"allude" poems
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
The engine has built up a full head of steam.
I’d try to stop it, if I knew how.
The fires of industry must burn on somehow;
they tend to burn brightest when fuel is extreme.
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
When currents are surging, we shouldn’t allow
the jingoist fringe to swim in the mainstream.
I’d try to stop them, if I knew how.
Civility means more than I can avow,
but poems can only allude to a theme:
The downward momentum is clear to me now.
Each click of a mouse that shouts holier than thou
is a cog in a treacherous clockmaker’s scheme.
I’d try to stop him, if I knew how.
We worshipped the circuit and forsook the plow
in search of a false technological dream.
Our downward momentum is clear to me now.
I’d try to stop us, if I knew how.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
There are many definitions of pride,
All in which, are perceived from a side,
Notable opinions indeed when we’re addressing the dogma that arise when mind project words that express one; wise,
However, it’s all contrary to me,
Pride isn’t something relating belief,
It can’t be put aside if it’s beyond side; choice/time,
Egoist defined when declined, rejoice inclined,
I can’t respond to a situation,
There’s no resolution when living unconditional and uncertain,
I am beyond interpretation,
I do not allude in illusions and wonder why they’re certain,
Abracadabra Hocus-Pocus...
Omm, “This State Farm jingle isn’t workin,”
AHP; “Magic”; Ouroboros,
Analytical Hierarchy Perspective on Serpent,
“They have power; They influence the course of events with supernatural forces”
That’s Magic?
The law of attraction; influencing life with thoughts; Quantum Mechanics, Force is,
Say “attract it,”
Demographics defining diplomatic, power be to the tree that’s aristocratic,
Problematic if geographic determines what’s democratic,
Tragic when ethnography constitutes what’s archetypal and habitual;
A classic ritual opposite of obsolete; of course bigotries automatic,
Bring back the art of holographic,
I’m leaning back like Crack if it’s dogmatic,
I do not understand how we understand species before intelligent and acknowledge intelligence like we never had it,
As if dyslexia was a natural condition; as if this ability was somehow previously hidden so with awareness became magic,
Freedom of speech,
“But I don’t like your words, sir”
Freedom to be,
“Those are not the clothes I prefer, sir”
Being discrete,
“He’s not in my position, he must concur”
Oh, What is believed?
They’re obligated to assumptions, so they infer most-
Too much pride will **** a man,
By picking a side he’ll lose a hand,
If using his pride he’s sure to win,
If losing his mind; insane a friend,
Clueless of time; he’ll never die,
Til P take a Ride, and replace his pride with another man’s.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
My Strongest, My Weakest
My strength where it be my weakness
My weakness, it seems to be my strength
Alone on a bench of thoughts
Pulling out memories as straws
******* out the moments so I don't feel numb again
Waiting for the sun to shine
At night I look for the brighest star
At home I wait for the hour of glory
I write futuristic promising romantic stories
Searching and digging into the pit of opportunity
Grinding and drilling so I can find what the world has for me
Is the rock a diamond uncovered?
Is the diamond a rock long discovered?
What good am I in a hopeless world?
How strong am I to be still standing?
I have been blinded by pride and reputation
The chances flew right past me
This was my weakness
An illusion which seemed to appear as my power
Only to allude me and send me to the depths of hunger
How do I survive in this incessant famine
My strongest, my weakest
Is my prowess both a strength and a weakness
Is my power a fist that concentrates my potential,
filters all doubts and confusion,
then send me back to a writer's rhythm?
For the muscle of me, what is love?
For the scars on my back, do tears set a heart free?
On my back are scars which smymbolize the pain
The pain caused by those who have turned their backs on me
The muscle of me a solidified lump of heated chemistry
Chemistry broke for the vision was divided
For one side a poetic love affair
Another a fling of **** and ego boost
Lies lie hidden in a black book of truce
The tears shower and the pain overshadows,
and the lies fly out and the book burns
Nothing left but hurt, resentment, hunger and thirst
A chance of love comes again and again I am underrated
Shots that succeed lack poise and weight
I levitate onto the pillars of loneliness
The trial gives me cold but also clarity
A fool never unless my heart learns to jump again and I,
I will set it free.
Is this a mere cry due to weakness?
Is it a last strike so I can find my strength again?
All is revealed and I slip into a stream
I am on the prowl once more and I will never be the same.
But soon I will find, the lines that divide
Strength and Weakness
And the balance therein
I am in it and I search for the limit... The limit within the dimensions of existence's summit.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:23 AM UTC
I walk the empty road of hurried days
the dark holds opportunities that the light burns through.
Nerves have been narcissistic
in that self-loathing battering
that I promised you I wouldn't commit to again.
is it different if you're a witness?
Hiding isn't part of the agenda,
if you could call irrationality an agenda.
here's to touching upon a few points in which I don't show all sides.
I'm nervous to talk to the people who make me happy
and I'm jaded to their presence,
because I'm a modern-day gatsby
with a touch of bukowski (or maybe a slam)
and all I want is for this romantic inside of me to give up on the struggle
and give in.
I want to let her form allude me because it's not important,
she just wants recognition for the fact that she has an education
and knows how to use it.
I'm just going to let my words smash onto the page, maybe edit
before a show, maybe not.
Probably go drink a beer on the local trail and stare at the back
yards of the wealthy and sharpie in an eye ball on the cement
brick on which I set my empty bottle for company, because
flowers don't get far in foam.
Nostalgia here we are again,
this time there's no search for meaning,
I know you completely and ever since we've met
you've refused to let go (somewhat of a curse, yet I love you).
If I want to let myself be free, then I have to let go of others judgement.
If maybe for a second I didn't think of what others thought about me
and I didn't think about them to occupy the empty space, then I would
truly return to the person I was before my self-esteem plummeted beneath
all that I knew to be right and wrong. Before it hurt to write my feelings
because of the fear that what I wrote wouldn't be good enough, or long enough,
no matter how many compliments came shooting through me.
"I forgot, you're bad at accepting compliments."
I don't want that to be true, I don't want to beat myself up
over the fact that someone else has great beauty simply
because I am blind of my own.
Self-love, here I come,
it'll help me live life without tangles.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
I scream
as unrealistic apprehensions
distort my perception.
A phenomenon!
Discretion dissection,
every line you
sing-
rings solely
of deception.
Complex and intricate-
a "homicidal contemplation."
A mathematical equation,
dividing every claim,
my undeniable calculation.
Allude confrontation,
as lying eyes recite,
despite self validation.
My fear, it-
dwells here,
amongst the impatient.
Perplexed and deranged,
I am your-
"recycled replacement."
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 12:15 PM UTC
When my height is matched only by my age,the sage told me, 'that I will have found an ecstasy so rare,that no one will ever, have ever been there.
I count the rings as if I am a tree
but ecstasy eludes me, as I knew it would.
I could have counted grains of sand and after,started on the rice or carved upon a cuckoos egg,something very nice,just to let the cuckoo know,that we know why she builds no nest.
I have festered long enough and boiled up in the glare of a staring midday sun,it's time and time has just begun to interest me,
never mind the ecstasy, that will come as surely as the night begets the day,one day my day will arrive in all its splendour.
This is the agenda that I look towards the sky and pray for,
a gender difference in her magnificence and I would bow before this maiden,laden as I am with all these wantings in my head.
I read once in a book,
that all it took was just a look and then we're trapped,wrapped inside her spider web,carried off and eaten in her silken bed,but I would like to try it anyway,come what may my day will run before the settings of another sun and I will taste that which is fun or I will die,
in contempt and contemptuous of my inconsistency,I allude again to my search for ecstasy and is it that my eyes or indeed my body fail me,when she hails me from her sanctuary?
and I see only what I want to see,
something that the sage had been careful not to tell me,
fruitless.
On the tree of evolution, I am just some insects ignorant secretion and as I wait for some predetermined 'who dares wins'completion
I count again the rings.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
it was a quarter past 11 when the silhouette of the
steam locomotive changed in its inertia, and i
was left standing in dense smoke attempting to connect
neurons to nerve impulses. my train was leaving and i
was not aboard.
the sprinting algorithm of my prior steps had come
to allude me and I am left pondering as to where
these moments had gone. As overextension of one's
arm defies the boiler pumping steam, it's thermal
radiation forcing me to become The Contortionist.
with chills stepping up my spine, taking residue in each
vertebra before ascending, crashing and descending, as
contact with hand and train is made, and relaxation comes
with it. i sense the gentle acceleration, as this safety net of relaxation
fades. my weakening muscles struggle to become satanists of physics
and momentum gained
is lost in equilibrium
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Snow's melted, and all she's got left is the cone,
the skeletal bone streets, where she was
yesterday once so Snowwhite pretty.
Mountainous mounds of **** from canine and human kind
allude to beasts that roamed these streets in nights gone by.
They thought their tracks and cigarettes butts were covered
in a cloak of snow, but sun can't wash away sin.
All she's got left is the grit, beneath fingernails, iron rails,
bitumen - Pech! - from clinging on too long to yesterday.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
You said there would be a next time
and in that moment I wondered if there wouldn't be
and there wasn't
is that my doing
or was it all inevitable
did there have to be a next time
that wouldn't occur
it was never going to end easily
so what if it just never ended
what if by next time
you didn't mean next week
or next year
but sometime down the road
if there's always a next time
then nothings truly over right?
It's amazing the lack of finality in it all
I just can't let it end
I'm obsessed with writing story book endings
with characters I know all to well
Happily ever after isn't an ending
it's a cop out
nothing ever ends well
that doesn't make sense
if something was so great why should it end
which leaves two possibilites
A it was never that great to begin with
or
B it hasn't truly ended yet
My heart wishes it was B
but my mind knows it's A
which *****
it does
do you think the eiffel tower was the first thing the french came up with
there must have been other suggestions right?
other options
that didn't allude to that great big beautiful tower
i'm getting drawn into the abstract
but the point stands
the eiffel tower is an iconic message
but at a time it was nothing
just an idea behind an idea
maybe nothing is what we want it to be
maybe we build our own diorama's and view life how we see fit
it would make sense
you see what you want
but if you turn around you'll see the world for what it is
not the candy coated box where you dwell
but an open room where objects lay where they lay
for no other reason than that they lay
I'll never be perfect
I know that
but I think I'll always try to perfect my world
make it better... for me of course but the nobility is just in it's own right
you're too random
you don't fit the script
so maybe you should have never read lines
in the first place
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:46 AM UTC
I throw comments to the wind
Ignorance keeps them afloat
I no longer take to heart
******** gliding from your throat
Your words grow weak
They wear thin
Confidence becoming strong
Don the realization that
Your home is where we don't belong
Insults get scattered like leaves
Falling from bare branches
Thoughts flow from your mind
Never-ending negative avalanches
Ashes I have been buried under
Remains of each mistake
Not charred hiding places but a jail
Out which I must break
Gotta keep from accumulating
Passive movements difficult to avoid
Hit walls hardest speeding fast
Crash like earthbound asteroids
It's great you are switching directions
Patterns easy to accurately predict
Mild
Temperate
Always fair-weathered
Around us come unhitched
You loved us once..
Has that gone?
Distracted by vultures' dying food
Rumors
Carcasses of gossip they feed on
Believing tails they allude
We are doing good
We are just fine
Have a job and a roof overhead
Everybody underestimates what we can do
By 30 we'll probably be dead
I anticipated this thoughts arrival
It still doesn't feel quite real
Stuff packed in bags and boxes
Across the porch surreal
We'll take pride and possessions
Say farewell spread with awkward "ums"
Mumbling how one day soon
We will spend some time that never comes
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 4:22 AM UTC
We have our allotment,
our bit and our share,
an instant, a moment,
it can seem so unfair.
I'm running and chasing,
I'm trying to subdue,
theres no way to stop it,
it can quickly allude.
It's often just wasted,
or squandered away,
and feel so eternal,
like a long lonely day.
The cost,
you can't buy it,
and it's easily misused,
It's treasured and priceless,
and can never be reused.
No matter,
how badly,
you try and hold on,
you can't even touch it,
then it's suddenly gone.
So just make the best,
and do what you can,
sieze every small moment,
in this very small span.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 8:59 AM UTC
say for example,
that you love to play baseball.
[it is your favorite thing in the world,
and you're quite good at it, too].
and before your game,
your coach says to the team,
"if we win, i'll take everybody to Pizza Hut!"
upon hearing this, the players' faces light up-
each one can taste the delicious stuffed crust that awaits them,
and visions of breadsticks dance through their heads.
the coach even brought a coupon book to allude to their possible futures...
just before the team takes the field,
the coach pulls you aside
and says,
"actually, i'm going to take the whole team to Pizza Hut
even if we lose."
well, you would know right then
that outcome of the game
is irrelevant,
but the true joy of playing
comes from competition regardless of winning or losing,
so you vow to play your best game ever.
however, everyone else on the team,
not knowing the ultimate truth,
will play very seriously,
but with great anxiety and nervousness.
they desperately want Pizza Hut,
but know that they might not getting it.
this game is the most important thing in the universe,
and it is the most serious test of all time.
every at-bat is tense for them,
each fly ball could result in ultimate damnation.
nothing is fun.
with tension and anxiety,
they strike out, play conservatively,
and don't take the risks that make the game enjoyable.
quickly, the team finds itself trailing by a few runs,
and sweating profusely because of it.
you, on the other hand,
would feel more relaxed during the game.
you would swing for the fences,
knocking a couple out of the park,
steal a base or two,
make a diving catch.
play your best game ever.
you can do this comfortably
because you realize that you're just playing for fun.
you're going to Pizza Hut after game, whatever the outcome!
soon, in your exuberance,
you'd let slip the secret to a couple other players.
you'd tell them, "guys, we were always going to Pizza Hut,
let's just have some fun while we play this game."
most of them rejoice!
[a couple real serious ones doubt you and resent you.
you'd surely smile, bend a knee, and applaud their solemnity.]
but in your state of joy you include the doubters,
and you let them believe what they will until the final innings over.
you think, they'll wake up soon enough.
with the last out made
and the last run scored,
maybe you look at the scoreboard and see yourself in the lead,
maybe you are a few runs behind,
but the smile on the coach's face says it all:
the peace and joy within you brought into your world happiness...
... and a large pepperoni pizza.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Crying under the covers
half hoping that you suffocate
is not cute.
Breathing into a paper bag
because you can't breathe the air
that everyone seems to inhale so easily
is not pretty.
Ruining yourself on the outside
to fix whats on the inside
is not beautiful.
I don't care how many
line breaks you add,
how many fonts you change,
how many pictures you can etch into your skin.
It is not something to allude to.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
We all need that social inclusion
The man at the top
The outcast in confusion
Bruised and abused and begging for some form of input.
The social media is shut
For a few.
So we have to go out and walk while we relearn how to talk
And to interact.
Backed into a corner we have no other way
But to get out there
And make somebody's day
Whadaya say?
Are you in for the long haul
Or are you going to bail?
Back to the laptop where friendships don't fail
They're just discontinued.
I allude to myself
When I talk of friends off the shelf
A Twitter,a Facebook commodity
An Oddity.
We need the contagion of spoken word orations to retain some form of relations
Or we might as well just grunt and give life a groan.
Moan if you like which you can in the zoo (Facebook to you)
But we have to converse
Yes,I know it's perverse
But what else can we do?
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
I smell something and it really stinks,
like truth from liars,
I cant believe.
It's putredness defying spray,
it's lingering won't go away,
it follows me,
I cant allude,
and all my friends they can't subdue,
their noses burn,
and eyes they water,
water yes I need some water,
to clean my self,
and start again,
cause people don't like filthy friends.
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 8:30 AM UTC
She's just touching the surface
reaching no more than her own pain
losing days trying to wash her tear stains
the world's wishing her to rise above
look in their eyes and see the truth
to see what they try to allude
there is no straight way, no easy route
and everyone is the passenger of the same boat
looking for the very same perfect coat
But no one will get something which is not theirs
fate has decided everyone's own roadmap
there are some small steps, some big traps
Wait for the check points, rather than all stones
the game of the life, all to achieve and leave
don't just halt at one step to grieve
because she's just wasting her time.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 2:34 AM UTC
Spotlight on the windy mistress
Her pirouettes stir petals
Leaves rise and fall at every somersault
Impressing the seven devils
Each one malefic in a different sense
Eloquent in a heavy mist
They allude at their brethren sins
Blight corrodes a suggestive audience
Death’s caress plays maestro in the sound check
When the carrion pick sinner from the jest of what’s left
Our windy mistress will play tribute
To the harlequin slaughter
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:53 AM UTC
Vague
F J McCarthy on Nov 3, 2009
We are here and we are speaking,but your meaning is unclear.
You allude to situations with out ever going there.
We dance around the subject, trying hard not to commit.
Suggesting innuendo’s in the statements we omit.
Why can’t we just this once, speak openly and true.
Perhaps that is a talent we have never learned to do.
The hunter and the hunted switching roles from time to time.
Never letting out our secrets,just a foggy misty rhyme.
Ever do you torture me, with this circuitous verbal plague.
Answer me this question, Why must you be so Vague.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
the klaxon carols of your grief belie the golden pipes of your madness.
the cherubs embedded in your lost happiness
slip through cracks in your voice. James Joycean.
the fugue, your discord dims, seeps through the gauze
of your field dress. your wound holds the root note
oozing Rorschach ~ Rachmaninoff
jungian etudes allude
to a deep you at the bitter end
gnawing on sweet bones to marrow sip
from the holy grail and -
a humble pagan *** i greet you at the airport, barefooted.
found you
talking to a cloud
in your blue sky ***** it was shaped
like an anvil cloud in your iris
watched as you forged
lightning bolts -
fit to hinge
heaven's
door.
we had the same flight at two different altitudes.
and i loved you more.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
To separate the word from it's identity
Is quite the delightful mind game
How things are agreed to be described or named
is just convention for communication; a key,
for organization of knowledge. Nothing more, less, and neither.
While unable to negate this absurdity, ultimately, why bother?
For example, the universe, or reality for that matter, is not "good" or "bad." It just "is" and, thus, not even that (by "that" I am referring to the aforementioned "is" of course, but also the formal definition of "that," however, I also ironically don't mean that either by "that" as I mean nothing, yet I also don't mean "nothing" by "that" as I intend "nothing," "is," and "that" to be both metaphorically and literally interpreted while also neither simultaneously, which is seemingly contradictory). Did you follow that? I apologize, but it's a paradox to try and explain this concept/whatever about words with more words, thus I can only hope to allude to it or otherwise imply it. Lend me your ear again, or your eyes I suppose, but also neither... Sorry! One more time:
A palindrome isn't even a palindrome by it's own literal definition, but it's literal definition is also that of a palindrome. The word "palindrome" exists both as a palindrome and not a palindrome and also neither simultaneously. Schrodinger's cat, but no, too, and also both and Gorgias, Parmenides, Zeno an
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:43 PM UTC
Were has it gone
It’s gone, it’s gone away
Where, where has it gone and will it return
I do not know, can’t say yes, and can’t say no, so maybe
But not today, today it remains away, it continues to allude
Tomorrow perhaps
Perhaps tomorrow is a new day bringing a new perception
A new day to wait to hope to pray please come back tomorrow
Waiting silently for its return,
To the horizon gazing
Cry out come back, come back, come back please
Only a whisper is heard through the racing of thought
Please come back
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 8:51 AM UTC
say what you mean
mean what you say
use your words to confuse
although i try my best to understand
you try your best to prevent that
its difficult to know how someone feels
when their emotions have been twisted and contorted to fit into a verse
manipulation through words is bittersweet
allude to what you want and how you want it
but never come out and say it
cowardly or brilliant
its perplexing to wonder if someone methodically goes about writing their poems
hoping the reader will hang on every line
ponder about the choice in every word
will the poet effectively convey their message?
is that even their wish?
i hate asking questions i know will never be answered
but i refuse to stop investigating
i must examine all the things
so here i sit
my eyes moving left to right
line to line
verse to verse
stanza to stanza
and i hope
i hope that i comprehend
i hope that i can appreciate
i hope that i have received your message
i just hope the message was for me
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
it's almost like saying:
atheism
and theism, or deism
or whatever.
it's rought comparison,
but that's the best i could ever hope
to allude to...
concerning the aye, eye, i...
oko: eye,
okno: window
oczko:
a little eye, typically
of a baby;
judasz / judas: the peeping hole
in your front door.
bilingualism is like
a mongolian horde in terms
of etymological
"struggles", i.e. introspections...
i can't even begin the platonic
assertion of form-morphing
that's translated into
darwinism of
monkey into an ape...
as someone who's into artistotle more
than into plato, because he's more
into shakespeare's dialogues than plato's...
i don't buy the platonic crap
in darwinism...
it would be, perfect,
if we were all reduced to monkey form,
and picked out one type of monkey
as our origins...
what, ******* point, would,
a shit-brick sized gorilla ever need to evolve?
a gorilla that could wrestle a tiger
and pin him to the floor, while breaking his jaw?
the **** is this?!
or right... choose a chimp...
but not a macaque monkey...
i'll just do what atheist
youtubers do... in terms of language:
******* imbecile!
pointless platonic imbeciles!
darwinism = platonism...
god, in the now, now, now...
now i should be exhibit (c) in a zoo...
or playing that ******* wormhole of a game
that's the sims...
eugenics didn't move it far along
the argument scale, that we needed
to play "god" while playing the sims...
there's nothing worth an aristotle in the framework
of darwinism...
darwinism is platonic...
it arises from the head, and the abstract,
rather than on the basis of the senses,
that said:
as one hindu guru said:
why aren't there more monkeys evolving,
turning into neanderthals?
the more atheists call others ********
we'll be swimming ad infinitum ad nauseam
in circles, concerning ourselves with
arguments, that... well...
are best summarised by a cat's
meow of concern for
the arguments in themselves...
bo'h- -ring!
oh look, retards either direction;
if that's what humanism has come down to...
seriously... if i were a gorilla... why would
i want to devolve?
so i can be subordinate
to beta-males' taxation rules of governing me?
punch the ******* in the face, and move on...
to me, aristotle would have rejected darwinism,
but plato? ooh hoo hoo... he'd be darwin's first disciple;
******* ponces.
don't bother questioning whether
poetry requires objectivity...
it's a non-objective form of expression...
as it was never supposed to be...
take your 1 + 1 = 2 elsewhere, and ponder it there.
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 8:53 PM UTC
Ween will mend inertia
with a flair, only a care or attribute
in conglomeration can reticulate their spin
and thus their ardor abound
in meadow by a brook then
will allude a castle if white sand
will morph butter and
may implore horizon
to only stake catalog
with green arbors there
yet magnitude of the nation
largely reactionary in latitude again.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 8:40 AM UTC