Dylan Anthony Apr 2012

I live beyond morality, cloudy
Skies issue complaints, however
I hardly have the time.

I often catch myself
Staring at creatures.
Wondering where they
Wander, and why.

I want to fight dragons today.
I want to find a voice
That suits me. Grey skies
And frozen cranes, bother me.

The stone wet, and
Broken. Lifeless creatures
Can be neither evil nor
Wealthy.

Broken Binaries. Broken
Machines. What glues
Our heads to our
Bodies?

Is there a separation?

Voices
Walk down the hall and
Interrupt my view
Through the window.

Focusing again I see
Opaque. Unable to
Look past the glass.
Only up to it.

"mash myself into over analyzed bits and sociopathic pieces."
Amanda Goodness 

There's more than one way to turn two bodies
Into one.
Instead,
Fuck my soul till it's raw.
Fill me to the brim with your broken ego.
I'll dance my catastrophic tongue along your weak spot,
Your achilles heel.
Which, of course,
Is me breaking your ego.
I'll let you penetrate me with a silent stare,
Oh god,
Yes there.
Dive into my insecurities,
Call my bluff,
Put me on a pedestal,
Rigged to collapse into ruins.
I like when you push me.
Don't break me,
Ecstasy comes when I break myself,
Smash myself into over analyzed bits and sociopathic pieces.
Faster.
Harder.
Make it harder for me to figure you out,
Give me a challenge.
Fuck yes,
I love a challenge.
Reading an open book is easy,
Picking up a locked journel off an abandoned bookshelf,
Now that pushes me over the edge.
Let's change into a more comfortable position,
Where you ramble an incoherent childhood stories,
And I retort loudly in my native language,
And you storm off because no one is right,
And no one is wrong.
And you get off on the point that there is no point.
Just build it up.
More.
Fuck.
FUCK.
More.
Touch my mind.
Don't touch my heart,
No stop.
Yes there.
A little more.



Dzięki.

"Words deliberately in sociopathic array"
Tammy M Darby 

On black keys
Tip- tapping away
Words deliberately in sociopathic array
Chuckling
Smiling
With satisfaction
Eyes agleam
Thoughts rambling
Far and away

Each letter vibrates with life
The word smiths release
So the clicking and typing
Unending hollow sounds
Never cease

As the combinations
Of adverbs and conjunctions
Overpowering
Promotes the disease
Hypnotizing
Calling in low tones
To the mad poet

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),

Tammy M Darby

David Barr Feb 2014

Your pre-frontal cortex is delectably oral amidst this maze of psychological violence.
Oh, mistress of certain uncertainty, I cannot articulate the essence of ontology, as human language is inadequate. But, you truly capture the flow of irregularity in this mass mockery of societal fabric.
Therefore, I simply appeal to our mutual and primitive impulses. Let us be rough, despite the misguided assumptions of those who claim to have affiliation.
I like old school choppers, because they are not polished.

"sociopathic creatures"
F White 

I sit by myself
My feet fit in the space
behind the rows
my boots feeling
the stick of leftover
pop
residue of someone else's
night out.
when the blue and black
of this giant space
comes up and the
sound invades the air
around my shoulders
I settle
and let the thinness
of fake light
triumphant music
and the emotions
of beautiful
sociopathic creatures
fix and fill
the holes and
crannies in
the road of
my lonesome
soul.

Copyright FHW, 2011
"Sociopathic disaster,"
tread 

Just as the pyramids would,
In the deserts of Cairo,
Snow-capped mountains gleam distant,
As if Kings on the Main.

This distance complete,
Through the eyes of the beholder,
As from a sea-sided office,
We with watch with wonder lust.

Bright streetlights,
And red lights, and green lights,
And stop signs,
As decadent name-change,
Perceives as if older,
As bigger, as bolder.

Musicians and artists,
Poets and Marxists,
Authors and boxers,
All convene to sing songs,
As egalitarianism,
Sings us a calm, blinded lullaby,
As the idea to be grasped,
In this young mind of mine.

They call this no small town,
In which not one arcade resides;
Gun crime is never,
In percent, as we ride,
A wave of communal,
Small-town "world peace,"
We'll take some money,
Off the governments lease.

In a sense we are distant,
Different, contesting,
A world which conforms,
As if all can and will be,
A slave to a master,
Sociopathic disaster,
As we run faster and faster,
Away from that stream.

We are the masters of our fate,
As we rate the world's hate,
On a scale from 1 to 10.

We are secluded,
Yet unconfused, not diluted;
We are more aware of this world,
Than it is of itself.

We set the sidelines,
As guidelines to life,
As we watch with some bias,
As we remain neutral to strife.

We are the Power,
And we are the River,
Ripped from the main-stream,
We create; we are free.

Dedicated to my hometown of Powell River, British Columbia, Canada.
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