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Jordin Feb 8
More for me, more for you
More for us, more ado

This I can't help, the fire within
I try to say nay but nay it is to kin

This music in my soul, it needs a singing bowl
This freedom in my lips, it needs a tap O drips

These winds of thy awry
They rip & shred & die

The howls of the one remain
They leave their ****** stain

Non-sensical words amok
Non-sensical days tick tock
Points of Synchronicity:
The most significant element of this poem is its synchronistic date.
It occurs on the same day as a Dream I call The Awakening of The Artist.
Unlike many other dreams, it had no content, or at least no content I could remember.
Yet its message was clear: The Awakening of The Artist.

After this day the poetic rate of inception begins to skyrocket.
As does the rate of inception in other artistic mediums.
Within the context of poems, one can see this quite clearly by observing that the first 16 poems happened in 444 days (D9000T -> D9444T) whilst the next 16 poems happened in approximately 6 days. This rate of poetic inception has continued more or less since.

Beyond the synchronicity of the Awakening of The Artist, it also seems to usher in the incorporation of more Alien / Symbolic / Transformed language; language that without the appropriate mappings could be viewed as Nonsense, and yet with the appropriate mappings the sense in the Nonsense can be found.

Points of Representation:
There are corresponding intonations & visuals for this poem & they help bring the essence of the poem to the forefront, but the distribution of such will have to wait.

Short Form:
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theghostofpoetry Oct 2020
Broken not spoken. Injured not healing for what have we done? This garden of ours where we wind away the hours amongst the roses has all but gone - for the world is broken, damaged and beyond repair as we all sit in our lair, of consumerism and capital divide.

Why can we not live as one? Instead we resort to bombs, collateral damage without any thought, for this war is never won. Oh COVID what have you done? You came along at the worse time a clear year for many without fear - now that has all but gone, the instigation of fear you bought with you that runs deep. Creating dividends that divide and not untie.

For the world is broken. Damaged and makes no sense. Did we ever learn to heal or does the war that has been raging still go on?

Now what have we done? Damaged you beyond belief and yet as we go one, no turning back to previous life. Instead earth you are punishing us. For damaging you throughout humankinds existent. But don't worry,

we created a broken world.
An observation on life, and the destruction by humankind on planet earth during a pandemic.
Marya123 Oct 2019
There once was a poet who moved
With words as a crutch, through the days
He knew where to get a new one
To support him through life, always.

But the time came that he was lost
In a forest, hungry and tired
He couldn't find the way back home
His word of the day had expired.

And so he lay in wait till dawn
So he'd have a clearer mind
He resolved to visit the store
For an anchor that sounded kind.

Month after month, year after year
Passed slowly as he searched in vain
Until he couldn't walk a step
So then he crawled, wailing in pain.

He'd known this would happen to him
'Writer's block', a feared condition
That attacked those forged from language
There was no cure for this affliction.

And soon the town forgot their names
The woods became haunted in grief
Of poetic ghosts that long for words
In damnation without relief.
Nonsensical poem that tells a story that might be true. Let's never ever stop writing when we get stuck. We owe it to history.
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
The narcissistic urge flips eggs now.
Our ex-veteran father-figure gets a hamster, calls it Snuffles.
The thing you don’t know until the end of the script of the Tarantino-twist is that our protagonist sits
rocking back and forth in
a barren room inside a strait-jacket.

Meanwhile, our enemy shouts
something along the lines of:
"grab a spoon
I hope they don’t wash their hands"
The stones fallen off their strings,
gunshots hotwire themselves away from
a dubstep kind of drilling, the pipe dream
of an intimate email relationship.
Shout again,
"I hope you never feel those clammy hands.
Blaarghh"
Your diner eggs stink
I chucked up
In the kitchen bin.
Snuffles, a weird poem from my collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (again, yes all caps)
Jodie-Elaine Mar 2019
Let the babble stop
Let the brain farts cease
Let pleasure be your guide
And the poet slip into their persona,
Like a performance uniform,
A slip dress
An existential throw up of thoughts like
Bad Chinese food.
The kind that climbs out of Tupperware,
slippers ready

Of Tupperware and ready slippers
***** out takeaway rice.
Performance uniforms sit up in bed,
Babbling about existential poets.
The bad Chinese food
Waltzes with its guide,
Brain dribbles out of nostrils.
Dear night-shoes,
This babble has ceased,
Pleasurely.
From my Poetry Collection: 'PERFORMANCE ARTIST POETRY AND BRAIN FARTS FOR UNSOLICITED MICROWAVE HEADS' (yes, all caps)
Haley Lorish Nov 2018
Bittersweet and lemon treats
Tanking troubled hatless heaps  
Salty horizon flogs sweet beach
Sandy skin, too soft a peach
Your thumb brushing my left cheek
Can you still smell the apple’s reek
Skewed hearts remain in heat  
Devine reminds a heart to beat
Kept up in the saddles seat
King of every bit of hate, wash
These battered palms disgrace
Love has sunk the ship of face
Tulips lack the need for space
Whips of stars appear in plight
Have you only fight or flight?
Good wills only break the bank
And I’ve only left myself to thank
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
“Oh hell yea, they’re suffering! They’re believing that they can go home, but aren’t getting any closer to the Entropoid Valley which leads to Kubla Khan, by whom they were cremated and born. Instead, they’re here, whiling away their days for boys who are bringing the death of days.”
“Hold your thoughts, lad!” Yells the Cameraman of the Head.
“I’m here, I’m in your head ImhereImhereImThere. You’ve no right to chastise the boys who have not kissed the horror. They’ve seen it, yes. But they haven’t captured it, you see. I am the camera, in my ribs are the film reels, the oscilloscope in my uvula, the trigger rested in my right earlobe. I tell you, there is strength in their brutality, I can bring you the tribal taste.”
“Man, we was just talking about centrifugal farce.”
“Centripetal.”
“No, was it?”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Hey! I believe-“
“Can’t be”
“Shan’t be”
“Oh, whatever. Those bullets find their way to the ***** anyhow.”
“Anywho.”
“Hey, grab your Coca Cola, Clean. We’re ‘bout to miss the show. The cameraguy could record it if he wants.”
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
Sewer rats bottleneck into a Carnival of Depravity. Due to the bizarre circumstance of their fingers, they allow their limbs to become limp. As Valkyries, they are aware of the juxtaposition of their clown pantaloons and their hobnailed mudboots. In this benefit carnival, a ferris wheel runs amok. Within it, GI’s holler their way through the vermillion skyway, zippoing the dented carapace with their M16s. In a true practice of youthful bliss, the 5.56 returns to the cosmos. However, the bullets, streaming out and homewards, are soon constrained to the circular path of the wheel itself.
“Centripetal farce!” goes Lance.
“Hey what, man?” whimpers Mr. Clean.
“Well, y’see: centripetal fOrce makes an overwhelming amount of sense. So much so, that when superimposed on the Carnival Cavalcade™, it must make no sense, for it’d shake us all up something mad.”
“So, the bullets aren’t real?”
“Oh, they’re plenty real. Just touch it, it’d melt you, starting with the neurons, cat. Other than little blue reality though, it’s out there. Its dancers are not chained to any concrete block of nature.”
“Oh, they’re sufferin’?”
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