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Sebastian Macias Mar 2017
We all should be in the company
Of beauty, of all kinds
Women are art in the form of beings
Those filled with fire,
With a soul that burns and burns
The ones who turn into music
Those who paint in dreams
Till the sun comes up
Telling stories with their movement
Dancing to the sound of the wind
Beauty & intelligence & the love of life
All in one, laying on the sand
Feeding on the wonders of the world
Capturing passion through the eyes
As the water floats over their skin
Sing to me, sing to me
A.
SEROTONIN FIX FOR YOUR AESTHETICS

B.
WHAT'S PAST IS MOMENTARY,
THE PRESENT IS ETERNITY

C.
ALL IS DUST

D.
PERSPECTIVE RENDERS ALL

E.
THAT ELYSIAN APERTURE DARKENS IN TOTAL RECKONING

F.
PERPETUAL CONTINUUM

G.
LOST IN AN OCTOBER DESCENT

H.
THE SOUL DOES ROAM

I.
EXCEED INTROSPECTION, RECEIVE INTENTION

J.
REAL MEMORY, SURREAL THEME

K.
FOLLOW THY HEATHEN DIRECTIVE (TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH AND) ON TO EXALTATION

L.
THE MATRIX HAS YOU

M.
GLITCHED HISTORY

N.
LET THE SUBTLE WORD SOAR

O.
YOU BROKE ME THOROUGHLY

P.
WAITING ALONE ON THIS SATELLITE

Q.
SHATTER THE SKY

R.
JUDGE WITH AS MANY ASPECTS IN MIND

S.
EMPATHY IS DIVINITY

T.
THIEVIUS RICTUS DEVILISH GENTILITY

U.
ADVENTURE WAS NEVER A CRIME

V.
CONTEXT IS ALL THAT EVER IS

W.
KNOW THY DRUG/KNOWLEDGE IS DOPE

X.
AZURE HAZE OF SUMMER VIBRANCY

Y.
MESCALITO TORNADO ON DESERT SANDS

Z.
DOOMSDAY KISS
{[UPPER-CASE](OBJECTIVE)}
Afia Sep 2018
I'm sorry
If I woke you up last night
My pen told me secrets in whispers
And I carved scars and tales
Of silly incantations and
old fallen trees
Of silver days in summer breeze
and tattered amber sundresses
Of apple bites and ripe grapes
near the broken glass on the carpet; they decayed
Ashes danced on my lips; sculpting poems on my skin
and flicking cigarette on my wounds
Smudged mascara and dulcet memories
Leather fabricated journals of vintage times
hiding crisp carcasses of yellow daises
Euphonious chortles and
early morning smiles
Forgotten tea leaves in the teapot
and ****** bread turning cold
Sun rays, like gold dust, sparkling in the air
Through the tall trees of a forest
hanging on the clouds in despair
First day of Spring, magical it is
like a caterpillar's fate
Silky cocoon, shiny chrysalis,
emerging out as a butterfly
Leaving as old and embracing the new
Igniting the sky over my purple roof
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
It was a drive-by versing
A poem invasion
An act of reprehensible aesthetics
Unmitigated form and passion
Premeditated meter
Alliteration
Aggravated by both rhythm
And rhyme

It was a drive-by versing
A poem incursion
A wilding of fact and fantasy

By all accounts
A Declaration of Words
.
When my home town made it illegal for singers and performers to freely work the streets there was a protest rally. I read this poem from the courthouse steps with bullhorn in hand.
1
Even the scene I was making was making a scene:
Rosencrantzandguildensternaredeadmachine.
2
I've been freed by friendlessness, so why do old pals
embitter w/ velleity a reunion can still rouse?
3
It's just I'm so swizzed by reading trueselfbydates.
Shawl, who is also called Pall; runagate who is also prostrate.
4
To the bull's eye, the hawkeye is palpable, tangible, felt
To the hawkeye, the bull's eye is palpable, tangible, felt.
5
Phone went. Atonement? Opponent. Alone meant
renewal of the same old selfentering entertainment.
6
Narcissistic conception: a privately bred clone
'tis my duty to bully, torture earnestly. One does one's own.
7
British Ionists don't even understand Zirony.
But I wish I was as simple as just contradictory.
8
Tragready? Incipit tragoedia: travesties hurt.
Like seeing my Riot Grrl swiothrrt in a 'Travis' tshirt.
9
Trillions killed during filming, fastforwarded orchids.
Cast of inexpendable heart oscitation deleted.
10
To einsof soft life on the air, we're lost. In the sour feast,
50 years' service is a ****** on the mantlepiece.
11
*******, mon semblance! Goose scry to the scaly
Torygraph; Presidented Gein; masSACREDad (God's Mochrie).
12
It takes CITV & CBBC & pre-DWP DSS & pre-DSS
DHSS to raise a child, not a Doubting Momus.
13
Dreamflounder, dreamfloater, dreambounder in a dreamboater.
English country Capgras bros. of a stranger in  an oater.
14
Nil admirari, ennui, omnui, zennui, nitchevo.
Yet buckaroo Love's hopingpong lives out my spermself's FOMO.
15
I foamed at the month, Lysember, annually,
for flavour of the mouth should be Oxyjanuary.
16
Sandwich artists, stationary bloggers & ancient astronaut
theorists all walked Jackonoryology in school reports.
17
'Sweirdly emasculating, like a tall grandmother,
how I cannot poetsplain the future or its lovers.
18
1,000 albino bishybarnabees rorschach the tragic
lantern: swarm th'only pattern of fatback TV static.
19
Negress of the World dreams of unio Mr.Car
in the cave of charades that's shrine to an umbra.
20
Afflatic calculus of tragic trajectories, romantic ratios:
lyricalgebra. Show my working: Statement of Aesthetics, Rothko.
21
Song of alien vitalism, Neanderthal Jesse Garon.
Prosody fit for Methuselated muse, Struldbrugg paean.
22
How clean is your dream disqualidayhome celebrikitchen
bug in **** conscience, Carol Vorderline? Pigpen's plugin.
23
Jack of Shapes, Jack of Ages, Jack of Doors, Jack of Cues.
Best of all possible Lords to follow? Serendipitous debuts.
24
The Devil writhes a kiddiefiddlin' schtick.
The Devil is a devout Catholic.
25
Pincered zen selfsparta builtsitting in what it's from:
cogito keeping its damnable cheek above fatsam & fleshsam.
26
I feel it so intensely: irony of ironies when I don't care.
Selffulfulling jelly w/ nothing to fear but fears nothing hears.
27
Experienshit, differenshit, definitely still ****, diffranchiser
of scheisser. Choken record: wist zither, aubade nebuliser.
28
You pick up. Seashellsussurus of a radioed purlieu.
Your crepitant crelp, monastic by virtue of ***** flu.
29
Bellybutton ash/blue & green dahlia: inner & outer bull
of bull's eye anthropocentrism. Both can & can't be too careful.
30
Hawkeye Bennu or other siderolite's solipsism
cuts short my nut cutlet nuncheon: absurdissimum prism.
what we fear as death is just
decor.
victorian, french country, industrial,
rustic;
doesn't matter.
the bones are the same.
some people expire smiling in
neon pink plastic lawnchairs
or pierce the veil ******* themselves on dove grey french provincial settees from the 18th century.

we have numbed ourselves in our
endless pursuit of complexity;
walked off the precipice of that
final ecstatic unraveling
while wide-eyed and trembling
at the sight of aesthetics,
as cheap as they are fleeting.

we must garder à l'esprit that it all burns to ash, singular in characteristic, that is scattered by winds indifferent to any distinguishable feature in the
many beliefs twisted into the teeth
of sleeping behemoths dreaming of feasts they had yet awakened to.

it, what we fear, is shapeless.
the absence of all accumulated
delusion, confusion, or fluid lucidity.
ancient.
a non-locality that is the total
sum of the All collapsing in on
it's most basic components
also collapsing in on...elsewhere?

i'm done.
please, come and sit.

tell me how you like your tea?
Marla May 20
I lived amongst the pompous and ***
As their faces grew stranger,
and our world-
More deranged.
The glitz and glamour
Of our chic elite
Was just an aura of style
In a time of lackluster aesthetics.
It was easier to stand out then,
Now people have to bend over backwards
Simply to get a fair wage.
A lot has changed these great many years...
All I can do now is roll with the punches,
Drink my ***,
And yearn for it all in
A Moonlight Serenade.
Sebastian Macias Dec 2017
Give me those people who enjoy
Sharing new music
They find when soul searchin'
Give me those who enjoy
The long bus rides in the morning
Or trains into the evening
As they go deep into the city
Those who take that left hook
From the bright sun to the face
Smiling, because they feel alive
Those who do not see mere objects
But those who see art on the walls
Each step another beat
Soaking the aesthetics of their society
Soaking in the change in their life
I need these people like
The monks need their temples
Out in the mountains, pure and free
I need these people like
A child needs his mothers warmth
So share this glass with me
Bring over your records my friend
Let's cook and **** and sing
To the beauty in the sky so enriched!
It's life we need, living to be
RuiSJ Mar 12
Just a moment, heart;
Breathe, beat and bleed.
Yet never die.
Let you be not even the last one to say goodbye.

Halt! Mind;
Recurring scenes from the harsh reality,
Need not to be played.
That's ****** and it isn't something to be paid.

Store every memory of kindred love.
Withhold each recollection of bothered romance.
For two may be different,
Yet them will be always transparent.

So pulsating heart and wandering mind,
There will be foolish butterflies in love;
As well as rusted knives.
But let not its aesthetics and affliction rive both of you apart.
Softly Spoken Apr 16
If in this infinity of people
Something tuned to my existence
Is astonishing in nature
How do I reconcile this being
How do I integrate my heart
With yours so as not to tread on this wisdom
With all your light
Creativity and hard won insights to self
The heaviness I feel at attacks
On one so present with experience
And by nature such depth reveals itself
Slowly
Touch points and connection
Art, architecture and aesthetics
I feel at points, touched with the recollection
Of the nights ardent caresses
Of its wit, and whispers
Of its easy smiles
Of its lack of duress
Of your scent
The weight of your gaze
As heavy as lead moving through me
Fireflies and electricity
You’re the butterfly on my shoulder
The taste of whisky on my lips
The fingers curled around mine
I see infinity in the gold of your eyes
As we walk through our kiez
I’ll walk life with you
This realness is so easy
So free
But for now, I float with memory
Maybe my muse has shapeshifted...
Emma Katka Mar 22
talking ****
about who's the most authentic
overly obsessed
with aesthetics
only interested
in what someone can offer them
only interested
in what they can gain
it's all the **** same
and I'm so ******* bored
been here so many times before
give me the honest ****
make me almost afraid of it
do no harm but take no ****
that's my aesthetic
but my ego gets in the way too
my shame gets me in trouble
gives me these moody ******* blues
can't help but bring it out on you sometimes
and I say **** I don't mean
I'm a hypocrite cause I just wanna feel seen
and heard
like everyone else
imposter syndrome makes me feel pathetic
what the **** even is aesthetic
just roll with it
get the **** over it
almat011 Feb 18
How amazingly beautiful is the star brilliance of your amazing dark skin, regal skin color, for women it goes more than anything in the world, it decorates them as the most valuable decoration in the world, more expensive and more luxurious than it is in the world, this amazing color poetizes and praises their divine beauty. How sweet and gentle is its color, how beautifully it glitters in the light showing all indescribable beauty, all these beautiful overflows of skin tones are so beautiful as the brilliance of millions of diamonds, so beautiful, it is cosmically beautiful, it is extraterrestrial beauty, higher aesthetics, as if priceless painting or through It is a beautiful sculpture personifying sensual femininity. You are perfect no doubt, you are a beautiful flower of love, an eternal flame of magical passion. In your figure so much hot playful cat's grace of a lioness, like a dance, as an unforgettable melody of love, a relationship with you is the most romantic movie in the world.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Cece Sep 2018
Everyone says it's not poetry unless it's got rhyme.
Well I wouldn't buy that for a dime.
My brain's a giant mess,
why would i try to make what I say any less?
Organization and aesthetics, you say?
well ***** that, anyway.

Coffee shops.
Lemon drops.
Those rhyme!
You'll see what i do with those in time.
Or maybe not;
I've already done a lot.

All this irony's made my brain jello,
so it's time to say hello
(to the end of this poem).
I'm crying it's study hall and i'm bored as fuckkkk so you get this weird thing
A poem about the romanticizing of mental illnesses

When the silver makes it red
Which later turns to white
Paintings and writings on skin
Instead of a canvas
Make it a clear message
And not a piece of art

A rope is not a chain
Laid as jewelry around a neck
But a permanent idea
To a temporarily situation

The restricting voice in a head
Would by some be described as a best friend
A soulmate, a “she knows best”
However, that voice is not telling the truth

Shaking hands and panic attacks
Are not cute yet they are real
And black clouds are not even close
To aesthetics or what heaven even looks like

It’s not always the straight lines on an upper arm
Nor the blade, the bridge, the letter
A gun cannot shoot away the darkness in the lighten crowd
Or the trembling hands taking the pills
With a mind that loses itself

Mental illnesses have multiple faces
So, don’t get stuck with the idea
Of only one of them
Before it’s too late to save someone’s life
By changing your own perspective
Cece Feb 8
The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.

The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.

The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.

The sunshine girls with bright grins and  kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.
Haifsa Oct 2018
Fading sunlight in the horizon
Falling leaves in breezy autumn
While nature paves way for hope
I wish this self to be lost and forgotten
Similar to tides, uncontrolled and heightened
A lone wolf yowling at her sight
Adjoined by the constant urge to be isolated
Fervent to cut loose the rope of gloom
Like a lost traveler in search of dwelling
A barren land thirsty for rain
Tired of this skin and mind
To devastation this heart is intertwined
What is lost darkens my soul
Your voice and memories cut deep through
Your brown hair blowing in wind
Hazel eyes sparkling in the sun
Echoes of your footsteps,
Deepness of your voice
Still surrounded by your existence
Harmed and scarred, I want to leave
Fragile lives and untamed hearts
Filled with fiery of desert storm
I want to run, away from your hue
Before I turn into an emotional massacre
Did I really deserve? Did you really want?
Let the leaves of our memory fall
And the blossoming florets wilt
Clinging to hope with intemperate self
Permit yourself to grow vines by own
Ashen and burnt, bury us in ground
Let youraelf grow either as roses or thorns
Amongst all this I realize what Rumi said
Nostalgia is a powerful witch indeed.
To new beginnings and old life, memories i have made and all the people i have loved, when the decision of moving on hits you feel nostalgic, a little hope that your past could have been better dies hard

— The End —