#pathos
Nothing is real
Compact disk simulator
When you first peeled back the seal
Like Edward the eighth abdicating
Born into money emulator
**** it the colour schemes phthalo green
I’ll arrange it with one of my team
Skin to skin contact and small plates
I’ll eat anything if I don’t have to wait
Brand activation open bar
I hate to be the bearer of bad news
No one wants to spend time with you
Least I get quality time with my bestie
Treat yourself to a matcha
**** isn’t that grassy?
Norman Bates soul
Take a look at that chassis
Nobody got a body like you lassie
Maybe pop a cork and pretend we’re classy.
Are you gonna let me trauma dump?
It’s the new form of public indecency
You like visiting beautiful places
I like to visit beautiful people
Difference is the beauty comes to me
You gotta fly to find your beauty spot
I gotta look in the mirror to see what’s hot
Gonna play Winehouse in the White House
Back to black while you wear a white blouse
Shipwrecked in love I’m your lighthouse
Projecting light so you don’t run aground
Viking women from Finland are sound
The smallest risk of splatter I’ve ever experienced
Floating through the ether all mysterious
Several beautiful creatures
Least I get quality time with my bestie
Popularity has never been such a singularity
When you’re all alone in your vulgarity
Banking all your troubles for prosperity
Don’t you know home is the only charity?
Are you gonna let me trauma dump?
It’s the new form of public indecency
You like visiting beautiful places
I like to visit the most beautiful people
Like we’re on the front cover
Of a magazine baby
I wouldn’t mind the change eh?
Oct 24, 2025
Oct 24, 2025 at 12:39 AM UTC
It is not somewhere over the Rainbow
Beyond Mother's breath or
In the devices of ancient
Or modern hands bereft
We touch it in our pathos
And empathy from
Time to time
Through a shallow fading
Gravel bed
Filtering a bitter water table perhaps
Whilst the tender leaf of spring
Feels it
In the autumn of unconditional
Acceptance of the inevitable
Morning frost
Cold relentless rains
And colourful leaves
falling to their death
In beauty
So far removed from our bipedal Posturing
And upright positioning at the Computer
Desk knowing there is no mystery here
No wild cry in the night
Only electronic and organic
Bleeps and drones and
Aw! there… I heard it again
A lost chord
A missing link
That the wild
Creatures understand
Of what we sometimes feel nearer in our shared limbic
Brain seldom penetrated through
Our domineering eyes planted Firmly in front
Of the gray dross from an eternal Fire
We spend our given time on
This planet trying to douse when The rest
Of creation knows the need for Its
Purification and leaps willingly Into its
All-consuming heart as we
Live in fear of the unknown
And of fear itself
Keeping us estranged from the Cosmic mysterium which Provokes us to awaken
To the wondrous eternal
Which will
Alter our deluded consciousness
To see what has been seen Through the
Unknown eons to help us take to The fire
We only catch a whiff of in the Twilight
Of our hopes and selfless dreams
So we will rise through the
Dry brown leaves of our once Tender
Green vision of an ever-changing Universe
Which whispers louder and Louder in our darkness
Until we cease our chatter and
Learn to listen to the serene Silence
Of an eternal vibration Heightening
Morphing
Less organic much more
Ethereal
spiritual
Crawling further and further
From the pulse of the earth
As we shed thickened skin which
Once replaced thin soft Unprotected flesh
Needing protection from Extraneous
Sources to cover what should Have been
Eternally naked bare to the Elements
Not limited to a frail carcass Which
Will ultimately be left behind as We
Transform into our individual Eternal temples to
Join in worship with the rest of Creation
To be the living offering
At the foot of the
Eternal voice ineffable
Not waiting to be obeyed
In mass procession but
As individual as one spark Igniting
A plot of trees newly released as Mystery
Revealed ever so slightly in the Wake of
The burial of earthbound mind Steeped in
Temporal ancient tradition Fermented in
Oak casks which were made to Remain
And grow in their ****** state
As we hear distant yet distinct Whispers of
The origin of our human calling Above and beyond
Thoreau's distant drummer’s Near silent tremors of the
Most ancient rhythms Now mostly echoes as we
March to
And follow our own drummer
Leading the way back home
As we at times seem to distinctly
Hear original rhythm's calling
As we try so earnestly to
Respond like a dying sea
Longing to once again sway
To the beckoning moon
Often keeping in step
With our
Own inner drummer who
Is always trying to keep
Time by asking
"Are we prepared to give
Into what we will
Inevitably meet in the end?"
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 8:24 AM UTC
"A LIL SPACE."
Just spare me
a lil space in thy
heart. I swear
you wouldn't
know when I'd
occupy the whole
place, for I'd
spread my whole
love seeds all over
thy heart.
Cultivating various
numerous vine
that makes
life commodious.
Only just
you and I.
I'd make you
always feel like
yourself. By
yourself baby
it's all you
could making
mine yourself.
I know you'd
make a beautiful
world and it's
quite awesome
to live in
you as we lived
inon GOD.
You'd worship
mine God in
the alter.
We both did
say yes.
Your beautiful
mother shall
become mine mine
realist dad
did become your's.
And our love
will illuminate
the whole
world turned
into paradise,
till the last dying
days. Like
"The Dreamer
lad and the
dream lass"
or like
"Juliet and Romeo"
just you and I,
high on Cloud
cockoo land a
sphere of
reality because
my love is
true and real,
for its from
the bottom of
the heart
underneath my
soul poured
the water of
my love.
Streaming down
our hearts
forming one
ocean upon
which our
love--ship did
voyage through
lifetime on
that trip
earning our
dreams together.
#C9_fm
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 4:59 PM UTC
Brothers blood on your arms
Coward’s salt on your cheeks
Heavy head in your hands
With such weapons of war
No Greek bones should litter
These flooded dunes of Mars
And still, rouge stained boys clog
That one final river
Gather on the bank. See
The line of Troys that burn
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:30 AM UTC
She came from a broken home
She moved to New York to become an editor
He fled Belfast City to make his way as a fighter
After his brother was blown up in a car bombing
It was summertime when the ocean breeze
Climbs up the hills, flows through the fields into the trees.
He could see the harbour. He could see the city lights
The tall buildings, the millions of people
He was alone, lonely, alien, afraid.
Their paths intersected by mere chance
By the ball fields on the edge of town
Their eyes met each other
As a summer storm blew in over the field
The grey clouds rumbled
And rained down on them
They ran into the trees for cover
In their scant summer clothes.
Their heads turned slowly as their eyes met for a second time
The laughter started when he said the rain ruined his haircut
They embraced
They kissed
They made love in the rain
She took him back to her place and did it all over again
He moved into her apartment on the ugly side of town
They would talk about the state of things
The pandemics, the hysteria, the great writers
The music, the people they hated, the people they loved
They were at home with each other
One day he woke up to find
She had gone
And not left a single thing behind
No note, not even a goodbye
He never fought another fight
He drove around town for days chain smoking cigars
The ones she hated the smell of but told him he looked
He looked like a movie star when he smoked them
He went to the undertaker and asked if they did walk-ins.
He drove up the mountain
Where people dumped their garbage
He looked down the cliff to see the unwanted refuse.
“That’s me.” he said.
His body was never found
The undefeated fighter met his match.
She delivered the knockout punch.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 3:58 AM UTC
If my disappointment dressed in wrath,
It would rumble in hell-flames and chaos,
Reaching the gates of the seven heavens
Asking for justice with the blood of pathos.
All good feelings made out of nothing-
Just as the lightsome grab of a baby's hand,
Or either heavy as a smile, making compliment-
Shall be enclosed far away of the worldly hell of pathos.
Since, the heavenly drops of happiness
Are drunk up by stone hearted human greyogles,
Playing hazardous games with my rare happiness,
And leaving me in a chaos-like hellfire with my dear pathos.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:03 AM UTC
words tucked into child minds forming in the mold,
depeche mode, fashion wisdom
blooming in
starstruck lunacy of lost meaning
****** Airline driving Jet Blue
as a sign, you know we
rise and ask redemption
this instant
toiling with tools the psalmist dreamed
and all the first cantors sang
in genuine gentle
spirit of...
genius (n.)
late 14c.,
"tutelary or moral spirit"
who guides and governs
an individual through life,
from Latin genius
"guardian deity or spirit which watches over each person from birth; spirit, incarnation; wit, talent;"
also
"prophetic skill; the male spirit of a gens,"
originally
"generative power"
(or "inborn nature"),
from PIE *gen(e)-yo-,
from root *gene- "give birth, beget,"
with derivatives referring to procreation and familial and tribal groups.
Sense of
"characteristic disposition"
of a person is from 1580s.
Meaning
"person of natural intelligence or talent"
and that of "exalted natural mental ability"
are first recorded 1640s
and remaining in super position watching
until
we see we be agreed and symbiosis sets in
upto unto upon a time
stumbled into uttering urgent fervent
prayer, simple asking, what remains broken
what quest unmade, unmade imagined asif
this is life's book interpreting your
translation of reason into I'll go rythmic
waves rising from great notions stuck
in the mire at the bottom o' th'ocean
stirred up by trouble peace bringing in times of
see-change
settling in on of by bis more again or less
waiting is all suffer ever meant to mean,
mean men made each furrow seem
too hard to *** in final
throes of
terminal toil
debitum in praesenti, solvendum in praesenti
debt due now, paid. It is finished.
Good news
darkness consummatum
light
fashioned in the mode of our time
powered for ever by happy Sisyphus's
rock rolled up
rock rolled down
by grace of gravity being the law
reach out
ceive con re de ceive (if you know
what I mean, taken for granted)
praesentium tedium t'do doodle do
touch faith, fingers fail, toe-tippy reach
topple the tinker-toy tower where war once reigned
back ground Johnny Cash praisin' Dylan from the dead
out in the desert, just doin my time--
waitin' by a pile of Hopi
nilhili-pili rocks rolling no more
sitting still in rasta farian blank spaces
between the pieces of we
carried to now as you see. We are in this real,
as real angel messages
made magnificent in worth as
words
worth deeming worship's solventum
songs from the po et tu brutes, breakin' rocks
back down the line,
scarlet thread sewn tendon
anchored to my zen minded ped-dance
kick the liar from his throne,
claim it for my own, my pile of flocci nauci
meaninglessness of weightless worship
turned on, with a merest touch.
No flame,
no night. Words alone reign un fused, un frozen,
new mercies
rising in the sunshine of a rich man
with a satisfied mind,
as time rolls by.
Cohen told us there is a crack in everything,
that's how the life gets in
this bubblin ethosphere we offer
as a sacred secret shown in light of all we share.
Clap clapper in liberty's cracked bell.
Let us lieve well enough alone for the time,
being once rung, listen,
other bells ring still with that pathos we share
logically as mere words.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 1:38 PM UTC
The word I. The idea, ego. Me, relative to you.
I am, but you may not know that. May is your word here.
May be is all yours
to follow in the flow of
all that
anyman,
(wombed or un nevergoes unsaid some days,)
any among the lot o' ye, may be able to swim thru if
it don't get thick.
I, a-poli-gize, bow down, kau-tau, or no--
un appolo getic magic tech
I stand, sistere, my command,
in this realm, I command lies to stand in light and
I redeem the idle words from the ashes.
Okeh that's my job. I am not a messenger, I sweep.
When walls come down and chains are cut, it's amess.
I become the besom sweeping up the destruction.
--- why is any line after any line. sirius, you have to ask.
orthodox definitions serve as ample chains to hold any
child to the post where today's
sufficiency of evil squats
quotidianishit, day after day. I find such chains,
I cut them with the fruit of my lips,
shape-shifted to the sword,
from the stone,
you know the one...
then bing back to me through a google plex of porbables
fighting spelchek to go viral.
A blind me, I lied, and saw the light. Dumb luck.
And then, rather than, lie once more and say,
I can't believe this,
I am that sword, still be, and know.
eh.
I, the word,
I did it. I made a point and a word formed,
as a bubble might
under relative circumstances. I know, round and round.
If this were a game, this is a key. (ah, a secret here.)
if this were a game, and I were playing.
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 11:23 PM UTC
Gently you patted my cheek,
with a tenderness piquant,
not known hitherto to us both.
Those quivering long fingers
exude motherliness,I miss ever after,
my mom has gone to her last pilgrimage,
And I crave for at moments of pain intense.
From the layers of memory darkened
by distance,I recover that feeling,
to place you instantly at a level higher,
than that of a sultry lover to whom
desire than anything higher binds together.
In to my lackluster eyes, you peer,
see the ineptly hidden drop of tear,
in the corner shivering plaintively
before rolling down to lose forever,
it's in the memory of my mother,
who rhythmically tapped my back,
led me to the cozy cloud of sleep,
when outside raged the rain storm,
I now gather, to a women I owe
when, time after time she takes
another avatar, of my mother,
momentarily, at times,when earth slips,
from under the feet
unexpectedly.
You did see the storm raging
inside and the child looking for solace.
You hold me close to your *****
and I travel to a world gone by again
even when wolves howl refusing to sleep.
and let me doze off to wake up in another world!
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
I have a tendency.
A tendency not many think of
yet
they think of it all the time.
A tendency that,
will never die.
Even if it evokes that pain in me
in the blink of an eye.
This tendency festers,
like an infection
that’s
stopping my heart.
This tendency,
makes me feel everything
and nothing
at the exact same time.
This tendency is making me crazy
but
what if crazy wasn’t so bad?
My tendency
makes me hate myself
and love everything about me
for the exact same reason.
This tendency
can ruin my day.
But,
this tendency,
sits like a sack on my back
that I never want to lose.
Because
despite the straps digging into my sides,
this tendency
is why I cherish being alive.
this tendency,
I speak so poorly of
that I don’t want to leave me be
why
this tendency
is that I tend to love
so hopelessly
it’s the scariest part of me.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
I do not know a sadder song
Then a happy one remembered
Nary be a verse to long
That it can’t be shortened
Or dismembered
Summers, springs,
Falls, and winters
Cut to smithereens
Fading in our memories
Till only shards of notes remain
Lost
Until the true tune
Returns to us
The song recalled
Calls forth the tears
Turning memories to sadness
Knowing that we were once loved
But cannot get back there again
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 5:13 PM UTC
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.
You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.
Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.
There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.
No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.
You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.
And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC