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michael Jun 2020
Brothers blood on your arms
Coward’s salt on your cheeks
Heavy head in your hands

With such weapons of war
No Greek bones should litter
These flooded dunes of Mars

And still, rouge stained boys clog
That one final river
Gather on the bank. See
The line of Troys that burn
Velvel Ben David Apr 2020
She came from a broken home
She moved to New York to become an editor
He fled Belfast City to make his way as a fighter
After his brother was blown up in a car bombing
It was summertime when the ocean breeze
Climbs up the hills, flows through the fields into the trees.
He could see the harbour. He could see the city lights
The tall buildings, the millions of people
He was alone, lonely, alien, afraid.
Their paths intersected by mere chance
By the ball fields on the edge of town
Their eyes met each other
As a summer storm blew in over the field
The grey clouds rumbled
And rained down on them
They ran into the trees for cover
In their scant summer clothes.
Their heads turned slowly as their eyes met for a second time
The laughter started when he said the rain ruined his haircut
They embraced
They kissed
They made love in the rain
She took him back to her place and did it all over again
He moved into her apartment on the ugly side of town
They would talk about the state of things
The pandemics, the hysteria, the great writers
The music, the people they hated, the people they loved
They were at home with each other
One day he woke up to find
She had gone
And not left a single thing behind
No note, not even a goodbye
He never fought another fight
He drove around town for days chain smoking cigars
The ones she hated the smell of but told him he looked
He looked like a movie star when he smoked them
He went to the undertaker and asked if they did walk-ins.
He drove up the mountain
Where people dumped their garbage
He looked down the cliff to see the unwanted refuse.
“That’s me.” he said.
His body was never found
The undefeated fighter met his match.
She delivered the knockout punch.
If my disappointment dressed in wrath,
It would rumble in hell-flames and chaos,
Reaching the gates of the seven heavens
Asking for justice with the blood of pathos.


All good feelings made out of nothing-
Just as the lightsome grab of a baby's hand,
Or either heavy as a smile, making compliment-
Shall be enclosed far away of the worldly hell of pathos.


Since, the heavenly drops of happiness
Are drunk up by stone hearted human greyogles,
Playing hazardous games with my rare happiness,
And leaving me in a chaos-like hellfire with my dear pathos.
23.09.2018
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
words tucked into child minds forming in the mold,
depeche mode, fashion wisdom
blooming in
starstruck lunacy of lost meaning

****** Airline driving Jet Blue
as a sign, you know we

rise and ask redemption
this instant

toiling with tools the psalmist dreamed
and all the first cantors sang
in genuine gentle
spirit of...

genius (n.)
late 14c.,
"tutelary or moral spirit"
who guides and governs
an individual through life,

from Latin genius 
"guardian deity or spirit which watches over each person from birth; spirit, incarnation; wit, talent;"

also
"prophetic skill; the male spirit of a gens,"
originally
"generative power"
(or "inborn nature"),
from PIE *gen(e)-yo-,
from root *gene- "give birth, beget,"
with derivatives referring to procreation and familial and tribal groups.

Sense of
"characteristic disposition"
of a person is from 1580s.

Meaning
"person of natural intelligence or talent"
and that of "exalted natural mental ability"
are first recorded 1640s

and remaining in super position watching
until
we see we be agreed and symbiosis sets in

upto unto upon a time
stumbled into uttering urgent fervent

prayer, simple asking, what remains broken

what quest unmade, unmade imagined asif

this is life's book interpreting your
translation of reason into I'll go rythmic

waves rising from great notions stuck
in the mire at the bottom o' th'ocean

stirred up by trouble peace bringing in times of
see-change

settling in on of by bis more again or less
waiting is all suffer ever meant to mean,

mean men made each furrow seem
too hard to ***, in final
throes of
terminal toil

debitum in praesenti, solvendum in praesenti
debt due now, paid. It is finished.
Good news
darkness consummatum

light

fashioned in the mode of our time
powered for ever by happy Sisyphus's
rock rolled up
rock rolled down
by grace of gravity being the law

reach out

ceive con re de ceive (if you know

what I mean, taken for granted)

praesentium tedium t'do doodle do

touch faith, fingers fail, toe-tippy reach

topple the tinker-toy tower where war once reigned

back ground Johnny Cash praisin' Dylan from the dead

out in the desert, just doin my time--
waitin' by a pile of Hopi
nilhili-pili rocks rolling no more

sitting still in rasta farian blank spaces

between the pieces of we
carried to now as you see. We are in this real,
as real angel messages
made magnificent in worth as
words
worth deeming worship's solventum

songs from the po et tu brutes, breakin' rocks
back down the line,

scarlet thread sewn tendon
anchored to my zen minded ped-dance

kick the liar from his throne,
claim it for my own, my pile of flocci nauci

meaninglessness of weightless worship

turned on, with a merest touch.
No flame,
no night. Words alone reign un fused, un frozen,
new mercies
rising in the sunshine of a rich man
with a satisfied mind,

as time rolls by.

Cohen told us there is a crack in everything,
that's how the life gets in
this bubblin ethosphere we offer

as a sacred secret shown in light of all we share.

Clap clapper in liberty's cracked bell.
Let us lieve well enough alone for the time,

being once rung, listen,

other bells ring still with that pathos we share
logically as mere words.
floccinaucinihilipilification (n.)
"action or habit of estimating as worthless," in popular smarty-pants use from c. 1963; attested 1741 (in a letter by William Shenstone, published 1769), a combination of four Latin words (flocci, nauci, nihili, pili) all signifying "at a small price" or "for nothing," which appeared together in a rule of the well-known Eton Latin Grammar + Latin-derived suffix -fication "making, causing."
Ken Pepiton Jun 2019
The word I. The idea, ego. Me, relative to you.

I am, but you may not know that. May is your word here.
May be is all yours

to follow in the flow of
all that

anyman,
(wombed or un nevergoes unsaid some days,)
any among the lot o' ye, may be able to swim thru if
it don't get thick.

I, a-poli-gize, bow down, kau-tau, or no--

un appolo getic  magic tech

I stand, sistere, my command,
in this realm, I command lies to stand in light and
I redeem the idle words from the ashes.

Okeh that's my job. I am not a messenger, I sweep.

When walls come down and chains are cut, it's amess.
I become the besom sweeping up the destruction.
--- why is any line after any line. sirius, you have to ask.

orthodox definitions serve as ample chains to hold any
child to the post where today's
sufficiency of evil squats

quotidianishit, day after day. I find such chains,

I cut them with the fruit of my lips,
shape-shifted to the sword,
from the stone,
you know the one...
then bing back to me through a google plex of porbables

fighting spelchek to go viral.

A blind me, I lied, and saw the light. Dumb luck.

And then, rather than, lie once more and say,
I can't believe this,

I am that sword, still be, and know.
eh.
I, the word,
I did it. I made a point and a word formed,
as a bubble might

under relative circumstances. I know, round and round.

If this were a game, this is a key. (ah, a secret here.)

if this were a game, and I were playing.
Quotidian. daily, do the work. Make it plain. Or funny. Never pathetic.
K Balachandran Nov 2017
Gently you patted my cheek,
with a tenderness piquant,
not  known hitherto to us both.
Those quivering long fingers
exude motherliness,I miss ever after,
my mom has gone to her last pilgrimage,
And I crave for at moments of pain intense.

From the layers of memory darkened
by distance,I recover that feeling,
to place you instantly at a level higher,
than that of a sultry lover to whom
desire than anything higher binds together.

In to my lackluster eyes, you peer,
see the ineptly hidden drop of tear,
in the corner shivering plaintively
before rolling down to lose forever,
it's in the memory of my mother,
who rhythmically tapped my back,
led me to the cozy cloud of sleep,
when outside raged the rain storm,
I now gather, to a women I owe
when, time after time she takes
another avatar, of my mother,
momentarily, at times,when earth slips,
from under the feet
unexpectedly.
                         You did see the storm raging
inside and the child looking for solace.

You hold me close to your *****,
and I travel to a world gone by again
even when wolves howl refusing to sleep.
and let me doze off to wake up in another world!
Tommy Randell Feb 2018
(A cautionary tale)

It is the day after and thus the count back -
The social media coloured Hearts
The mantle set with flippant cards
The Texts and Pokes from fun lovers
The anti-valentines from most others
I used to like the game, frivolous and fun
But these days of course there isn't anyone -
It is the day after and thus the count back ...
I find Valentines fun, of course. With my endless Children & Grandchildren there is lots of fun in the 14th Feb. But not for everyone. Like all the Retail inspired 'Holidays' it isn't always a good time for those alone or without social contacts.
Hannah Zedaker Sep 2017
I have a tendency.
A tendency not many think of
yet
they think of it all the time.
A tendency that,
will never die.
Even if it evokes that pain in me
in the blink of an eye.
This tendency festers,
like an infection

that’s
stopping my heart.
This tendency,
makes me feel everything
and nothing
at the exact same time.
This tendency is making me crazy
but
what if crazy wasn’t so bad?
My tendency
makes me hate myself
and love everything about me
for the exact same reason.

This tendency
can ruin my day.
But,
this tendency,
sits like a sack on my back
that I never want to lose.
Because
despite the straps digging into my sides,
this tendency
is why I cherish being alive.
this tendency,
I speak so poorly of
that I don’t want to leave me be
why
this tendency
is that I tend to love
so hopelessly
it’s the scariest part of me.
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