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Brandon Aug 30
stalked by a swiveling neck

dazed by surrounding darkness

black hounds lick your wounds

your sorrow tastes sweet

its the most beautiful blue
"Work hard" they said,
Push yourself to the limit;
"Go higher" their voices played,
Even when you've already reached the summit...

Have you hiked a multiple tiered waterfall?
The higher you go, the less people there are...
The scenes get more magnificent,
the cascading falls are more pristine...
But you've got to put in the work,
Hike, climb, crawl and you'll get there.

But once you get really high,
Past all the rest of the people,
You'd realise the best tier,
Might be back where you came from.

All that hard climbing,
And at the top...
There might be no view,
No falls,
Yes there is quiet
and the sound of the gentle bubbling river source.
But you've left the absolute best behind.

Just because you can push the limits,
Doesn't mean you have to.
Grasp the moment,
Enjoy the fruits of your labour,
Lest you lose them forever...
Learn when to stop.
neth jones Aug 26
the meeting room inflates       mushroomed by vocal lashing
 nauseous and ugly welling
                      everyone's timely except the crucial host                      
top pockets and pens
                                                 stuffing of warmth
crucible of body gases and personal perfumes
no windows   /   low ceiling
               the vents clogged with dust and barnacles
one stifling roost

over the new mode room      a dominant black screen is vigilant
clocking the details    
scrapbooking the gloom
         (each rebel breath of mine   rivals the last)

there's an odd gap in the chitter-natter
dumbed silent punction to the point of audible body function
everybody is knocked from their element
plead broken this nervous moment...
..and someone does
            patricia hats a laugh
                                 and the flow re-bleats its motor    revived  

mike from c8 south
                                                   whinnies in my face
breath bad and bad coffee
he gaffles my energy
                            head bloods flood
and i can't hack it
                      this is where i get off        
                                  the worldly stutters me off the page
hot signal habits bunch
i am dudded

my distant avatar takes over                                             
              c­an it handle an idea of what i ought present ?
i am a kite operating the grounded pilot
i see him beam and nod dummy to conversation
representing ; i'll endure with this method         
i am only a member here              
    no sass of authority
my expected contribution need only be trivial

but then                                                             ­   
distant others look darkly through my reservoir
the gig is up     they know somethings contorted
i am drawing attention
what did my puppet say on my behalf ?
am i crooked and pale and wincing ?
am i laying out insult ?
these could be things
they concentrate through distorted waters
start chopping gestures
it is not liked and my auto options have failed
why can't we wash over this whole thing ?
we are dressed so nicely and it is only work
and breath and beating words
to replace peckerpits in the system
t h a t   i s    i t  !
the body crumples and exhibits
i whelm over it all
taking off as an apparition
moting higher still above the scene
i raise the ceiling some
but   represented   i lie on the floor
a rat ring of colleagues forms about me
some with baldness showing              
some dyed colours
one wears a fedora indoors
hunching over my mass
rodent strife
Oskar Erikson Aug 19
and who's to stop me?
have managed
their time productively.
                                       shudder to think
                                       they'd begrudge a
                                       subordinate the time
                                       to blast their feelings
                                       off the clock.
leaning over window panes
that lack
balconies to catch
their workers.
                                     my 1-1s have started and ended
                                     with a heart in my mouth
                                     making it harder for the words
                                     'i quit' to get out.

can i just pivot off of can i just piggyback can we just swivel can i put a pin in you and sew up the wounded look that face carries to the coffee machine every lunch Oskar take some sick leave or just leave at this point we haven't identified your fit and our culture of inclusion excludes delays in action i just don't understand how personal problems seep into the workplace what its been five months which is half the time you were with him can't it
just be let go?
just let me go
you're being let go
i want to let go.
                                                    ~ HR will be in touch. ~
Robert Ronnow Aug 17
Sometimes we like to do something for the story
we’ll tell afterwards. Buy a ’58 Pontiac, climb
a mountain in the dark. Lamar tells ***** jokes
with class, knows how to wait awhile, bend
a syllable and savor the laughter. We go on

with our absurd work, building a fence miles long
waste of steel and strong straight lodgepole pine
but even I don’t opine against it anymore. We’re
self-acknowledged children, fence is play and
livelihood also, but something cheerful as sunshine

for all the death it costs. There is so much life
a little death doesn’t matter. We stretch our muscles
the men feel like men, the women feel good too.
We stand around, watch a young rabbit one morning.
M Jul 13
Faking it til I make it,
but there's a monkey on my back.
This normal way, I have to say,
is starting to show cracks.

Turn up to work and get boring **** done,
be nice to the ******* who think they are fun.

Clean up my jokes and censor my speech,
**** corporate blood like a well behaved leech.

I'm dying inside and I know that it's killing me.
I feel the old poisonous tentacles tugging me.

Just get ****** up,
and **** it all off,
live your worst life,
the one that you love.
Melo Jul 13
I sat there in the wooden office chair
My boss sits across from me
A dark wooden desk sits between us

Outside the window
The buzzing of drones serving the queen
Thoughtlessly focused on their tasks

My boss snaps me back
Another warning on my “productivity”
Maybe this time I’ll shape up

Bees leave to find flowers
But they are never far from the hive
They are shackled with a purpose to the whole

I sit in my car just before leaving for home
My wrists and neck stiff from another day's worth of tasks
I’ll be back here tomorrow
And the next day
Tonight I stayed at work until 7:00.
It was dark when I locked the front doors.
Winter approaches again, soon the great coat
huddled like a rug around me. The streets
were active as usual, block residents
hanging out front steps. I said goodnight
to Nydian Figueroa, after school counselor.
I bought a beer at the deli on Third Ave.
from the Arab owner. He’s a bit upset about
the bottle bill.
                          Collecting bottles from small groceries
could be a useful youth employment enterprise.
I walked down Fifth along the park in the dark
drinking my beer and looking at women. I need
a good **** badly. I tried to decide whether
to go to the movies, a Hopi film Howard recommended,
or just go home, watch tv and light a candle.
Maybe I’d meet someone at the film.
                                                                  Can I handle
the malady of going home tonight? If I die,
I die alone.
                      I turned west toward the subway
past the museum, through the park.
I can’t look at the myriad lights in buildings
large enough to hold a small town. It increases
my anxiety and anonymity to the breaking point.
I hoped to be mugged, for the human contact.
Two big guys looked me over, but I lowered
my center of gravity and they passed quietly. Survival
feels fine, proves I am alive.
                                                   The white pines
in this corner of the park hold a cool, earthy air
reminding me of coming winter, that mortality is
restful, of the black bear and swollen river I saw
500 miles away and only one day ago.
hair tied with
a nitrile glove cuff
carved a sacred space adorned with muffled tile
porcelain throne pod amongst the ruckus
hohumdrum gods stampeding towards
a visionary empty meeting with screens
greeted with massed bodies, butter, and dust
the divine light behind the porthole still shines
even as crowds continually shuffle forwards
backwards and past, that bouquet of projection rays
remains sheening with eye to light machè heaven
until thunderous overstrokes over indulge and begin
to over and undertone every feather upon ears
resignation of a certain kingship upon standing
and yet wealth of ethic remains demanding
so, stand.
it is what it is. sometimes you have to **** at work, sometimes you aren't excited to stop.
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