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basil Nov 2020
tw// homophobia (especially due to religion)

a small, clumsy child
in a room full of glass
is told to look, but never to touch
and it's the child's fearful obedience
that makes the parent revel in their victory

a naïve, desperate teen
is admonished for looking at someone
they never should've touched
(for a bible verse told them so. even kissing was a sin for them)
and it's the teen's desolate silence
that helps the parent sleep at night

don't worry, parent
now i know not to look or touch
please rest easy
my life will not be broken glass
hahahAH *******, MOM <3

but seriously can someone tell me how to stop feeling like a walking sin?
Pockets Aug 2020
Here I sit
Feeling like ****
Eyes red
***** blue
Reading haikus
Drinking cheap *****
Tryin’ to find that spark
If not to write
Then at least light my cigarette
So I can smother myself out
And go on to bed
Kaylee Feb 2020
Look at where we are now
Who knew we’d go on all these little dates
Next thing we know
We’ll be travelling to different states

Let’s go somewhere
Gaze up at the stars
Pretend and twinkle happily
That we could go oh so far

When I’m with you
The time flies
Always wishing for more time
As we lazily admire the skies

Hold onto me
Trace my seams
Let’s create something beautiful
Living simple joyful dreams
we've come so far together
Lillian May Nov 2019
poems are a bit harder to write
when you dont feel music in your mind

too many tabs open

tv static for feelings

'error 404' for thoughts

poems are a bit harder to create
when you cant keep your sh*t straight
Martin Mikelberg Oct 2019
STOP the world
I wanna get off
donald trumpette
wake up ameica
I turned 36 today but I feel like I’m 86
and all I want for my birthday is to die.

pain is everywhere/ hell is everywhere
and happiness doesn’t exist.

no amount of love or change
in my life can cure me from the
aching loneliness that lies within

no amount of records could
complete my collection

no amount of words could
finish my poems

I don’t want to **** myself
I’m not a suicide case
you won’t find me at the bridge tonight
and this isn’t a suicide note or
a cry for help or attention seeking

I’m just really ready to go,
ready for decomposition
ready to escape from myself
ready to be put out of my misery
and to be released from total
anguish that life has shown me

there’s nothing more this blue grey
world could offer me
when the sun shines
I want the rain to fall
my feelings are numb
my brain is dumb
my emotions have solidified
depression makes you feel like
a useless blob on the floor and
I know now that happiness
is a mound of decaying flesh
with an empty slit as pretty
as a melancholic smile.

do you think my poetry brings laughter?

am I an ancient jester of poetic injustice?

I sure hope so.

I wouldn’t want anyone to feel
like the way I’m feeling now.
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
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

all the time you need

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

that final night, in the sand
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
==)' 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
on going
journey to death, simple death, as a child might

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
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

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
from the peton, staring me bare
through horus's horrible idea into true

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

sistere is a patient no-fret state surpassing war

enduring the ability to once more spond to the call
to sing in silence, loosing
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

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
oh say, can you see, old noises sound some same
if saying
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

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


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.
what if Pop was perfect3weaaaaaaaaaaa

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
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.
Shadowhollow Jul 2019
I just want to be loved
The way sad  love songs love
And heartbreakingly so
sunshine Jul 2019
spacing out
but I wanna be stuck in your universe

speeding around
but I wanna be riding with you

lost again
but I wanna be lost in your eyes

f--ked up right
but I wanna be f--cked up with you

staying up late
but I wanna be late cuz I was with you
thank you
for the love
see you soon

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