Jun 2017
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****?
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty

I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious

So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes

When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
My vision was to create a new language for literature-
But now not only is every solution nonsense & every poem agonising,
I am a child reading too many of today’s poems realising I’ll also be writing long sentences with the purpose of deconstruction & decoration.

I rest in between my own letters of ‘a’ & ‘n’, where I can sit I peace.
Because when I’m doing that, even the spaces will become part of the essence of the work. Say, (if you calculate the movement of this earth on its axis you’ll see its beauty equates to something like the beauty in poems) It is in the essence, we have beauty in the first place.

You see: seeing patterns is the only way around this world. This idea is as flaky to me as a chocolate bar. I’m gonna write and drop my laptop two times before I get it right. I will fail but they take me as naive anyway so I'll laugh at myself because I want to be polite.

Take love, it takes many forms, but the essence remains the same.
Take books, it has variety of plots, but some meanings stay the same.
Take poetry, we can destroy form, rhyme, meter, but in its essence, the feeling remains the same.

We should write to construct a new language of unity, with a clearness to our imagination, and rely on the essence of the work to make its way to the heart.
Edward Coles Feb 2017
The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.

***** laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.

She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.

She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.

She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.

Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.

I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.

Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.

Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.

I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.

If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The **** we retain;
Our paradise, lost.
C
Maegan deme Sep 17
Isolation within my mind,
Stuck in my kell, gasping at the heat
Working till death to finish my design,
Running late, borderlines to meet.
A hero of management,
An Hr call left at the tone.
Stuck in my cubicle fortress.
The place I'm forced to call home.
I don't wanna be stuck in the loop of the cubicle slaughterhouses.
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