"anthologized" poems - Hello Poetry

*Have anthologized every cerebration of mine, finding myself snared in dogmatic mysteries of cosmos. My cognitive contents are razing & vitiating, leaving a brobdingnagian lacuna. Striving to surmount it but, incapable of sating the one that domiciliates within my èlan vital.*

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Jul 22, 2015

Jul 22, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC

asimjavid

Innermost Crusade

*Have anthologized every cerebration of mine, finding myself snared in dogmatic mysteries of cosmos. My cognitive contents are razing & vitiating, leaving a brobdingnagian lacuna. Striving to surmount it but, incapable of sating the one that domiciliates within my èlan vital.*

11

To be chanted whenever the O Machine 1 fails: Rumor has it that the Enigma Was to Churchill a foul stigma And that the ancient, creaking Babbage It was to him but so much cabbage Colossus One and Colossus Two Those gadgets too he began to rue They say he let them rust and rot - The pity is that he did not (I checked with the Lizard People on this – Churchill’s secret Second World War computers, powered by a primordial Lemurian source of energy so dangerous that even speaking its name in the ancient language of the Atlanteans is said to be fatal, are secured in a locked vault on Oak Island and guarded around the clock (set to Martian time) by the Trilateral Masonic-Vatican Continuum of deadly albino flying fish.) 1 E.M. Forster, “The Machine Stops,” 1909, Much-anthologized

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Jun 13, 2019

Jun 13, 2019 at 3:52 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

Did the Lizard People make Churchill Destroy His Secret Underground War Room Computers in 1945?

To be chanted whenever the O Machine 1 fails: Rumor has it that the Enigma Was to Churchill a foul stigma And that the ancient, creaking Babbage It was to him but so much cabbage Colossus One and Colossus Two Those gadgets too he began to rue They say he let them rust and rot - The pity is that he did not (I checked with the Lizard People on this – Churchill’s secret Second World War computers, powered by a primordial Lemurian source of energy so dangerous that even speaking its name in the ancient language of the Atlanteans is said to be fatal, are secured in a locked vault on Oak Island and guarded around the clock (set to Martian time) by the Trilateral Masonic-Vatican Continuum of deadly albino flying fish.) 1 E.M. Forster, “The Machine Stops,” 1909, Much-anthologized

11

I toil in anonymity These words will not be read You will not drink what's in this cup These thoughts will not be said. I'm buried on the internet Far out of Google's reach In basements stacked between thick tomes No students will I teach. I'm outside of your consciousness My plight will draw no tears I will not be anthologized On passage of the years. I shout among the swelling crowd And blend into the hum I'm heard here by myself alone No more will I become.

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Oct 9, 2015

Oct 9, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC

michael-berman

I Toil in Anonymity

I toil in anonymity These words will not be read You will not drink what's in this cup These thoughts will not be said. I'm buried on the internet Far out of Google's reach In basements stacked between thick tomes No students will I teach. I'm outside of your consciousness My plight will draw no tears I will not be anthologized On passage of the years. I shout among the swelling crowd And blend into the hum I'm heard here by myself alone No more will I become.

16

I would read Us over and over til the corners of every page fold like my dog’s ear, one up, one down, and every sweet nothing is underlined, color-coded, anthologized in the back. Hiding under the blanket with my childhood flashlight, I would read Us over and over, trying a mouthful of your words on my tongue. Salt, wooded citrus, coffee, perhaps just glue and mold, but the pages trick my nose. I would read Us over and over— even though I know how it ends.

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Aug 29, 2024

Aug 29, 2024 at 11:21 PM UTC

august-1

tomes & tombs

I would read Us over and over til the corners of every page fold like my dog’s ear, one up, one down, and every sweet nothing is underlined, color-coded, anthologized in the back. Hiding under the blanket with my childhood flashlight, I would read Us over and over, trying a mouthful of your words on my tongue. Salt, wooded citrus, coffee, perhaps just glue and mold, but the pages trick my nose. I would read Us over and over— even though I know how it ends.

17