#elliot
"Sometimes I look up at the stars at night
And say,
Take me somewhere else, somewhere so far away I don't even remember this place
And let me look upon the face of the whole entire human Race
And find contentment in the insignificant things
Like a little Childs Laugh
Or tripping on the Trail Path
Before Steadying Myself With A Staff
And Thinking I Could've Fallen
But Didn't
And Then Think Back To The Time I Did
And Think Back To The Time We Played In The Spring Water
And Dried Off Inside
And Lived To Have Fun
Until the Fun Was Love
Because Of Age Approaching
And The Love Turned Sour
Obsessive and Reproaching
But I Still Loved You
As A Child
But Now I Am A Man
And Your Likely With Children
And I Have Been Seared By The Sting Of Silence
That Finds Solace In the Old Memories
And Wishes To Go Back To Them
Until The Thought That Things Could Be Better Now
If I Want Them To Be
I Could Have My Own
Slice Of Heaven
My Only Fear
Is
It Wouldn't Be The Same
And My Mind Might Convince Me It's Cheating To Let Go
Until I Find Joy In New Beginnings
Like the First Day Of School
Which Can Be Every Day
If We Let It Exist
And Resonate In It
And Realize We're All In the Same Boat
And Eat My Breakfast With A Smile On My Face
And Think Back to Playing Soccer On The Beach
Or Something Kind I Did A long Time Ago
That I Had Forgotten
And Giving You a Hug.
And Sleep
And In Dreams Return to the Stars, that Blind me
And I Wake up
In This Place, I Never Want To Leave
Until I realize,
The Real Game is Real Life
And The Strife And The Failures and The Mistakes Make The Rewards So Fitting
And I Take A Sip Of Tea
And Pretend I'm Jorge Luis Borges
Or Einstein, Or some Genius
And Then Remember, I'm Just Human
But I Can Create Wonderful Things
And My Greatest Strength
Is What The Next Day Brings...
A Memory from the Future
Watermarked In Time
May 24
May 24, 2026 at 6:05 PM UTC
I. The Purple Smear
Because the hand did not pause.
Because the cracked, dry hand, reaching from the cave-mouth,
Did not see K’na fall.
Gk’har. A name unwhispered,
He saw the cluster, bright against the grey thorn,
Purple, like a bruise, promising water, promising fullness.
The belly’s taut drum.
He plucked. He ate.
The juice, a sudden, joyful night.
Then, the dance.
Not the dance of the successful hunt,
But the twitching dance, the dance of the white foam,
Eyes wide at the indifferent, yellow sun.
O! the column of generations, the laughter stopped.
The hand, unclenching, dropped the remaining fruit.
And the line,
The long, unbroken thread,
Snapped in its first link.
There, in the dust, by the grey thorn.
Finished.
II. The Hall of Echoes
A line of ghosts who never drew a breath.
A chronicle of shadows.
IS THAT ******* TALKING ABOUT HIS GRANDFATHER AGAIN? GO GET HIM, IT’S TIME.
But time for what?
The son (the Second) was not.
He did not learn to chip the flint,
He did not paint the bison on the wall.
His was the empty cave, the unlit fire.
The Other, a whisper,
Never saw the metal, hot and red,
Poured from the stone. He never forged the blade,
Nor rode the first, stiff wheel.
The Other, a farmer,
Never bent his back to Caesar's tax,
His field unplowed, his olive tree unplanted.
The thunder gave no rain.
The Other, a hollow space
Where a man should be,
Never saw the silks of Cathay,
Never tasted salt from the far, black sea.
And the Other.
(O, the clever one, the one who maps)
He was not İzci.
He was not the Recon, the shadow on the horse,
He did not ride the high Balkan pass
To count the shining spears.
He was not.
He did not lie to the Pasha. He did not survive.
His name was never entered in the register.
HEY BUDDY, C’MON IT’S TIME TO GO NOW.
The Other, a silence,
IS HE ALWAYS LIKE THIS?
Never saw the great dome rise above the Horn,
Never bowed his head in the Sublime Porte.
The Other,
(He who might have been the traitor, the clever one)
He was not hain. He was not a coward.
He was not a hero.
He was the empty uniform.
The mud of GALLIPOLI did not stain him,
The dysentery did not save him,
Because the cannons fired,
And he was not there to hear them.
He did not die in a warm bed, hating the waste.
He was not.
The Other, a photograph,
Un-taken. He did not see the Fez discarded,
Did not learn the new, hard––but necessary––letters.
He did not build a new house
From the old stones.
The Other, my father.
The man who never met my mother
On a summer evening,
Under the linden trees.
No coffee. No shared glance.
His hand, unheld.
His son, unconceived.
III. The Unbitten City
And I?
What shall I do now? What shall I do?
I am not.
I am the echo of the eaten berry.
I am the man who does not walk the Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter noon.
I am not the breath asking the question.
I am not the finger typing on the key.
Someone else is here.
A different line, a different blood.
One whose father saw the purple foam
And turned,
And ate the bitter root.
But my line?
The story of the İzci?
The story of the hain?
The story of the caveman who paused?
Lost.
OH MY GOD! I AM SO SORRY.
Lost.
The thunder is silent.
The question is the answer.
The berry was eaten.
There is nothing more.
Can I get your n-number?
Metehan Baydemir
06.11.2025
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 2:45 AM UTC
==========
United States of, as in America's
us as toys r us were, conceptually,
states r us, res publica for which,
we, the whole batch born free,
with freedom from the press and
adve'tisers, paid a fine loaf a day,
for selling free papers, here kid,
gitinthegame, easy init
ads on comicbooks
for magic tricks and
GRIT sell this.
Sell that, Publisher's Clearing House,
you know how, they buy the press run,
yeah, they buy all the paper, all the mills,
yeah, they own the stock market, the deals
who knew what when,
is anticipated, slippery, this once
then ante climactic we think of ever
If now state, present state when
we agree, mentally, we are ready
readers, we have learned our ABCs,
by way of Henson, polylingually free from
the limits of sorry old Jos, e-less jo se si se free
from certain trust in words,
stacks and stacks and stacks,
all bundled grunts and hmms, so, n'such
all okey A OK Roger out, didah didawdit
Your time, paid into my stream, using science,
simple as can be, is sublime, so simple, a point
when time is as if no time really ever was,
then we realize now is, though, real as ever/
A state is a political entity that regulates society
and the population
within a definite territory.[1]
Government is considered
to form the fundamental apparatus
of contemporary states.[2][3]
grip cohesion ceity
So, ceity deceitfully may be
we agreeing, on whatsoever we do
being wedone, we do our fair share, eh…
the American, local neighborhood way,
on this side of the railroad tracks, out west/
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 5:21 PM UTC
Summer nights spent locked in my room
Was it suddenly fate that came and brought me to you?
A message; so simple, yet so damning
I had no idea what one little word could do
Back and forth we went
All that time spent questioning
If may I should get with you
When it came down to it
All I could think was
**** you're pretty cute"
Seeing your face was the one thing that brought me relief
Oh how your voice made me weak
I'd give anything if I could start over
And return to those nights
That left me destroyed beyond belief
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 3:46 PM UTC
Thinking back on all those nights spent with you
Barely exchanging words
Mostly swapping tongues between us two
I still wonder why it was so easy
For me to fall for someone
Who plays for a living
Not caring about who they could lose
Making me feel special was step one
Attention was two
Saying you missed me
So easy for you to do
Now I see
How easy
It all was for you
Even if you never really cared
I can't say that I really regret those nights
I wish we could be together
I wish we could fight
I wish that you would come back into my life
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
You need to hire a real IT person
Cuz...........you' ain't it!
May 24, 2021
May 24, 2021 at 10:51 PM UTC
"I'll be right here"
my dear friend said to me
a tap of his finger
set my mangled heart free
He never came back
Because he never left
-The boy in the red sweater
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 7:47 PM UTC
Seldom are the streets quiet
The children age by the window light
Outside it is spring
March brings the turning of the cold
The adults fester and rot, feeding themselves to their resting places
Wicked things brew far and wide
Sizzling and spewing like acid dissolving bone and flesh
The morning moon glimmering
Time has burned itself to the wax
Everyone is meandering their minds
Searching for a smooth door handle to grasp
There are doors but none to open
There are windows but none to peer out of
There are cars but no one to steer them
This is the apocalypse
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 3:35 AM UTC
Mistah Gates. He dead"
Time is an ouroboros and
the Earth a flat circle
Measure out your life
in insta pics
Let us go then, you and I,
through empty diamonds
and deserted play grounds.
Let us visit, if you will,
the battlefields ,
streets full of bodies
that decay in minutes.
In waiting rooms people come and go
and speak of tanks and Bushido
Eyes I dare not meet
Can see me with their headpiece
made of straw
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Forgotten, as we stare at our new ones.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 11:31 PM UTC
The last of the angels’
Castaway nametags
Hung from the plush red edges
Of the art deco interior.
A breeze from the open door
Cast the doctor’s pamphlets to the floor
Advertising his services
For the special remediation program
Since he could not sleep
What with all the voices
From below chanting his name—
How he envied the people he killed:
For they were spoken so little of.
That is, except for on his intake sheet:
After passing over the names,
Seven in all,
Whose lives were, shameless,
Shed over ***
The latch clicked
And out came the doctor’s hand
Beckoning through the door
A “come hither” gesture.
On the couch he sat,
Neck conforming perfectly to the couch
As he swam a cascade of Rorschachs
Apart the mirror-faced, owl-like man.
Speaking with a heavy Eastern-European accent
He knew exactly why Elliot had come:
Perhaps the intentions were dubious,
Perhaps he was looking
For quick solutions;
Regardless, Mirror-Face was there to help:
Too easily, these days, was it
To determine dysfunction in the masculine—
And this case was rare,
Awash in chatter from below.
So, there must be something deeper
Rooted in fear of perpetual
Romance fetishism
And absence of its referent.
Yes! The penetrative is missing—
The limerant object
Is without form, shapely, and feminine
And would forever escape him,
In part by suicide,
In part by isolation.
The reason you are here
Is the absent-present offspring
Of such missing ***
A veritable porcupine-dilemma
In the flesh, a show of insufficient ****** capital—
See now in this face of mine.
Yes, now that I’ve diagnosed
What ails
Let us explore what solutions
Could have been:
The living world does offer suitable surrogates
For those lacking—
Recognizing this is the first step
To being forgotten,
To allow you to sleep.
Yes, you recognized then
The gun as the extension of the phallus
And it levels the playing field
Raised up, aroused by power
One feels when operating heavy machinery—
Yes, all flesh which is the metaphorical egg,
The bullet is the *****
Which penetrates the flesh of the paramour
Impregnating her with life inverted
And creates, in death,
The child of ****** frustration.
While this child is one of children lost,
It is child nonetheless.
Yes, and this gun, the metal *****
***** not one
But many—in fact, incestuously,
It ***** entire families,
Entire communities,
And leaves their lives gravid
With your legacy.
Yes, it is the only way to create
The ultimate matron, the universal feminine,
The supreme m-Other
For the Supreme Gentleman.
And you, as you see me,
Are the absent-present of this child of death
This union of bullet-sperm and the whole-body womb,
With which you, sadly, impregnated yourself.
But, here’s the secret,
Because of this, you can only do damage control:
Your child will prevail.
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
So, have the voices stopped?
Has the child matured in you?
You are on your way to being forgotten,
But the child lives on:
Yes, the name may be gone, but the child prevails.
Name may be gone, but child prevails.
Name gone, child here.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
A way to release
The moments I freeze
A chatter I couldn't cease
When nothing to appease
I wandered like an idiot
Came across HP by Elliot
On HP we socilise
The might of pen we realise
What if my poems don't trend?
My passion doesn't end....
No sunshine not given light
Yet HP has taken me to a new height
"Daily" never selected
Yet people appreciated
Made friends across the globe
Found a new ray of hope
A plateform for poetry
Love you dear HP!
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC
Perhaps in time, I will understand love,
How our separate bodies are to become one,
Perhaps in time, I will understand
How I never could love you,
While loving you.
Perhaps.
Perhaps.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 8:14 PM UTC
T.S. Elliot reminds me that I don't have to rhyme,
Every line,
or,
be on time, in measure,
Or attitude,
Or make sense,
Or only write when I'm depressed,
Or sad or angry.
Which is good,
Because I, (and I'm not being sarcastic),
honestly feel fine
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:51 AM UTC
When DedPoet faked his death
He let go all drama,
All the non sense poets seem
To get into because we think we
Are connected.
I DONT KNOW YOU.
And I just want to write poetry
Without me in it,
Without your emotions stirring
An imaginary ***
I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND.
I am a fellow poet who studies
This craft,
This art,
This therapy that saved my life.
And you and me we are just words
In the the beautifully unstable
Majestic poem that is all in our
Heads.
I BLOCK POETS WHO STIR POTS.
Because I just want to write
Without all the drama.
I feel your eyes pointed at me.
And I could care less.
I faked my death to ****
Any thoughts of friendship,
I am Dedpoet,
Im here to write,
What the hell are you doing?
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
~Christi Michaels~MoonFlower~Fluer de Luna~
Today is my 58th Birthday!
Just now finding firm, resolute
footing here in this magical yet
ever changing world of ours.
As I take stock of my wealth of Blessings, Hello Poetry has been a heart changing event for me this last year.
You all have enriched my world. Accepted my words, my heart,
my hurts, my visions, in such a
kind and loving manner. My pen
pals around the world, we get to
share our inner thoughts, feelings in poetic form! Such a precious way to bond. How fantastic is that? You have touched me by sharing your hearts, your worlds. Please know Dear Poets how your support, inspiration and patient kindness has strength.
As I lay curled up in the soft nest of
my bed, I do what I do
every morning now,
awake with anticipaticipation of
words that have arrived as I
have slumbered, awaiting your
writes to enrich my Day...
I send you all ripples of Love.
Please take a moment and join
me in acknowledging how unique
and special you all are ...ThankYou
for my amazing journey on HP,
and the delight in knowing It shall continue!
I thank Mark Cleavenger for being
my poetry friend. Wolf for my
beautiful pen name Fluer de Luna
Most of all, thank you Elliot for providing a safe place in which to land.
Peace and Love
Christi Michaels MoonFlower~Fluer de Luna~
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
La beauté d'un lever de soleil ,
la beauté d'un diamant ,
la beauté de l'océan .
Même la beauté de cet univers ne pouvait être comparé à ce sourire ,
ce sourire gracieux pourrait commencer un battement de coeur,
ses sourires pourraient réchauffer le cœur le plus froid de l'humanité.
Votre sourire est la perfection ,
vos sourires est la plus brillante ,
Je pourrais survivre si elle était seule avec votre sourire.
Votre sourire apporter une joie mille,
votre sourire épargnez-moi un mal de coeur,
votre sourire me épargne de chagrins ,
sans votre sourire, le monde ne serait pas un meilleur endroit .
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Try as I might
Only see things
In black and white
Really black spreading carrion bird
Vulture wings to pick clean to bone
No friend just a fake toothache smile
Who wants something
Too bad too late all used up
Throw away mate
Past best before date
Rotten meat parasite infested
Inevitable buried garbage pit fate
Dig it just big enough for
A dead little Elliot me
Be my Big Sur Billie
And ******* bury me
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Here comes the countdown,
The ring of twelve awaits,
I lay bare in my chamber,
Nothing past this will ever equate.
He never came through the window,
Nor did I catch his shadow,
To take me to his Netherland
And live as innocence incarnate.
The fresh second has passed,
I inhabit the other side,
I stand sheathed among the others,
I stand as Adam, with dignity
By my side.
The ship is leaving from the shore,
Here are my records from life abroad,
The twelfth ticking finger; the other side,
Aboard the Grand Expectation, at high tide.
I remember those days in practising
Youth, to obtain those leisure’s, I
Now pursue. Wishing for time to burn
Away whilst the paper’s smoke, astray.
I have no hand to follow,
Only my own two feet,
Down the path to *‘prepare the face,
For the faces that I will meet.’
My shelter has been broken,
I face this open world,
Life expels, whilst hope
Is tortured and contorted.
Yet, I will find a place to stand,
Among a band of life’s grand
plan, To sit with the others,
Plated in Dionysian armour.
We will set upon the stage
And light Pandora’s candle,
So the last flicker of hope,
Will blind Failure’s scandal
And I will look back,
At the awe of innocence,
Through eyes who have seen a
Thousand smiles, whilst laughing
We are Life’s but inner-child.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
November is the cruelest month, destroying
What once was for what will be
The snow will stalk our dreams, hoping
To fill the emptiness of another summer’s end
Earth will forget the dead
As I forget what it was to be a student
Labour fuels my hours, surviving
One year to the next, a broken man
Where is the Spring I once knew so well?
Where is my heart in this cruel world?
Where is time but in these broken images?
Memory is insufficient to be my food
The wind howls and I am the trees
Who have endured so much, again and again
The famous shadows on the ground mean nothing
They are what they were, darkness spreading
These unreal cities are all the same
With their cosmopolitan jargon and anonymity
Each trying to out duel the next, competition
In the workplace, in the dating market
One must be so careful these days
Friends depart without a trace, elders die
Families get divided, partners divorce
The winter dawn has its own beauty
A short and infrequent storm, the bloom
Of white to carpet our weary feet
On roads of fate, sometimes without shelters
Without kindred souls who know us deeply
The synthetic atmospheres of urban life
A society of white walkers, whose truth
Only mimics the fallen empires of liberty
The false figures of unemployment rates
Which do not count those who have given up
Indebted states, welfare states, police states
And the persistent rumour that democracy is dead.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC