#institution
In the boastful, casual manner you portray,
You betray your actual lack of ruthlessness.
The act is a fun game,
But the consequences are heavy.
If no one buys what you're selling,
Suffice to say you're starving.
If it causes greater harm or grief,
Suffice to say you're swinging.
For others yet are playing,
But play not.
For behind many faces hide wide smiles,
By many frames are different the pictures.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 8:32 PM UTC
Sept 8 2019
bungee binging The Good Place
this witty inventions peeks
in the window, like a pop-up ad for
imaging software,
hmmm, tune to white
noise and
shift into this aural or otherwise
sense
it-
ifity. We-ness, us-ness, eplurbalus-usem,
y'all. Nobody cares, but we all feel your pain.
Still,
waiting is, is all we made sense of,
so far
,
but nexts are super-positioning as we speak,
think,
write-read, right (and the feeling of asking per
mission-- like is this thing broken --- but no
it worked) right.
Wedom, rhymes, in rhymnals.
Freedom wisdom dom dom
doh minion!
How happy could you be if dying, the act,
you all dread it; but ever,
the idea, ever.
think death's sting is ever lasting?
Once again, ditty dumm dum ditty
when was ever was? Was ever always
pain, no shred of a strange charm
to take the pain away?
Pain, you imagine evermore or nevermore,
either you imagine one
or the other. Ever is a long time to imagine being happy, and though, although, actually,
ever is in progress as,
dammed definition rule. Who agreed to these
logos therapists
redeeming idle words that stink of chaos as
extreme as ours, here,
in our bubble of being, imagining we
effect
this or that, by taking thought,
a mere qubit past the
tip of your tongue.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
You ask me questions,
as if your curiosity itself entitled you to the answers.
Secrets,
which in the simple act of their existence engender in us a fierce protectiveness;
We want to shelter them.
answers,
which before you no one even knew to ask for.
“Do I think you’ll judge me for them?”
you ask.
And of course
of course I do.
But,
how could that be it?
Your curiosity doesn’t earn you the right of entry.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 8:32 PM UTC
Euphrosyne: You can just stay here
And if I give you the white strips
You can just lay down
And use the white strips
And by the time they release you
Your teeth will look so good
I mean no offense but
You’d be using you’re time wisely.
They will look so
Much better.
Here, I have two boxes.
Aglaea: I think there’s yoga too
You can really firm up doing that
I really think you should stay and
Take the yoga
I’m serious.
You can also journal
And do color therapy
I know you know your colors
Obviously!
So you should think about
Sharing what you know
With the less
Fortunate
It shows
Gratitude
And I know that you’re Grateful.
Thalia: While you’re here we’ll get you all
New stuff
I know this guy
And he can do it
He’ll redo your whole place
And I bet it could be an editorial
And you need flowers.
We’ve got to get that sorted
Why don’t you do a vision board?
There are
Magazines here right?
You can use them. Well some of them.
Vogue maybe? They do have Vogue right?
And when you’re out we’ll
Deal with the hair and stuff like that.
In the meantime
Find out if there’s a manicurist in here.
You feet are busted.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
Here where prison is a place we call MountJoy
A young manboy just released
Shoots pool with plastic blue
Rosary beads
And fresh tattoo
And eyes on me
Runs his hand along his hard body
Says you see it done me good
Embraces everyone he meets
He knows he’s gonna keep
With this discipline
He knows that he can be
Anything he wants to be
Oh yes
Anyone he wants to be
Loving father
Good
Good son
Puppy, shark
Rolled into one
He has a story
Lessons learned
And a new hard body
All hard earned
Feels the tides inside him sing
The tears , the blood
Psychiatry
The library
Emotions men pretend to hide
It all comes out
In the world
On the inside
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
_To Jess_
The heat, the humidity,
And the bright blankness of the sky.
Handicapped by fear, not darkness.
Shaken, yet their bodies vigilant.
Bold crimson seared through the flesh
Like fresh sin bled into it.
A conspicuous scarlet letter.
I was a public display, a warning to all.
An audience of whispers whirled before me,
But I did not waver like they did.
Cross after cross, crisis after crisis,
Crucifixion made hands sandpaper dry.
My sentence was final. A full stop.
I danced with deadly weight.
I was hell itself. I had walked through fire.
My skin marked unforgiving constellations.
So what was that little light of yours,
To a shell dead inside?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 1:31 AM UTC
We danced, the cognate vessels
Nested in walls &
Cowered in blood
We buried love deep into
Beating flesh &
Writhed In Utero
We emptied veins of reason
Laid in torment &
Seceded in white gowns
We--Empiric experiments
We--Deficient devices
We--Thrashing threadbare
We--Womb
We--Woman
--
c
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
The wisdom and legacy of certain people who have gone before
is appreciated by the literature or institution we know them for.
_________________
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 7:11 PM UTC
We are not the personal property
Of some person who proposed
As always I oppose
The subjugation of our identity
In pursuit of marital bliss
This institution does not fix ****
It just repackages old ideas
In modern consumerism
In love I am not yours
And you are not mine
But I am not blind
To the stunning visage
The gift of your existence
I just don’t think real love
Requires ancient legal and religious
Assistance
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
When I finally go to therapy
and I've spilled out my brain
when they've cured of my heresy
and I'm no longer insane
will I still be a poet?
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
He was the ‘revealer of light’
Oracles he read, forecasted future,
Time moved, rustic life stood still
"Look back and see, there is change."
There’s no trial left
The deity acquired the ****** body.
Predictions are vague, he cried in pain
And he danced to his unshakable faith.
The God revealed!
The divine and man in a union of its own,
Patrons wept and asked for blessings.
Serpent’s crown over God’s head-
Shone in the dark light, his golden breast
And pointed teeth, sharp as arrows-
Pierced the patrons, they collapsed in devotion.
The dead hero arose with Godliness
He is God, his blood is divine.
There is change, there is change!
The drums arose and it stroke bold,
Patrons cried in religious zeal
The God plunged himself into the bonfire
He reincarnated.
Born again to die again! Born again to die again!
There is no change! There is no change!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
Will the Baul ever quit his search
Singing all through the-
Deserted land, ektara a trail of his
Existence walked him with no promises.
Will He ever listen to their bald cries?
To His realm they say beyond the blues,
Life awaits out of the tableau of massacres.
The world of assumptions tampered
By a philosopher’s fairy tale decides
Birth, death, rebirth, curse and richness?
The blind light is biting his body, heart & soul
He still needs it, his poppy tears.
The system needs it to tear him open,
His body, heart and soul in vain.
Music of the Baul has no destination
Still the voyage is essential.
Ektara has to walk with him, all through
The barren lands, villages and futility.
There’s no end to his search!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
The Academic World, it would seem,
hasn't so much to do now with Philosophy
as with Sociology, Economics, and Dogma.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Swapping astrology puzzle pieces
Stitching, patch working like cartoons writing typwriters
How many holes can I fit into my ear, can fix self brand new
I can sew
when is drunk wants the toilet to be a female therapist
done with psychologists
feel benzo anymore
taste narco anymore
Psychotropic **** arounds, ******* around with their sandy chalk trysyclo
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
My mother gathered me on her knee
and oh the stories i would hear
“The prince slay’d the beast his eyes white
and strained, his inevitable end was near”
“The fair damsel had long golden hair
her face as pale as snow.
The prince took home the beautiful maid”
of course knighthood would be bestowed.
They would wander the soft green hills together
wanting soon to be wed,
They softly reached the large wooden door
And drank from the pool of red.
Oh how merry they’d seem as man and wife
with his dark hair and her light skin.
Mother closed the book, the light turned off
and my slumber enclosed within.
I wandered the soft green hills alone
recalling a story once told
Of princes and dragons with golden flare
my mind once easy to mould.
Dead sheep from a wolf’s mouth i pass
the preacher stood in my midst
i walked right by, not a word to spare
his white strained eyes i did resist.
As i passed the church where grass once grew
dark graves, and candle lit light
but not a glance i threw to its golden prince
not awed in it’s holy sight.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Seagull on rotting planks, bouy bells ding to fog and driftwood.
A culling fire exploits the docking shire.
Filled with chlorine shards, legs caught in the clap-traps.
Friar palms glisten,
Rage responds with frisson.
Clear view over water.
Feel your arms relax and slip onto your back while the culling fire attacks.
Bulbous deadening brain chimes
As the eyes slide down to your omission crimes.
Leave me alone in my despondent company.
Don't push the matter further let communication fail to nurture.
A warm breeze carries me
like a floating portrait towards unreal scented meats.
I'm here now, alone in the corner,
The greatest intimacy with the static patterns on the carpeted flooring. The king of this corner is the odor of plank seating and flowery detergent in this lonely corridor fluorescent light-bulb poles and old grain floorboards.
Now the returning shards of panic to uncelibate strangers drive me up, far, deep in my own ribcage to something wholly non-organic.
Time to clock-in, time to check out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
I am working on freedom
But it's a work in progress
As much as I try and convince myself
I know I'm not ready. Not just yet.
To take responsibility,
For my safety and health,
To pick up a fork and keep down its wealth.
To prepare myself a meal
To allow myself to heal.
To put down a razor and use a different technique
Maybe one day,
But at present I am weak.
To walk innocently
Not compulsively.
To tackle negative thoughts in a productive fashion
One day will be the case
When I have the compassion.
To love myself like I do you,
Will take a long time to do.
To allow myself to make,
An error, a mistake
Without having to dance with my self defeating thoughts
I'm not quite out of those courts.
I am working on freedom
But it's a work in progress.
One day ill be ready. Just not yet.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Write me a meal plan in bright red pain
And tell me this is the answer to all my problems again
Force down a tube through my nose and into my stomach
And watch as I flummox out of control
Fill this gaping hole inside of me
With drugs and sedation
Numb out pain and realisation
Force feed me promises and a smile
Only to regress back in a while.
Fill these cracks
With temporary fixtures
Concoctions of pills and other mixtures.
Treat me with CBT and psychotherapy
Tell me one day ill be free
And maybe if you say it enough times
Ill start to believe it
As much as you say you do.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC