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Alaina Moore Feb 21
Were I a Starfleet Captain I would be unfit for duty, but this is no Federation of Planets.
This is a moment in time and barely anything at all, yet it is everything.
Carrying a weight on my back of a small crew, I lack the mental fortitude to take care of their carrier.
The cacophonous cocktail stirring within my ribs is barely tolerable.
In fact, It is not tolerable.
Adorned in a gown of ripped tissues,
the waves come like tsunamis.
Somehow throughout my turmoil I have to remain focused and continue forward.
Every step is heavier than the next and I often am unsure how I will see the sun set.
If I'll make it there alive or as some hollow shell with a faux optimism.
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
So humble
and so demure.
Yet . . . . . . .
. . . . you still freak me the ****
out with everything you do.

You amaze me just so
you'll absorb me, I know.
Then we'll both become one.

I've been erased,
now (I'm) no-one.

Poetry by Kaydee.
By giving too much of yourself to
another you become a non-entity,
drifting without a name or an aim.
Rabies & genocide, boys & girls,
my contemporabies and also future shack-
dwellers (drumroll, *** note):  presenting

the Swatches of Hell, my vernissage
entitled 'Infernissage'. It'd be easier to ask
whose soul the show is not awaiting

when eyesockets are groped in the darkness
of a ver'massage, worse than a new
leather headache. Save for saying

'without further ado', without further ado:
(1) Charcoal childshape of Torchy the real boy,
where the boy had stood on the burning decking

before curling up. Pyropygmy had pinbolided
- bedroombedroomdownstairsfrontdoorback!
Till, to his Royal Borough of Chelsea & Kensing-

ton-crispy injuries, succumbing in the
mockingly fresh nightair. Firegutted passers' eyes
mark this Casabianca Philpott's passing,

whitehot rust of seethrublue welding them pink, not
his the sunny rebirthmarks of beatific burnsvictims
on 'This Morning' too mawkish for mourning.

(2) Rubicund/t gammon Brexshitter on #BBCQT.
Shirecoarse broflake of a certain age, whose purple rage
pulses w/ excess of free radicals, fulminating    

against an excess of Free Radicals. Oxidisation
at the state of the nation. The greatest trick
the Devil ever pulled was convincing

us he's nothing like David Dimbleby.
(3) Gammon down the doctor's, no quizzical
ripple on quack's accordion brow - simple dyingnosing

a carotid grume in ruddifazed
British bullfrog's fatberg of jowlveins.
His backgarden Gammon Gammadion flying

at halfmast in a pig's whisper, if
sweet 'n' sour lobster pantone of
St.Georgie-Porgie's protein perspiration's anything

to go by. On his way to an early
Inheritance Tax dodge by his Thatcherite
farrow (sow's ear effect sowers ), confirming

bacon acorns don't fall far
from the Gammon's magic Mammon tree
4) Idiopathic craniofacial erythema at a kilfudyoking

over a dynamite toothpick, when the realisation shites
a ******* light both sides were incinerated on the spot
upon the surface of Friggjarstjarna (Space X booking

clutzclicked). (5) As if the cursed perspex of the Red
Hood wedged on backtofront, the ponceau plasma
kerblammo of cheap shot deathscending

like the red mist upon Prince Prospero
towards his poxy masquecrasher, Red Death,
but from the rear, is genickshuß too late blowing

away blindness in occipital eyes of adage,
e.g. those in back of the caput of top dog immortalised
in dogfood - capitaneus canum, Brutus, donning

no ghillie toga to bump off emperor chum.
(6) Carnivorous-pillarbox shade, prettymuchnot peace-
painted nails of gobsworth jobshite murderdoll dialing

in another Axis-might-as-well-won-day Monday...
For the agency temp. From a blondsports arena
- not Berlin '36 - but gammon gangmaster's king-

size in a pig's styescraper, slap flawless as a paralysed
actress (& her maquillage too), murderdoll her own  
officilicious entertainmeat overloveegging

as Miss Axis Mundi, when cash is queen in urban jumanji
of the UK. Her Nominal Majesty's - nominally - Murdocracy
of murdered dolies. Here, hollow as a bacon thorn bonking

a murderdoll hollow, beauty only follows the money,
the carnal collateral. (7) Sartorial butcher's rainbow of the
Satrap of Toast O' Clock Tophet (sadly not coming

w/ a cone). I don't mean MC. #BBCQT, I mean
the Devil IRL-oosely i.e. the Arch-Hole of myth.
His tartarean tuftaffety w/ auburn ape trimmings  

Borneo bones bled, which owe more to Deforest than
Kelley (practically fratricidal for us mowler honkies,
chinkpanzees & hanuman beigings expatriating

the Africark, yet we are the furriers to the furnace-
keeper). He's been around for a long, long year
- Asmodeus on an English Triumph - but now lolling

over (8) orange eschatology, better to reign
than be flagitious in the fireign line, excruciatingly
expireign & respireign as they moan 'Ooo excruciating!'

in an excruciating manner for 666 x ∞ , that old excruciator.
W/ a fairwind of the dashdamndickens behind them,
t'iddly oakly 'ades boomtube transgressors ranging

from singlesided shouldershruggers to susan stranglers,
mostly multiple offenders hellbending like snot otters
thru the immoral maze of the Malebolge. Cackling

over the crackling Karakazan stirrers from Serbia
& karakdealers from Scarburbia, molten fate
of malefactors no Factor 30 could curb becoming

fact of searing snowangeled faculae in a caldera
of correction, but the Bluest Fiend is the truest friend
of the little children. Beelzeblubbing

hellish tears of tearspray & swazzling w/ sternutation
of consternation, (9) Blucifer (his blah-hue that of a
Neptunian whose neb-blue-lousness saluting

by Bengal lights illumes) is a blue Rubicante
when his sadistyworld flamepark avenges
Hubineks & Heather Wests. We are worth hating,

the Devil's seen the intel. We fence
our consciences at art galleries, buy coffee table prints
like papal indulgences. But Jesus is a gerund.
Emily Austin Aug 2017
To watch or not to watch.
That is the question;whether it is nobler in my mind to suffer the feels and emotions of addicting shows and yet be so in love with them.
To watch, to cry.
One more episode and only sleep will help me to end.
The heartache and the thousand cinematic shocks the writers are obsessed with.
‘tis a consuming world with everything I wish.
To watch, to cry. To cry-- perhaps too much. Ay, but it's worth it.
For, when watching these shows and knowing what feels may come, when we have shuffled off this depressing factor, we must not forget the humor that makes happiness last oh so long.
To watch characters travel the depths of space and time.
The detectives prove wrong the proud men and even the relationships and love ‘tween the main protagonists.
The insolence of the hiatus that even patient fangirls cannot take. When we go on great adventures with a hobbit and a ring. Who could bear the long wait? To punt a sweat is a weary life. To discover world's unknown from books or shows. We travellers never want to return.
Our fangirl hearts burn and even still
We would rather bear the tears we have Than live in a world where there are none.  Thus Fangirls are not cowards, not at all
Thus we are heroes so very proud
So we proudly say take flight on the enterprise with Captain Jean Luc
We bare our lights sabers alight
And lose ourselves in the action
Go we now happy as could be-- off to fangirl forever 
To be normal? Ha! Never.
I forgot I had written this, so enjoy!
The phases of matter all turn into one
When her lips touch mine
It burns like a thousand supernovas
And freezes like the vaccuum of space

The stars spill bright light through the invisble river
That holds no air in the darkness

The cheek of her face brushing mine
Fills me with the feeling
Of my heart when I see crescent moons

I can't wait to float away
Into the bright swirling stars
In the distance
With nobody but you

And maybe when we do that
We'll feel the stars pull us back
Like on starships
Breeze-Mist Sep 2016
Great news:* I just got
A blu-ray disc of Star Trek
Five, the voyage home

Weird News: my mom said
She didn't buy it, and dad
Said he didn't, too

My conclusion: there's
A star trek fairy, just like
The old tooth fairy

That, *or
a random
Guy came into my house and
Put it on my bed

Either way, I'm not
Going to complain when I
Have a Star Trek disc
Is it creepy? Yes. But its one of my favorite movies of all time (along with Inception, Felidae, and anything made by pixar).
jack of spades Sep 2016
king of stars and star-crossed hearts
constellations like freckles across shoulders with eyes like dawn,
like whispers of cloudless skies and summer days,
all of humanity's finest qualities:
curiosity and vulnerability and loyalty.
captain has been in your blood like gold,
like lullabies sung to already-fulfilled dreams.
how does starfleet regulate smiles so addicting?
a soul too big for a solar system,
too much for a galaxy:
your soul is simply cosmic, darling,
mesmerising in your daring.
don't stop running until you reach the edge
of the diving board into the great unknown.
one end is the beginning to another.
don't stop running until you're satisfied,
until the universe stops expanding and starts to collapse.
you don't know home until you've left it,
but home isn't on terra:
it's a crew of family and friends,
a ship that will take you everywhere and through everything.
cross your fingers and hope not to die,
for you must live a thousand more lives
before your adventure ends.
Paul Butters Sep 2016
Dream on, my friend,
Like me.
Of a future Heaven on Earth,
Or even just a Heaven.

Peace to all Men,
And Women.
Nor more starvation,
Disease
Or Death.

A Paradise in full bloom.
Endless forest, savannas and parklands
Ringed by towering mounts.
Habitats for countless species:
Humanity united with Mother Nature.

Trivial pleasures too.
Leeds United World Champions.
British wins at Wimbledon.
Another World Cup win.

Girls Aloud joining me,
For a fish and chip tea.
More medals in Rio,
Than we got in twenty twelve.

Crank up that warp drive,
Or better still,
Open up that Uniscape
So we can go
Into a parallel universe
Of our choice.

A realm where fiction becomes fact.
Where Captain Kirk is real
And Shatner just a character
On TV.

Where Telletubbies really watch us,
And Father Christmas truly shows his face.
Golden pavements are mere trifles,
And God gives us his grace.

We have to keep on dreaming.
Our hopes must never die.
Just simply keep on dreaming,
No need to reason why.

Paul Butters

© Paul Butters 27\10\2012 (2) in Yorkshire.
Well, nearly 4 years on now and we've got Wimbledon wins AND more medals in Rio!!!!!! 10\27\12 poem in America!
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
Kirk was a flirt.
Bones could clone.
Scotty liked scotch.
Chekov goofed off.
Sulu, he flew.
Uhura went further.
Chapel would coddle.
But
SPOCK,
He
ROCKED.
Thanks for the memories.
Uhura and Kirk shared the first inter-racial kiss ever on TV.
Scotty was from my home town. Met him long after the show went off the air.
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