#dough
in a void of air and space
music floats and keeps us safe
you need to listen
fo real and fo shizzle: listen
it's 3:45 everybody bossed up
dough fetish fantasies
the suzuki in a jakuzzi
keeps my mind busy
(keeps my mind busy)
how can you enter the next stage?
it's fo real like tizzops cage
the barrel of a golden gauge
look into my face: a rat race
never ending being fast paced
today is my last day but i will
remain
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 12:11 PM UTC
Those found in hell may reach in for Heaven
If they work through the dough that is laden with leaven;
For through nightmares and bloodshed that time seems to cherish,
It has never been Willed that any should perish.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
There was once a rich youth who was a chief
officer, he squander his dough on drugs for cough
the chief now is not fine
the virus in him is immune
which made his handkerchief always filled with cough
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
This is not where this idea began but it ran and I
missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency. Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.
That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then
you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since
we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.
Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,
time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?
Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.
If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since
we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.
Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,
time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?
We come and go. To and fro up on the face
messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither
upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.
Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?
---- on the porch facing my west gate ---
fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.
The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond
the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.
Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.
Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on
Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as
unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.
Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short
age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating
from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,
a simple wish.
It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,
sometimes I'm still, and
confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on
we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond
five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things
our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,
this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half
order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show
how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…
unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour
in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round
the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,
the point of this song? To know the point you must have been
to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall
we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.
Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now
I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.
i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,
or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,
nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,
that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,
Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve
Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.
Hows' that feel? Why?
You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward
and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,
why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern
life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection
from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable
but would good prevail if evil had no hope?
I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates
number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****
Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.
All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?
Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.
What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies
the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds
of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,
"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"
the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,
not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,
let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.
Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,
we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity
good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
Spending it to make it?
Now that’s money
Consumable and hoardable
folly’s quest yet necessary evil
How much is enough?
Too little?
Too great?
Does anyone deserve it
can you earn it and be happy
or is it all together absurd?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
I've heard the Ides of March
can be a deathly curse
but now the Ides of April near us
with uncle's fingers in one's purse.
works out fine
if you get some back
you're hurriedly
filling out
those pesky forms
and rushing out
to mail them
that's what
it's all about
but if you know
you're gonna owe
it's quite a different story
and
you're just not in a hurry
it's yours for now
though no cash cow
but
you drag your feet a little
before sending in
your confounded
tax remittal
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
everyone agrees that you're
tasteless and flavourless
when it comes to
choosing the ingredients
to make the dough for love.
similar to a slice of
cold, leftover pizza,
hated like pineapples
as the toppings,
slapped on like a can of
expired tomato sauce,
cut away like
unwanted crustings,
and being as cheap as
a low-quality mozzarella.
definitely
loved by me
but purely hated
by the entire world.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC
I had been bending over,
I used to do that for her.
Little did she ever hear,
Seldom she treasured ever.
Maybe I just can't get enough,
Never she went astray, though.
Determinedly I wasn't tough,
She managed to spoil the dough.
Perhaps life would someday shine,
Someone might come my way.
And then she'll be mine,
On this life's highway.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
you know her clandestinely -
your hands seize her cracks and crinkles
as if she was yours to form, yours to grip
you dust her with your powdered purity;
it is the same ivory colour you wear across your back.
your hands caress her the way she desires
she flows
she inhales
she rises
and she's yours to keep warm.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 3:36 PM UTC
I have eaten
raw cookie
dough
that was in the freezer
and which
you were probably
saving for a party
Forgive me
it was scrumptious
so sweet
and so cold
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
Cold days and snowy nights
dissolve into the glow
when we come home from the sweater weather.
In from the cozy autumn day.
In from a day in which sunlight
dappled the tree's bark
like the zig-zagged icing
and french dough.
A day of mittens so only your thumbs protrude.
A day like kittens which tumble in
happiness and innocence.
Into the oak, with the window
in which tear drops
chase themselves away
down the pane and
the cool air is made hot
with cocoa frothy cream
and pumpkin.
We smoke on curled cinnamon sticks
which splinter like burnt logs
on an fire of embers.
The silhouettes of our shadows
catch on the horizon
as we watch the spectrum
scatter from the warm
cream to the dusty
pumpkin to cocoa.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC