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Apr 5
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and you head **** into a poem, built like a barrier, in the mid of morning’s pre dawn night, when supreme silence magnifies every isolated and isolatable all the lonely individual lip smacked wordy utterances of a a specific isotopic a-glowing, almost luminous, poem, a pockmarking world of human words, all springing, illuminating within the midst of 20K of a cohort of mostly sleeping souls in a single neighborhood, assembled of, upon, in/on a singular Manhattan city block, and you scream out HOT **** in your silence and silencing main brain, for you’re stopped, blockaded, and much to your own surprise, these words, you !wrote, self declaring themselves finale finished done and you place your ten fingered writing utensil on your rising & falling chest mouthing only Amen~A Man~You~Man
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Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 4:14 AM UTC
Almost luminous
In my magic library I find old Carl Jung, read by voice I may imagine my own, reading in a polished Oxford accent, with the or made an uh at every opportunity, and no e ever unspoken {save after lone stretched vowles stretching} each word forming as from a bubble of thought, with one tangentle anchor point, stretching down from that thought cloud emerging from the bubbles bubbling in your magmatic earthly being, at the heart of you where your fire burns piercing. I speak, with authority, I hear me say, I shall know I know as much or more of such thoughts as these Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Old man visions loosed into ever, like the preacher making many books, vain, but enjoyable, all the same, after mediating between me and the others, out there, free in the sea of opinions, bound only by fear of death, to lives of quiet desparation, to ti esti in separation from secret knowledge unearnible, in one mortal life's longest state of steady concentration on the point of being. at all or having any part in this production, blooming, ****** beat of my heart, oh, hell no, hello world... we come with words formed in defeat, defeat repeats the message as follows d'toes knows ken yond some kinda ying yang warworths lisp ship cult prize thang. Shib-o-let slow belly lethargy, feel it in your big toe, touch a stone and turn the cool side up A papal bullishit bell curve clang, gong.... wrong... good guess, give'er another go ****** right, too right, mate, take th'prize sur reality position superimposed over life as imagined before the internet, but after TV... the inbetween time seedtime, not harvest. Seed sown, unknown seed sown, for better living, through science. Side track: Bayer is famous for... Xyclon B. Right. The game of knowing going on as we wander, wondering waht subtle subtility what keen sence of sharpness, pointing a way, see... that pixel, upper left quadrant, in the per ifery edgy bit out of focus, can you blink? Give us a clue, are we ludicrous by nature? Are we only here to play, to enjoy the grace of knowing God shat on all our filthy rags and laughed as we danced around the fire, lost in re very very ify verity of varieties un en visioned until the release The Alamogordo bit of my myth with you in it. Initial response of any heroic application is denial. No real hero wishes to be a real hero, the day to day existence in a virtual eden, is fine. When we get down to where jewels form latices far funner than the jungle gym or monkey bars of my youth, a prewar preparation, proven to myself, I can do this, grip and swing, and reach and grip and swing, command the callouses to form, command the cells to signal, more blood, more O, too. Oh, you, wisdom coos, in that sweet way she does when we leave those sure bonds of earth and take a stake in heaven's will being done in wisdom's main domain. --- whole heart or no heart, the hero code, probabble babble babble on and on an in fun item left to fuggetchewwitcher doubus ****** haecceity point. Score. Thats the point of anything piercing everything. It looks different from out here.
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Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC
Peace of mind in shaky reality
In my magic library I find old Carl Jung, read by voice I may imagine my own, reading in a polished Oxford accent, with the or made an uh at every opportunity, and no e ever unspoken {save after lone stretched vowles stretching} each word forming as from a bubble of thought, with one tangentle anchor point, stretching down from that thought cloud emerging from the bubbles bubbling in your magmatic earthly being, at the heart of you where your fire burns piercing. I speak, with authority, I hear me say, I shall know I know as much or more of such thoughts as these Memories, Dreams, Reflections. Old man visions loosed into ever, like the preacher making many books, vain, but enjoyable, all the same, after mediating between me and the others, out there, free in the sea of opinions, bound only by fear of death, to lives of quiet desparation, to ti esti in separation from secret knowledge unearnible, in one mortal life's longest state of steady concentration on the point of being. at all or having any part in this production, blooming, ****** beat of my heart, oh, hell no, hello world... we come with words formed in defeat, defeat repeats the message as follows d'toes knows ken yond some kinda ying yang warworths lisp ship cult prize thang. Shib-o-let slow belly lethargy, feel it in your big toe, touch a stone and turn the cool side up A papal bullishit bell curve clang, gong.... wrong... good guess, give'er another go ****** right, too right, mate, take th'prize sur reality position superimposed over life as imagined before the internet, but after TV... the inbetween time seedtime, not harvest. Seed sown, unknown seed sown, for better living, through science. Side track: Bayer is famous for... Xyclon B. Right. The game of knowing going on as we wander, wondering waht subtle subtility what keen sence of sharpness, pointing a way, see... that pixel, upper left quadrant, in the per ifery edgy bit out of focus, can you blink? Give us a clue, are we ludicrous by nature? Are we only here to play, to enjoy the grace of knowing God shat on all our filthy rags and laughed as we danced around the fire, lost in re very very ify verity of varieties un en visioned until the release The Alamogordo bit of my myth with you in it. Initial response of any heroic application is denial. No real hero wishes to be a real hero, the day to day existence in a virtual eden, is fine. When we get down to where jewels form latices far funner than the jungle gym or monkey bars of my youth, a prewar preparation, proven to myself, I can do this, grip and swing, and reach and grip and swing, command the callouses to form, command the cells to signal, more blood, more O, too. Oh, you, wisdom coos, in that sweet way she does when we leave those sure bonds of earth and take a stake in heaven's will being done in wisdom's main domain. --- whole heart or no heart, the hero code, probabble babble babble on and on an in fun item left to fuggetchewwitcher doubus ****** haecceity point. Score. Thats the point of anything piercing everything. It looks different from out here.
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93
For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island
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May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
2013: With Each Passing Poem
For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island
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67
ran into a whispering angel at the cemetery today, customary to have a small ceremony when the monument finished, the grave now well and truly marked, an unveiling held, the kaddish said, a small stone placed upon the monument, a five thousand year old tradition, started by Jacob we line up to place our rock of ages goodbye token, an opportunity to angel whisper one last goodbye, but good bye is not on my mind, no, my own approaching deceasing dead, for the pains come regular now in the places that means trouble ahead, and no one knows but me so to my friend Al, who once asked me where do the poems, the words, come from, I whisper in your six feet underground ears, though I swear I hear ya laughing both right behind me both at your jokes, and at me, “see ya soon, buddy, see ya soon”
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Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
whispering angel at the cemetery today
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 82 BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem In the direct path of a wandering’ Whenever I close my shrewd eyes Entire sense will gently steer, Towards my family remembrance. It's a severe pain that I can’t naturally denied’ My sentimental tears will flow naturally, Unconditionally in their moral suffering. But when I started discovering your eternal love’ Oh my beloved, I will gracefully yield myself. From this considerable pain and social bond, Grant me, Wisely let me embrace you unconditionally. Oh my Beloved! In your eternal love’ Allow my shrewd eyes won’t open forever! Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan. ©UT-BK 2019
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Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 6:15 AM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 82
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) - 64 BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem Oh the Loved one, Who is my Beloved! In the deserted land, there is a Sacred Mountain’ Fondly, called as The Mountain Of Light’s (Jabal Al Noor) ' Where my Divine Creator Imitate His Own Light' And carefully guarded by the Numerous Angels, Towards the Sacred Mountain (Jabal Al Noor)! My Beloved visits daily towards the Peak (Jabal Al Noor) Where his rest place Cave (Hira) itself based. He climbs at rosy dawn, towards the sacred peak, To freely meditate towards his Divine Creator! Allow me, to unfailingly follow you; Until the Cave (Hira) entrance, And comfort Your attractive Paws as your feet dust. I devotedly follow You, Oh my Beloved! Towards the Cave (Hira); Upon the Peak (Jabal Al Noor) Don't look down for stack of crude stones, Or don't be worried about any cruel thorns. At Dawn, Very difficult to track the visible path, I dearly want to live as his dainty shoes' Hence, He can climb carefully every glorious day. Let my Beloved’ peacefully sit and Meditate Let Him recite, The One and Only (Iqra Bismi Rabika) Thru the Dear Angel (Jibreel), Therefore, He can reveal the Divine truth! I will wait respectfully outside, Until He solely speaks, the divine truism. Therefore, I can correctly grasp; Through My Beloved the eternal truth (Noble Quran)! The unknown truth of the Divine Creator (Allah) And His Eternal Existence (The Noble Throne) Upon the sacred Mountain Of Light’s! (Jabal Al Noor)! Allah Khair..... Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem Ummah Thurab - Badshah Khan. ©UT-BK 2019
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Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) - 64
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) - 64 BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem Oh the Loved one, Who is my Beloved! In the deserted land, there is a Sacred Mountain’ Fondly, called as The Mountain Of Light’s (Jabal Al Noor) ' Where my Divine Creator Imitate His Own Light' And carefully guarded by the Numerous Angels, Towards the Sacred Mountain (Jabal Al Noor)! My Beloved visits daily towards the Peak (Jabal Al Noor) Where his rest place Cave (Hira) itself based. He climbs at rosy dawn, towards the sacred peak, To freely meditate towards his Divine Creator! Allow me, to unfailingly follow you; Until the Cave (Hira) entrance, And comfort Your attractive Paws as your feet dust. I devotedly follow You, Oh my Beloved! Towards the Cave (Hira); Upon the Peak (Jabal Al Noor) Don't look down for stack of crude stones, Or don't be worried about any cruel thorns. At Dawn, Very difficult to track the visible path, I dearly want to live as his dainty shoes' Hence, He can climb carefully every glorious day. Let my Beloved’ peacefully sit and Meditate Let Him recite, The One and Only (Iqra Bismi Rabika) Thru the Dear Angel (Jibreel), Therefore, He can reveal the Divine truth! I will wait respectfully outside, Until He solely speaks, the divine truism. Therefore, I can correctly grasp; Through My Beloved the eternal truth (Noble Quran)! The unknown truth of the Divine Creator (Allah) And His Eternal Existence (The Noble Throne) Upon the sacred Mountain Of Light’s! (Jabal Al Noor)! Allah Khair..... Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem Ummah Thurab - Badshah Khan. ©UT-BK 2019
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Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 29 BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem Maybe, or Maybe not, You heart holds the unique key. To your intense desire and sincere passion All desires and passion ends, Towards your sincere love, You naturally need to be wisely deciding, How to unlock! Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan. ©UT-BK 2019
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Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:25 AM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 29
spring's falling rain nothing more beautiful your heartbeat that time
0
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
untitled
Moments of what to feel Consume my brain, Dissipating my pain Along with the whispers from my heart.. Is this real? My heart shouts yes But my mind can be depressed And it causes me to stress, Sometimes it won't rest Sometimes it will push you to the test Ridiculous it may seem But people can be so mean. Yet, your kindness doesn't make me squeam I believe you When I am with you, I don't want to scream My mind is suddenly at peace For your touch brings me ease I know your mind wanders It brings up times of bothers Your heart is aching for you to listen Mine is patiently wishing hoping your anxieties don't overcome your heart For I see no reason to tear us apart A connection so magical it makes us scared Questioning if either of us are prepared. Hoping we'll always be there But something in my gut says we'll never tear Your eyes leave me mesmerized I could stare at you for hours Without any urge to cower Your arms keep me safe You fill me with confidence And not rage
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Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
Moments of What to Feel
He promises her the world Leaving her mind in a whirl He holds her like a flower Picking off one petal every hour Plucking at her emotions ******* her brain with commotion. With his love, he sways back and forth Leaving her heart in a storm.
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Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
He Promises Her the World
into her eyes he stared running his fingers through her hair her heart is melting without a care his heart is chained up for he is too scared he comes & he goes she sleeps in her woes always crumbling never trying lift your chin up, darling this moment is defining
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Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Into Her Eyes He Stared
she pours herself a glass of wine hoping to pass the time blue eyes of fear this will be the first year in many that not a tear was shed, my hands were sturdy my night has been nice and look, not a friend in sight if I had a box of love, for myself there would be none from myself I run day dreaming into the sun even without my nug, I still feel snug maybe the anger came from our love I opened all my locks then our love hit the rocks I was left with scars constantly feeling like I was in mars
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Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
She Pours herself a Glass of Wine
Confused in delight I imagine her with blue, doll-like eyes Skin soft & milky white With a smile that gleams with light A look that pierces the soul A touch that makes you feel whole Hair long, flowing, & dark Like a black, purple, or deep  blue I desire to kiss her soon My passion burns deep within For a fantasy I made up No more than a mere fib
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Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
Confused in Delight
Awaits the pressures of tomorrow Now I won't sit in my sorrow My nerves are just shaking But darling, you won't see me breaking Small talk and laughs Don't focus on the past Be here, be now I know it's a lot to ask But quitting isn't something I would allow So, you can sit & sulk in the corner, Or do something that will make you stronger. So on goes my dress No leggings, no sweats With a smile on my face, And red on my lips This here is my moment of bliss.
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Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 10:08 AM UTC
Awaits the Pressures of Tomorrow
What if her hands were never steady Would you still be ready? What if she fell weak in the knees Would you catch her? Or watch her bleed? What if her trust was never fully restored Would she still be someone you adore? What if now & then her heart hit the floor Would you walk away? Or lend her yours? The pit of emptiness lives inside her She needs a care giver, not a provider. Remind her now & then That she's your best friend She plays tough But it's just a bluff Inside her fragile eyes Is where her pain lies Even when she smiles Those pupils hold stories for miles But she's not held down.. Even when there's a frown, She wears a crown The core of her soul is one with the world Making her free as a bird, Without need for any words
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Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
What if Her Hands were Never Steady?
I'm a strong girl I dont know how many times Should I remind myself that So I could make myself believe That I really am. I'm a strong girl I say, to console myself That everything will work out just fine Because God has a plan And I'm part of that plan. I'm a strong girl I repeat to myself as I get closer To things that makes me sick. Tho I'm still hoping that one day I'll eventually love it. I'm a strong girl I tell myself Over and over again But it's not quite right Just not quite right, I'm a strong girl Oh **** I'm tired of it. Completely fed up. I feel like giving up, surrendering my hands in the air. But I'm a strong girl. You know I shouldn't You know I can't You know I won't. I'm a strong girl
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Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
Strong girl
If in nothing then in all Must I sin to be saved Must I wrong to be absolved Forgiveness comes at such a cost Must I pierce the heart to come in lost In the darkness in the light In the confusion of the night You can call it incoherent incompetence You can call it a deterrence Just don't call it a ****** innocence
0
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
It's your call