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Only History
You name historical figures
And the **** they endured
It’s almost you wanna be them
Named you a wannabe
Reliving your trauma
Making it mine to suffer
As they did and you do
But remember this dear victim
They were all somebodies
While you’re a nobody
Pain is pain trauma is trauma
Status is status a loser is a loser
Enough said there
Nick Armbrister and other writers

out late 21 or early 22
rig Jan 30

+ “sow, sow, sow your coat”
– a frantic clown regime.
+ (“narrowly, narrowly, narrowly, narrowly
– knife all but the cream!”) ...
i hate fascists
Knut Kalmund Jul 2020
the burden on my shoulders
carries me aweigh
charcoaled molding hookers
rotting in the sea

ridding brace from the eldest
granting my last reprieve
and on behalf of myself
let me try to sleep

I won't rise from the dead anymore
for you did not discern me
and all my highnesses are expelled in the blue
so maybe one day they will understand
adam olofantur Apr 2020
through heavy mud and underneath the hate
be rо́
by ***** reeds and under leaves of fate
me, rо́
beneath your coldest fears, with monsters in my head
keep rо́
in spite of crooked teeth,
wipe away my tears, hold the gate

help me row
inspired by a song rо́rо́rо́ by of monsters and men
the word ‘ró’ in icelandic means calm

Diksha Prashar Jan 2020
Rowed a sinking boat
Barely made to shore.
Aiming to stay afloat.
Have you guys experienced something like that?
Nigdaw Nov 2019
She is moving away:
Not in any sense of going,
It is a spiritual thing
A space between us,
Like there has never been.
She sometimes looks at me
And I don’t recognise her at all
But still see how she once was,
Recounting stories of childhood
Which always starts a row.
For all this space between us
I feel she needs me more,
To bridge the gap that teenagers
Feel as they move away;
Not in any sense of going
It is a spiritual thing,
I must take the slack up
And see her as a woman.
But I can’t help always finding
That little girl inside,
And want to reach and hug her
Tell her everything’s alright.
But I am not supposed to do that,
Because the space is there
To prove she is a woman,
Who can survive without her dad.
If she keeps on moving
But not in any sense of going,
My spirit will be broken
And my heart full of such pain;
I love her as I always have
To me she hasn’t changed,
She’ll always be my little girl;
Here comes that row again.
Wolf May 2019
Nooses set up row by row
Holding heads that hang down low
Corpses swaying to and fro
Life passed on so long ago
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Ken Pepiton Jan 2019
The son of Jung, Achilles

(This is after and during a second or third time through
Jung, by Anthony Stevens, via Hoopla brought to me by LAPL)

libraries with online audiobooks,
isn't that closer to perfect? Imagine
knowing CG Jung's dad was Achilles Jung,
epic, knowing that
back when only real, material-real, rich folk,

(they could not have known, but we can, on a smart phone)

of any sort of the many there were in the co-fusion's aftermath

much of the world may agree with things once hidden in tomes
being eaten by mindless worms, now

no known thing is secret, by right

truth makes free and it's a system.

free true free true free

We ident-ify it or id

what ever I and d

these ids (letter i and letter d as a pre
fix identifying us, u'n'me but only I am re-alified,
set to iseate

(is-e-ate is individuation for an idea, this or that, which may be verbalized
prior to re-alization)

t' be for a while, as long as you wish, t'
be fixed ideas in the minds of all

minds culturally touched
by this particular
point of
in been there done that.

Time is nothing at all
like mortals think
ing no no nothing is re

alone is rare. For us, my pieces of the unum,

we are here as ever.
ever is our role.

guides are made
however, we have noticed a scarcity of read writers
aware of pin points of light expanding

on the walls of his nursery window, nur turer, real mmmmm

really must we be limited forever is ly lying as in

acting positive while being negative and being

in your self for ever, never for now,

you don't know how.

do you?
ienced, per se, are ye?

be yond. yes. be

yond. practice makes perfect, bact to the top

erie canalic real

tote that veil, hide that barge
camptown lasies sang some songs

wrong, as did the ******* minstrels
and gamblers and bedroll
cowboys and hobos
and plain bums,
like us.

You were curious. Does yellow mean anything
to you?
Murrillo, with y's for ll, maybe? ¿ se?

--- un told stories ---

none remain, in re al ity, if we agree

nothing is ever impossible, even
for sapiens sapiens, how much
more, the us in the unum

previously pluribus,
that is.
id est, at its best. Muse.

Homeostatic balance,
hot to cool, cold to warm

round and round
twisted in the middle
by Van Allen's belt, or Orion's?

I never asked. I could,

not notice allcaps from the teenage wasteland,
(mea culpa, I bury all my misses there, take one, free)
as I,
the grown up number two, I mean,
I was saying I could stop this flow, interefer, dam it

I could ask Google and follow ath
the real thing either real or
otherwise, yet

wise, still.

How well will we be? Should we not

agree, un agree disperse the mob?

become a one, with a mind
we may share, at will,

reason, count, measure, make, see, seek how, find how, learn how

why are you a ware of me while I am
ware of you.

An unread, unspoken spell. What the hell, right?
What the chaos, entropy, dis
wash away, mud to dust to twisting spirtis seen dancing

dust, this highest part of the dust of the earth,
time will tell, the physician must heal himself.

the art of letting things
pen, pen or ready-writer mode,
we can do this, but we must

be leaving the ality re all o'this reality.

And it has been fun, un done
fun is never the final goal.

be yond that. Search okeh. It was
intentended in tension-ality

to be the key we
as u me mist

when we
lied about being
experienced in the comunicito, (wee ity bity)
do you know of
the transfiguration, I was asked that

southside of Sunset at Laurel Canyon, by
that TV kung fu cowboy guy's dad,
Carradine, the old man,
from scary movies,
circa 1960.

that was fun. it happened. nobody noticed,
but me and the elder Carradine.

Real, as best as my memory just
ifies me right there,
that day, there
is where

this point was proven to be
memorable, a point
of a pin, 'pon whose head
merry messengers make nothing of
darkness, shadow, thin light.

Member be, re member
we see you saw
re all ity-ness is fun, if you find time to do it.

Typical assumptions of a man born in his time
and so
cial class. Social, is that a joke?

Follow me, don't be ignorant of a fine refined use,
right use of ordinariable words which have
born the burden of the ages

patiently, awaiting meaning,
on your scale,
the me as sure of the other in the unem,
the measure of a man, any
old man, still standing

under all the knowing Eve ever knows,
hope and time and all this took.
The price of knowing,
is the knowing, learning is easy

At home by right of being, we are such
beings, in a word, two if you reason there is
measurable ratio twixt
iiii in and am out, yamiyam ah yeh

we do. Allatimenolie, my will. The inside
the numinosity of being

me and you in the midst of all we may imagine real,

no, hell, yesses, hell is still a joke you never want to play.
ax Mr. Boo, he was my guide in Bangkok

read the reports, they are more,
nevermind, let's not let the

lie live here. the the right man thinking this thought
at this time, right

Each magi's knowing is the only knowing he can share,
without playing I pious fraud and naming it
legion, re
legion ligated to ob la dee and dah?

Joke, jest, foolish jest. Not my best but better'n
never imagi-ing  bein' good at all.
Good for nothing but
being possible
good to the sense-if-ative troglodytes

with one lit window on reality. It's funny. POV. Seriously

lighten up
you putin me

beyond your grasp… winsome, alas
If it makes you feel, good, y' know. 's all I got, fer now.
, ***
Who needs enemies
When you have family who treat you like invisible.
Terry Collett Jul 2018
Netanya opened up
the deckchair and sat
looking down at the lawn.

She sat there
because of Benny's books.

They'd argued
and she had stormed out
of the house leaving him
gazing at her
disappearing back.

The lawn was yellowing
because of the long
hot summer.

It only added
to her mood
because of the heat.

Benny gazed out at her
from the window
of the lounge.

He focused
on her words:
“Why'd you read
those books?
I can' make heads
or tails from them?”

“I like reading them,”
he had replied.

“You read them
to make me look stupid,”
she had replied.

He could only
see her arms
at the sides
of the deckchair.

Fuming like
a steam engine,
he mused.

He'd let her cool off
before going out to her
with tea and biscuits.

“What kind of person
reads a book
whose title
I can't even pronounce,”
she had said.

“It's Latin,”
he had said.

“Why read a book
in Latin?”
she had said.

“Only the title
is in Latin,”
he replied.

She had glared at him
and stormed outside.

He opened the book
and gazed a page or two.

He couldn't focus now
and so closed the book.

He took the book back
to his room and put it
back beside his bed.

He looked down at her
from the back bedroom.

He could see her
dark haired head
and her hands
across her stomach,
and smoke from a cigarette
rising upwards.

He went downstairs
and made a *** of tea
and prepared two cups.

He peered at the deckchair
from the kitchen window.

The sun
was a bright yellow
in the sky.

He made two cups of tea
and plate of biscuits
and took them outside
on a tray.

She didn't look at him
as he opened
up deckchair beside her
and placed the tray
on a small table
to the side.

“Tea for two?”
he said.

She exhaled smoke
and looked at the tray.

She nodded,
but had nothing to say.
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