#ne
I am not a creator:
nope.
an amalgamator,
consolidator, a sifter,
a synthesizer, combinator,
employer of words
collect, analyze, repair, modify,
discern the overlapping, intersecting rhythms, the tools,
Drip from my lips, fall from of my grip, from my eyes, salty drip,
and I nail them to my bones,
herein lies my originality....
The millions upon millions of permutations combinations and iterations
That resolved themselves from the madness of my mind, are then attached to my living bones, inseparable, and my living mark of once existence
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 2:45 PM UTC
~for old poets every where
I'm a short burst deep sleeper,
the woman is a restless wild eyed story telling schemer~dreamer, who drives at night
in fourth gear,
shaking the bed,
with dreams gone wild,
crazed & crazy intermixed stories unhinged but always
real life related
most by morn forgotten,
'cept for the truly bizarre,
where scraps of unbridled unbelievable
remain for head shaking disbelieving
i sleep in clumps,
four hour sessions and thus oft
bear witness to her
charcoal activated dream states,
where physical reality intersperses,
i n t e r m i n g l e s
with her dream life,
when she wrestles with an
unreal
dreamed restlessness;
my fingers find an exposed
body part, arm, shoulder, tummy,
and steady massage a message
from my fingertips to her
brain,
mantra: it's ok, it's alright,
and return her to the safety
of a deeper sleeper,
so the brain can do its work,
washing away the unrefined,
needy for distilling,
overnight cleansing,
of unwanted memories
which generally works
in the thorny morny morning
she gets a questionnaire
and 9/10,
has no recollection collection,
my magic prophylactic
fingertips, each tipped with
a inked smiley face,
look up at me,
know-it-alls,
smirking contentedly,
"our work is done here!"
Nay, May 25
2025
writ by starlight
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 3:07 AM UTC
A year ago, I was begging for him to love me, to remember the love he held for me.
That I was finally done figuring myself out after I repeatedly told him that it was time I desperately needed.
God did I love him so much, so much that it still hurts thinking about it.
I would have done anything for him, ignored everyone if that’s what he wanted.
I would’ve moved mountains for him, I would’ve lost myself entirely if it meant that I got to be with him.
He never wanted that for me, he wanted me to be whole and my own person, he wanted me to love myself first.
I didn’t understand it at first.
I was angry and heartbroken that he didn’t want me to love and put him first.
It was then, after it god **** near destroyed me when I realized what he meant.
He wants me to happy, to take care of myself and my son.
He wants only the best for me and that’s when I realize that he will always love me, from afar.
We will most likely never be together again but he still hopes and wishes that I will be okay no matter what.
We don’t talk anymore but all I can hope is that he is doing okay and that he will find himself the way I have.
That he will never have to wonder if I still hold love for him in my heart because I will always.
He’s been my safety blanket in a time of need and I hope that if this ever comes across him one day, that I will gladly be his safety blanket.
Thank you, thank you Nelson, for the nurturing care you’ve given me even if I didn’t want it at times.
I will always love you, after all, you’ll always be my first true love.
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 5:40 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
दावज्ला बेरहानि सौलायनायाव
रिंखांनाय सोदोब
आं खोनाना नायहरो
अब्ला मानैबो
जाहाबलांबायमोन आरो मेंग्लिबायमोन
अब्लाबो उनथाया
सौलायनायानो सौलायनाय
बेबो जेना बैबो जेना
आंनि गोसोआसो दावथ्रोद लांफायो
बिखाया सोदोब होयो
मिनिनो लुबैयो
मिनियोबो
नाथाय बे मिनिनाया
नङा गोसोनि दरखं खेंब्लाना मिनिसारनाय
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:10 AM UTC
Like the mysterious ocean
A life without a price
The water a potion,
Like evil, entice
When stripped of emotion
To veins they splice
The mindless devotion
Hearts made of ice
Ingrown commotion
Stuck in their vice
Captain Nemo who thought,
The truth.
And Fontaneda who sought,
The fountain of youth
Like moths to a flame
Envisioned
The same
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
It is the time of celebration
for the Good health of our guest!
They arrive at our village a week back,
Now they are roaming around
Over the sprawling wetland and grass land
With joy and shindig,
Their call makes everything melodic and wonderful!
Everyone is happy
They said that
“Visit of the guest indicates there
will be good weather in next summer” !
So they will celebrate for the good health of honey guest
in next full moon night
though God’s own way !
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Je ne sais quoi
Yeah,
she don't got it no more.
They aborted it from her
when they sold her the
the false perfection elixir
that soul'd her out
Hook, line, and sink her
gut her,
fillet her.
Ctrl-alt-del the fetus,
the sacrifice of the inner-child.
Molested into the machinery of Moloch
He butchered
the absolute heart
of the poem of life
out of her body.
She stands naked
goddess-less
kicked into the prison pit
of existence
Now she's like everybody.
She's nobody.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC