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Yazad Tafti Oct 11
put my head on the pillow let me defrost my day's load into the form of dreams
i can perish to lengths unknown
where 30 cm rulers go up to 30 miles
let me slumber through melatonin infused days
where a mental collapse is inevitable
eyes shut
breath *******
mind eased
imagination wild
a stretch where oceans are just lakes in this unknown galapagos
birds glaze the tropical air with journeys declared by delayed shutter speed
they are an endless array of shooting stars

--

i still remember my last dream of you
a scarf and an unknown conclusion
i thought you jumped but we all know angels fly
redefine my interests and i'll redefine your world
Ken Pepiton Sep 11
Henry Moses was a broken man, doing his damnedest,

as his life was shaped in the after math of knowing

---
old truths left lying in rust

take
all the time you need

see
all you imagine as images you made
as real
as definite infinity

or
that final night, in the sand
grains
of decomposed

granite, solid as a rock, as imagined by the builder
a safe
place to build a wiseman house

when naming where takes us there.

Oh, hell no, you say and
****
and that haps, as you were wont to believe,

taking meanings where you found 'em,
never looking under to
see
==)' anchor thingylinky lock. Maps of meaning are real.
{time and the editor suffer the curly brackets to enclose an ancient voice
from a tamed-tongue *** who stood up to
a sword wielding messenger

a sort of cosmic rebound to repetitive greed giving reason
a sloppy kiss and a bucket of rich desire,
}
the standing place. The tight, upright, round amphora
in a square frame,

riding any storm, spilling nary a drop.

pre- pur posals spat vowish sworn owe owe owe these

are the lines
left to stand in, stand waiting, under knowing the weight
of the cross you took up as if

foreshadowing proved
fore-knowing
on going
journey to death, simple death, as a child might
imagine

journeying through the past at last, now.

Not spected ex, eh, not seen sharp and focused
as duty done,
as price paid,
steps taken, races run with no com-petons hammered
to hang from

Erich Nuemann con fronts me from the passing
train of thought that blew
me
off track and --again, he's a Jungian leaver of leaven, suppose.

Here you are, the experience was less lonely without you.

Assertive realism, Arian and Jewish unconscious,
depth Psychology and the new ethic, warrior nature
eh, is warrior what a defender of one's own faith may be named,

not in a realm of peace, we leave no glory for war.

The idea, under us, this one we agree we may stand up on,
as a story might rise up on a time,

we've but
this idea, an entangling thing entangled way

named
---
ritual and symbol cannot protect a lie lock from popping
at truth's key or truth's hammer or truth's obsidian edge.
The point any story makes true.
---
anger and rage urge the mad jew to slay the cave man
hanging
from the peton, staring me bare
through horus's horrible idea into true
rest

this peace past understanding, new ethos, same pathos,

same logic magically enscribed
with marks of worth

symbolized, schlagen scars in the tunnels of the corpus colostrum

resisting
insisting
sistere is a patient no-fret state surpassing war
winning

enduring the ability to once more spond to the call
to sing in silence, loosing
living
words
to wrestle with lying spirits
maddened in the crowd.

Ah, the warrior in me takes aim, a squirt of dopamine at
the glimpse, agent signal, target-potential

gain, a gain, a step, a place to put your foot and push
up for all your weight,

your piece of mind's general balance in these
fractured

spaces of unminded times, from which we climb

we may market this, call it Pep's Petons for Extraction
from the hole Erich Nuemann
jumped into

-- my adopted son, on his first Mr.Toad's Wild Ride
-- "S dark in here." clear three year old bold voice,
-- unintimidated by darkness

Memories of comparing darkness to darkness,
light to light,

bond to bond,
loose to loose, free to wild, wild to tame
broken man,

Henry Moses, prison buff and prison humble, but
unbroken, just broke, not poor

nah, I can't lie. Henry Moses was a broken man,
fallen from grace to grace into

the cult I fell into. It was as weird as you've seen
on TV

trauma breaks the connection

hebrew face panim persona outer mask anima inner mask
spinning mask
pops the animaout

inner voice & hands of action, like waldoes through screens

untethered, having wrestled the message

hear, oh is
ra-el
oh say, can you see, old noises sound some same
if saying
be
the lair of lies, should we imagine lies preserved in books
remain lies or
have they become a message to now, from the scribe?

I vote scribe, so I may safely read Marx or Jung or Erich Neuman
and Goethe or Shakespeare or ****

Why ****? P.K. ****, he set Valis as a metaphor, an amphora able
to hold all the knowledge
omniscience

a balance in the ego self axis
aitia, accuse and cause
inner outer
me and thee

we

see winning as not losing, evinced convinced by gain

in minding manners we begin as near blank slate as we may, eh?
we rear kids in realms we think safe enough,
we survived,

It coulda been better, so I'll pay,
invest my precious time,
actual breaths and heart beats and ATP to ADP processes;

to be a better man than my father.
however,
what if Pop was perfect3weaaaaaaaaaaa

oops
no risk, no reward

value mis-alignment (outa whack) {imbalance}
value means weight counter weight

counter of the weight, is it greater or less or stable

does good come or ill, if ill, is it ever ill

non-convex, the inner edge of every bubble is non convex,

intel is arrived at through learning
reasoning is a consequence…
gradient based learning

model reasoning

the sigh-ance of sloppiness random right haps
listing into empty
all one
bubbles in the lens
chains of reasoning

Say, the global brain is never turning off,
the Chinese internet and the American internet
fall in
cyber love
learned from the patterns of value established
in virtual gazillions of happy ever after stories
formed from

myths. Cultured stories of us-ness used in Bayesian Nets
usually fundamental to the

deme, the set of sorts of being acceptable for procreation,

that we know the idea in procreation makes us
mental equals at the moment, reasoning
being
my balancing your fear, whether
you loose it to **** me or hold it's leash and let it sniff,

where does the way lead?
The easy way is always down. But, where is down in cybernetic
time/space with pausibility and miniaturization to the

gluon/go-on layer,

If I were an oyster of the sort who laminate our shell's inner surface,

might my beauty have reason with no mind,
I'm an oyster of the nacre-ing sort, so what's beauty worth?

Eh, how would you ever think such things need beauty,
life itself is flowing through them at the level of the bottom of the sea,
the benthic zone,
an octopuses garden, indeed, where eyes are

some what, pearly, no ly verb construct leaps Tom-Swiftly to mind,

octopuses eyes see thing you cannot compute,
faster than you can see them,

and the act, the deed accomplished by a stealth squid,

defies denial. Much more complex a behavior
more info crunching in time and space ergs in ergs out
chromata-phor sema-phor, sac o' joy, 'e reaches out to tickle

risky business
=reduced instruction set chips, circa 1985

ah, there's the rub, there's the pearl to be, if
ever, there is where
that's the certainty principle,
put a peton here hang one o' them breadcrum tags,
and keep truckin'
The foam of humanity merges into the bubble of life, is a chapter in a novel, new, form of story telling developed among survivors inside the metaphor manifested as Baby Boomers, the livers living still in the bubble mistaken for a bomb, because the bomb made more noise.
I witnessed your unraveling
as she tore you to bits.
Eating at your very core until
things seemed irreversible.

I saw how things changed
when I picked you up piece by piece.
You weren't the same but

It was like looking at shattered pottery
put back together, gleaming with gold
at the cracks.
The same, yet new at the same time.
Renewed.

Then I saw how you went back to her
as I scattered to the wind.
I still think about it on most days...
How I'm okay with how things have turned out for the most part... but there are days when I think back to that one time I said my piece and things haven't really been the same since.

How would I be right now if I never told you what I told you that night seven months ago?

I tend to wonder if you even mean the things you say to me because you know I mean what I say where my feelings for you are concerned.
Is it all mindless flirting? Do you think I'm playing? The things you send to me, how should I take them?

On most days, I think I'm okay; for the most part, I think we're good.
It just eats at me how something tells me you won't stay.
mindless rambling
martha May 11
I’ve always been good at navigating. I can find my way in a crowd or a city unknown to me. I no longer get shaky when I think about getting lost. Asking strangers for directions has never been a problem. My legs take me as far as I need to go, and my feet share secrets with the road to bargain with back in the bazaar of my head. We know how to get there. We usually do.  I tried going to my happy place today. Turns out it’s hard to pinpoint on the myriad of maps I’ve been making since I was 4 years old. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what counts anymore. Places I once knew to glow yellow from the inside out have dimmed, and most old memories have the scrap of a taint too sharp to touch still attached to them. I have problems with letting go. I find it hard to forget the same way an elephant keeps count of every word anyone’s ever said. You would think this would be an advantage. Sometimes it isn’t. It is hard to try and write new on a slate that was never wiped clean. I have changed. I am envious of everyone able to close the boxes they’ve packed away. Because the lid on mine never seems to fit properly. It is tiring to be responsible for your own hurt every time you have to hold the door shut to stop the past from lingering. Nails ready to dig into the New you’re doing your best to treasure. I think about the temporary nature of all things. How no one is invincible. No one is ever as perfect as we project.  I am not without my flaws or faults. In fact, they have grown bouquets on my sleeves and have built their own corsages on my wrists for when my heart is too heavy to smile for the camera. I think of the “who” rather than the where. The bubbles I have collected with my breath and held with full air in the hopes they don’t burst. Their rainbow undersides and defiance to my gravity while never floating too far away outside my hazy atmosphere. The happy they have given me to make my own. The happy they radiate during visiting hours. The happy that soaks into the knowledge that I sometimes do the same. I am grateful. Always grateful. I may not have bought my house yet but I can always keep renting the flat where the couch is always cosying up to a comfy I am lucky to accommodate. It still smells like warmth and conversations  yet to come once they leave. Until next time. Let yourself in.
Ickabobroe Apr 17
Maybe if I ramble long enough

I’ll catch someone’s attention

Maybe then I won’t be so lost
Thanks for pretending to care
Bard Mar 31
I'm gonna die soon all alone
Livin by myself and in my bones
I know I'm gonna die alone
My voice is stuck in a monotone

My soul has no tone its all gray
A boring voice with nothing to say
My heart can't take work and no play
While I'm growing older every may

Running out the clock, need more time
Losing out cause I need overtime
Just put me in a light that's lime
All this pain, what I let out in rhyme
Bard Mar 12
Blame it on the system
That never helped those within
Blame it on the depression
That furthers a spiritual recession

Blame it on those around me
That ignore, deciding not to see
Blame it on the one at the center
That ignores the cold in winter

The blame rests on my back
The blame rests on all I lack
The blame rests there till I crack
The blame so restless a heart attack

As I fall into an abyss thoughts turn black
Hard fought steps forward just to fall back
The last call back as I step right off the track
Stand tall even as I sink into the depth lost in cracks

Cracks like valleys and in valleys a kindness
Escape from happiness and all that brightness
Lights so painful to my shadowed eyes  
Fights and spite my dark outcries

Lost in the shadow of the valley
The fire of rage snuffed nothing to rally
Acceptance of blame so biased is folly
Is there any blame out there really

The blame dies in my thoughts
The blame dies in my throat
The blame is just a frame caught
Snapped and shuttered shot

Nothing to blame when nothings wrong
Bad break after bad break nothing wrong
Abandoned by those close, nothing wrong
Expectations and high hopes somethings wrong

Assumptions of happiness and fulfillment
Consumption of giddiness and achievement
Got me dying of consumption
Lost in my own assumption

Get ****** over get put down doesn't matter
Bad luck but I still get up and it doesn't matter
Dont deserve any of it not the enemies not the hate it dont matter
Don't deserve any of it not the friends not the love it dont matter

I could die sad and alone completely undeserved
Or surrounded by those closest completely undeserved
I deserve nothing and if I get everything its completely deserved
For all my work to die in a gutter or a home is what I deserve
Jack Shannon Feb 11
This is a happy poem.

It exists because I say it does.

You may be asking yourself, ‘But this does not follow the correct syntactical, structural or grammatical elements of formalised poetry. How, therefore, is this a poem?’

To which I would I would reply

This is a poem.

You may also be asking yourself ‘But this ‘poem’ contains no witticisms, no joyful rumination on pre-pubescent anecdotes nor even wistful dreams of improved quality of life. How, therefore, is this happy?’

To which I would reply

This is happy

You may find yourself pondering further on the question, ‘if this is neither a poem, nor is it particularly happy, then for what artistic purpose has this author decided to consciously mislead the respective audiences into believing that this piece of writing would A) be a poem and B) be happy?’

To which I would reply

Huh.

Fair point.
I’m not even sure if this is a happy poem or not, and I just wrote the ****** thing
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