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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Sabbathius Sep 2014
Alone I stood, against the stare of death
With head to head, I felt its gruesome breath
Its fixing crimson eyes igniting mine
Its scythe around my neck, which drew this line

I walk with pride, although the scar is seen
By everyone in every place I've been
Although I could give up, somehow I feel,
there are some tasks I must and shall fulfill

The urgent need of many things to toss
The cursed demons I have come across
As I have let them slowly drain my soul
So shall I use what's left to make them fall


*Iambic Redemption by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
T'was my first serious attempt at iambic pentameter, hence the name :D
Sabbathius Apr 2015
In the ocean of my sadness
Almost driven to madness
I've been diving deep beneath
‘Twas getting hard to breathe
But your anchor I have found
And came back safe and sound

After all, there was no treasure
Almost crushed by the pressure
At the verge of detonation
From above came salvation
Someone sailing 'round my sea
While watching out for me

From chaos I’ve been freed
Just in my time of need
All my wounds ceased to bleed

Back in the light of day
As in the grass I lay
I greet the sun’s first ray


*Drowning Deep Down Despair by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
666...
JB Mar 2015
I plunge into the cold water on that warm July day
no goggles, only the loose-fitting swimming trunks
I swim through the blur of chlorine
pushing through the water
when a familiar tune I heard hours earlier traps itself in my brain
and I suddenly become weightless, a plane high above in the air

The water is pure blue sky, below me the clouds
And at the bottom the city in ruins
I take my plane and dive down below the clouds
past the blur, until the city is in view just below me

I level the bomber and let it soar low above the ground
Over the pale white shells of buildings
I remember the museum exhibit that inspires this flight

I walk through, studying the pictures and the uniforms and the weapons on display
when in the distance of the room beyond I hear the familiar tune:
Brian Eno's "Ascent (An Ending)". It brings me closer, and I move past the exhibits
at a quickening pace, past the slow browsers
glancing only briefly to read, to catch a glimpse of an object, a photo, a map

I keep going, "Ascent" on a loop, its minimalist beauty entrancing me
until I find a large television in a small corner.
A few people are gathered around, solemn,
the television entrancing them, the music washing over the room.

First the white words centered against the black screen: "The Bomb".
The come the white-and-black photos and footage of the mushroom clouds hovering above Hiroshima, then Nagasaki,
standing tall like ungainly trees in an empty field.

The soundtrack to the short video before me is "Ascent",
or rather an excerpt, a piece of it, stirring strange emotions
Familiar ones that I give attribution to when I listen to it on my own.
Yet it feels different coming from this;
on the screen a few photographs of corpses and burnt victims flash by.
And then the screen fades to black, a moment of silence
before it all starts again

I hear this loop and see these images before me as I fly above
the imagined city in ruins
And for a brief moment I am the Enola Gay;
I will only know it at the bottom of a hotel pool
I was inspired to write the rough draft of this in the afternoon after I took a swim. Earlier in the day, my father and I went to the National WWII museum in New Orleans, and I came across the exhibit that I first saw as a child and which had the most profound effect on me.
Sabbathius Jan 2015
Ever wanted to go back
and never advance again?
Simply quit and lose all track
of the endeavors in vain?

The routine is your own bane
Will keep you from being sane
Oh, there is no greater pain!

Nothing's ever at your favour
Gotta take some time to savour
all those moments before labour

On a journey to the past,
ever steady to the course
Never running very fast,
pursuing a greater force

Onwards, keep calmly receding
Flee towards that place in time
You were once happily singing
That charming and joyful rhyme


*Once Joyful by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Another piece regarding my strong hedonistic thoughts
Dr Zik Jun 2015
For Whom!
Who, organized
scattered type, unpopular letters
and enabled the
'Simple Words' to deliver a speech.

اِنتساب
اُس کے نام
اُلجھے، بکھرے ہوئے حرفوں کو سمیٹا جس نے
اور پھر سادہ سے لفظوں کو زباں دی ہے۔۔۔
Dr ZIK Poetry an extract from "Rah Takti Ankh" Urdu Poetry.

Poets are invited to make translation from Urdu Poetry to English and other languages.

OOs kay naam
uljhay bikhray hooay harfo ko smaytaa jis nay
aur phir saada say lafzo ko zubaan di hay

Critics are invited to make positive criticism through messages.
I am waiting with full devotion and eagerness.
GaryFairy Dec 2013
We need a new constitution
constituting a needed revolution
revolutionizing our evolution
evolving into a new attribution
attributing to a new distribution
distributing love is the solution
Sabbathius Dec 2014
He fingers the strings,
Enjoys the discord
Without any chords,
He dances and sings

The way he should dress,
He couldn't care less
Some hate him for that,
Some show him respect

As blind as a mole
But she, does enjoy
His tunes bring her joy
And peace to the soul

Old chums think he’s mad,
They just wish him dead
Young lads go “Hooray”,
When they hear him play

So happy he lives
Without real care
His talent so rare
Is all he believes


*A Charming Discord by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Jay Sep 2012
The way your porcelain skin touches light
Your waterfall curls provocatively grace the wind
Those brown eyes take away my virginity
That scent you carry with such promiscuity
You want my intellect
You want my drive
You want me to want you
Don't you...?
I am yours.
The way your jeans caress your curves
Your voice sings to my every being
And the sky delights at the sight of your smile
The celestial sway of each step you take
Each gaze my way, an attribution to my euphoria
My mind wipes clean and thinks solely of you
How I yearn to be get so deep into your imagination
I'll find you beautiful girl
And I'll take your darling breath away.
edwill makamu Dec 2015
I heeded that you are married
no attribution against you
I the one to rebuke
I could've been a man sufficiently

when you said: man up
I became less a man you yenned
I was dark to scope your worst of love
I blundered to enroll, only love is to rescue

I exclusively thought you had a disease
that you can't breathe in general
though I am envious, but I still say:
God bless you and your remedy

He should be me to rescue you
But I was dark to cognize
affection is the only thing you need to meliorate
I urge I could just turn back the hands of time

Began a fashionable living with you
Instantly that I cognize, you are a love patient
I'll man up, I'll provide sufficiently
I'll satisfy your breathe

Just so, I cognize
you are mated to him
He's better than me, better than anyone else
In him you belong, stay blessed.
Sometimes we fail to appreciate what we have until we loose it, and the time we want to care is where we realize is already too late.
Nicola Em Oct 2012
Most people don’t know
That two halves don’t necessarily make a whole
Half a shoe plus half a butter knife makes something
infinitely more useless than either halves alone.
Or it makes something much more interesting
But still, whatever it is—it is not whole.

Most people want more
Than only half of things
I wonder: is it greed or just a desire for completion
And if something is complete, is it also whole?
And if someone were to search for long enough,
would they find the missing half to everything?

Unstructured Musings by Nicola Em is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Ines Rose Dec 2017
Pity you didn’t stay away
Shame you came and didn’t stay
Pain, a boomerang, it goes both ways
You’re gonna have to learn today

I told you to run
Away from the sun

Pity you had to lose it all
Shame no one picked up your call
Painful desire to drop the ball
You’re gonna have to take the fall

I told you to run
I’m not the one

Pity you didn’t fear the flames
Shame you hadn’t learned my name
Paintings of every life I’ve claimed
You’re gonna have to lose this game

I told you to run
A girl is a gun

-
A Girl Is A Gun by Ines Rose is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
tread Feb 2013
you make my legs

                             fill with lust

                                                         and some sundance

                                     chemical I cannot

                                                               ­           explain. you make

                                                   me feel like your

        pupils are the sun

                               and the sun has

                                                               ­                       little in respect

                                          to you aside from

                    attribution to the

                                                               ­  very existence of

                                                               ­                                         the girl I love.

                                                          you make me feel

                                like free chai tea

                                                   lattes, even if this

                                                               ­        analogy was used by

                                                               ­                           an ex of mine to

                                                               ­                                           describe how she

                                                               ­                                                           felt about me I

                                                               ­                                                                 ­        feel it's still

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                     valid in context.

                                   you make me dance

                        like thunder in a

                                          snowstorm and link

                          arms with my lack

                                                      of a bedside table

                and ring as true as

                                           my ears to the ashen

                                                               ­        corner-lounge love-drug-all-this-please.

                                      

                       ­             I love you,
                                    I love you,
                                    
                           ­         I love you,


                                    I love you.



                                                         ­          holy sweet good *******,


                                                   you sweet,

                                                   sweet soul,
                                                    

          ­                                         not even

                                                          novel­s
                                                  
                                                                ­  could properly explain

                                                       how my universe swells into serotonin heartbeats
                                                      ­                    whenever
                                    ­                                       you're
                                                          ­                wherever
                                        ­                                    with

                                                               ­              me.
Sabbathius Jan 2015
Traversing fields of ice and barren lands
Accursed woods so dark and torrid sands
Returned have I, with nothing on my hands
To nothing more than simply make amends

I kept on following the brightest star
Up there it shined undimmed like a cigar
Across those mountains I have ventured far
The struggle, with my strength was not on par

I've faced the cold, I've been through hell and back
I've been so close to have an heart attack
These wounds around my arms, my legs, and neck
Have dripped along, they left this ****** track

Tendeth thee my ailing ills?
I have all lost my way and will
Yet in me lies a passion still
Some fast heart thumps that I can feel
Perhaps desire or the thrill
To happiness in me fulfill



*Of Hope and Failure by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sabbathius Jun 2015
In vain, the priest attempts to exorcise
He struggles hard to cease the demon’s rise
His prayers prove to be of no avail
She's almost sure they will completely fail

Contorting limbs, in pain and immense fear
From one of those alluring eyes, a tear
Cannot control the one inside no more
Without a pause she screams, so sick and sore

The wretched spawn is crawling right within
Her aching throbbing belly weak and thin
Some spikes are seen already tearing flesh
She feels each one just like a dagger's slash

With blisters-covered skin, expelling pus
There is no true escape from all this fuss
Entirely drenched in sweat, in **** and tears
Atrophied head rotates, her judgement nears

Amidst the blackened blood, now flowing out
Applying strength, ignoring cry or shout
Exuding putrid smells, an horror-born
Keeps screeching out as if destroyer’s horn


*Possession, Defilement and Birth by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
I fear for my mental faculties :/
Just kidding, but sometimes my mind is a really scary place xD
Jack Varnell Dec 2009
(Authors note: I realize this is more short story than poem. I hope you find it poetic as well. Apologies in advance if this is not an appropriate forum.)

Have You Seen This Girl ?

I sat sleepy eyed one morning enduring yet another cardboard and treebark bran flavored bowl of breakfast with milk, 2 percent of course, and I stared at the carton.

First I reviewed the measures of various fat content, and nutritional values listed as a matter of law. And as usual, I thought of you. This time by way of pondering the plight of the American Dairy Farmer and remembering it was the “corporatizing” of the independent dairy farms which led your family to other uses for the land they had raised dairy cows on for over a century. And I missed you terribly.

To quickly shake the associated feelings of loneliness, and your face from my mind, I was drawn to the deep dark eyes of the child who was missing and apparently exploited on the other side of the carton. She had innocent, kind eyes that indicated she wouldn't even harm an insect. Curious eyes that would watch an insect for hours as it munched on grasses and leaves she fed it.

She would be two years grown and two years older since last seen in blue jeans and a t-shirt in Amarillo, Texas, in the company of her biological father who was possibly armed, dangerous, and driving a pickup truck towards Mexico. Or Canada.

And it struck me. You needed to be on the side of a milk carton. 2 percent of course. At some point in our life together, you had been kidnapped. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to replace you, to carefully drop you right back into my life. It was a great attempt but finally my belief that the real you would never do the things you did to me were validated. You had the misfortune of actually having an “evil twin” and corporatized or not, it seemed only the Dairy Council could help, since there is no Center For Missing and Exploited Adults.

Big red letters screaming “Have You Seen This Girl ? ” were what we needed now. God knows I had recent photos, and could describe all of your features-distinguishing or not.

I think tomorrow, I'll have French Toast.

Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on my work at www.emotionalorphan.net.
Nicola Em Oct 2012
Hey, baby
sing me a tongue lullaby
I’ll dance for you if you would like that.
Twirling along the lilt of your sounds
as you utter them syllable by syllable.

I find you in the darkness created
by the infinity of
whatever it is we feel and you sweep me
off my feet—literally—and fly with me
away inside the music you created.

By then it’s only you and me,
although it has been all along
and it’s your body
and it’s nobody; my body
Entwined in the kasbahs of eternity.

An Adaptation of a (Love?) Poem by Nicola Em is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Sabbathius Dec 2014
Plunge yourself into the abyss
Forget all the things you’d miss
Give in to nature's embrace
Leaving behind not a single trace
Boldly venturing into the unknown
Facing all kinds of dangers alone!

Put aside your troubles and worries
Forget about the same old stories
Point your finger and close your eyes
Spin around, give it a hundred tries
Take whatever you need and flee
Nevermind the direction, do it for me!

It's time to cross the seas,
Climb the tallest of all trees!
Knock down a hive of bees,
So just get up off your knees!

It's time to fight with sharks!
To be the one who barks!
Quit strolling around the parks
Quit scoring the lowest marks


*Self-Exile for Amateurs by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sometimes I just feel like leaving this noisy city and boring routine, and go live an adventure in the woods, or a tropical island, to be in contact with nature
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
A storm blew through early, left frost
etched, lit, glistening, on
a window's waking surface.

I sit framed by that translucence,
my daughter aligns, orders
mirroring matroyshka doll members.

I reflect on an essay*, how
poems are a symbol of  will,
concluding a pact, perhaps

achieved in diction, image metaphor,
adherence to structure, rhyme, form.
Might these devolve to decoration? Or,

trace the transmission of "will to
commitments," expressing “intent”,
"weakly lost or strongly spent?”

Frost etchings fissure, shift, glint, slide
on their emergent effluence,
configure in gusts of cognition.  

I sense a covenant in these lines.
my daughter adjusts her doll's placements,
the promise of one revealed in the other.

Copyright © 2004 Gary Brocks

——————————————
Attribution:
Stanzas 3, 4, and 5 are greatly influenced by my reading the Robert Frost essay titled *THE CONSTANT SYMBOL.
The short phrases in italicized quotes are direct quotes from that essay.
180828F

Frost,  Matryoshka, symbol, essay, configure, cognition, covenant, pact, commitments, intent
Jack Varnell Oct 2009
It’s thought provoking
and emotion evoking
I feel like I’m choking, {Heimlich}
Truer words have never been spoken
by a dancing mime with only one leg.

Minds have reeled
Fates have been sealed
Unknowns become real
It’s a negotiated deal  made by some lawyer with a soul.

Tragic, Comedy- Tragicomedy
Shipping-handling. As seen on TV.
What’s the cost of free ?
Nothing comes really, with a money back guarantee.

Wash, rinse,  repeat.
Operators standing by- keep your seat.
Stay out of the kitchen if you can’t stand the heat.
And know your victory isn’t over defeat.

Miller time- the best time of year
But I’ll never need another beer,
My life’s so complete when using Tampax.
The latest miracle cure is as safe as anthrax.

Who has time these days for voting, when I feel the blight of bloating ?
There are no important politics or elections.
When I have four plus hour erections
but I bet my doctor won’t be the one I decide to consult.

>>>>>
Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at www.emotionalorphan.net.
Sabbathius Sep 2014
Into god knows where
Into a deep dark lair
Slowly as a candle burns
My body twists and turns
For I am robed in flames
I am the fire he now claims

Still widely around my soul
All scorched out, nothing but coal
The rope which hasn't snapped
The endless fall in which I'm trapped
The more I fall, the less I care
For all the times, I spent up there

No escape from this descent
None of this is what I meant
Stripped of scent and sight
Cast away from the light
Void of all my senses
Void of all known faces


*Slow Descent by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sabbathius Apr 2015
Um barco na areia encalhado
De um inf’liz já quase acabado
Pela tempestade levado
Submetido a tão triste fado

Por maus caminhos de Proteu
Sem os conselhos de Nereu
O rumo traçado perdeu
Três mil e uma injúrias sofreu

Pelo o oceano ambos cuspidos
Conjuntamente destruídos
Ossos e madeira partidos
Rochedos e areal tingidos

Um último olhar para o mar
Já sem muito mais para dar
E menos em que acreditar
Assim um grito faz soar:

“Será só isto que consegue!?
Este corpo jamais se ergue
Vinde lá a onda que se segue
E que no profundo me entregue!"

Arrastado p’la margem fora
Que puxa-o a corrente agora
Para o além se vai embora
Destino Estige, sem demora


*Rumo ao Inesperado by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Jack Varnell Dec 2009
No need for panic.
The heat of the moment is gone.
No, everything is not alright.
But the honey sweetness of Love,
dancing on the tongue like a memory
lasts forever.
 
Only true love is truly innocent.
Love and life are a chance,
when there is a risk - self made.
Give up Life for death?
Love for friendship alone or romance?
Not a chance.
 
He is firmly entrenched on the one side.
She stays feet planted in her land.
The floating distance that’s between them
is something neither understands.
One may be able to run from true Love,
but once it’s found them, it will always track them down.
 
Sever an Achilles heel to stop the running.
Yet they created the pain.
Against Love they can be numbed.
Then the only real pain is to feel nothing at all.
How can lovers hurt when they have bridged
the distance and are holding on to each other?
 
Their souls need Love, and the soul needs a mate.
And for what the soul wants it will patiently wait.
Sure there is faith, hope, ***, but it’s mostly fear.
A million things that might keep them here.
Floating in the distance between them.

Told as fiction it is mysterious and engaging.
Like a nighttime fairy tale story.
Trust the author and the view changes.
And in the morning you will see.
We cannot continue to hurt this way
When I am holding you,
And you are holding me.
 
120809g
Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at www.emotionalorphan.net. >http://ow.ly/Ksxa
Sabbathius Sep 2014
As you turned on the wrong track
I couldn't see!
As you turned away your back
I watched you flee!
No words or gestures to explain
Just embarqued to a life of pain
In that accursed final train
There was nothing for your gain

On the longest voyage of your life
Through constant fear of all the strife
Yet you managed to stay alive
While poking sticks at the closest hive
You mistake your friends for foes
And are addicted from head to toes

Chorus:
The light slowly fades as you slip away
The feeling I get, it seems like decay
And no matter how much I delay
How much words I can say
I can't make you stay
For a last night or day

Yet you keep torturing your flesh
With pills and needles for a lash
You're in for an ugly final crash
You'll be buried among the trash

In a place where all the wicked tread
That's the ******* you chose to head
On your path to a grave unknown
Without flowers, coffin or tomb stone

Chorus

[Repeat]
Cleanse your soul!
Cleanse your ******* soul!
Cleanse yourself of ****!


*A Grave Unknown by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Something overly cheesy that came to me, as an idea for lyrics with the metalcore style in mind.
Sabbathius Jul 2015
The burden’s growing heavier with each second
Been keeping my head up, and never beckoned
On through the night, dragging this weight alone
These winds are strong, they freeze me to the bone

Constantly afraid of what may be lurking
No matter the cost, I have to keep looking
In the unknown, I place my only hope
Feels like waiting for the snap of a rope

“To start anew”, they said with smiley faces
“Go in peace! Travel to find different places.
This land is dying and so are we all.
Go now! But remember, you must stand tall!”

So far, I haven’t found a place to settle
Many days went on in this constant battle
Got no map or compass to guide my way
As I advance, deeper into the fray

Water and hail, fall heavily on my path
For far too long, I faced the storm god's wrath
For how much longer will I have to roam?
Must it be this hard, to find a new home?

Maybe I’ll just stop, sit right here and wait
Calm my body, spirit and fast heart-rate
Perhaps someone might pass around these parts
Provide some help, so that my journey starts


*Journey Short on Hope by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sabbathius Jun 2015
There he falls to his knees
Stung by a thousand bees
Close to his dying wife
Slowly draining of life

“No! This cannot take place!
Right here in my embrace,
My beloved soon dead!
Oh Lord, take me instead!”

“Cease all the liquid flow
And shine thy holy glow
Gently upon her spirit
She’s almost at her limit!”

From out of smoke and fire
Appears a spectre liar
To bring a twisted deal
That only blood may seal

“But what explains thy presence!?
To carry out her sentence!?
Wert thou sent by my lord!?
I’ll strike thee with my sword!”

His blade is raised but stilled
The eyelids as if peeled
Limbs paralyzed in terror
‘Twas that an awful error!?

‘Tis the odd spectre’s hold
On his form now so cold
Approaching the young girl
His words, start to unfurl:

“Of her I shall take care
If only wouldst thou dare
To grant to my possesion
Assets, for my collection”

“For riddles I care not!
Of those I’ve heard a lot!
What could someone like thee
Do now, to set her free!?”

Raising arms high above
It starts to cure his love
Making it seem so true
But stopping half-way through

“Thou art a seraph, right?
Please, bless her with thy light!
Please, what desirest thee?
Take anything from me!”

“To make her again whole
Requires thy own soul
It will suffice to mend
The wounds of a dear friend”

“Well, If it must be so
As I won’t let her go
My essence may fill hers
Seems like that she concurs”

Their fate was swiftly sealed
Turns out she was not healed
Both meant for hell’s inclusion
‘Twas all just an illusion


*The Promise Of Hell by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
That was surely my longest write until today, and one I'm very proud of, still can't believe I wrote it xD
Robert McKinlay Jan 2015
You were the height of existence
more high than view
a poor man's whimsical consolation
I'll give that to you
and you took
you took
thigh then broke through
you were an ***
face askew

You were the master of nothing
lowly looking far from view
heart beat inaudible; polemic attribution
no want of memory
and you smiled
you smiled
pin what you could
held steadfast

I don't know who you were
I don't know that it was you
I don't recall the sound or when it stopped
I only remember when it restarted
absent a shadow
absent from view.
Sabbathius Jul 2015
So cruel and ruthless,
So ugly and toothless!
Such Ice-cold betrayers,
Such chronic naysayers!
Band of pesky thieves
And withered old leaves!

Chaos ocean-wide!
Demons side by side!
A sailing black cyst
Pushes through the mist
Such anger and strife,
Threatens all sea-life!

A curse compels them
To shoot, thrash and ram
Every ship on sight!
Every passing night,
The waters run red
With all the crews dead!

Souls forever snared!
Never really cared!
With each raid fulfilled
Their decay is healed
Life-force of those slain,
Used to mend their pain!

Sickness of the sea!
Spreading wild and free!
Death lies in its wake,
The whole world’s at stake!
None can slow its course,
None can stop this force!


*Sea-lurking Terror by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Ines Rose May 2017
Blood on the ground
I need to rebound

Blood I remember
Frozen in December

Blood on the street
Don't let this repeat

Blood on my knee
I miss the old me

Blood has gone dry
There's no need to cry

Blood has turned blue
Reborn, I'm brand new

-

Making Mistakes by Ines Rose is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
A comparison between scrapes and mistakes (made in life)
Sabbathius Sep 2014
Esta espada me foi dada
E me dito: "Segue a estrada"
Tal experiência tão falada,
Para sempre recordada

Uma mensagem recebi
E todo o perigo antevi
Neste reino em que vivi
Da escuridão me apercebi

De lá de cima me foi confiado
Que salvasse todo o reinado
Seguindo o caminho encarnado
Com bravos guerreiros a meu lado

Batalhas a dentro todos liderei
Sempre em frente, sempre ganhei!
Muito orgulho trouxe ao rei
E os invasores daqui expulsei!

Invasores estes que me levam agora
Servido o meu propósito est'hora
Meu Senhor, deixasTes-me à nora!
Servi-Vos e mandais-me embora!


*A Mensageira by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sabbathius Sep 2014
Oh Inspiration, such a marvelously beautiful maiden she is, though always comes in late and when less expected. With sweet yet swift voices and tender touches, slowly involves you in a world full of splendor and awe. A world like you never seen before, and where with her help you create more and more! Such splendid sightings often fall in the depths of the unknown, due to everyday's troubles and struggles if not carefully and without ever for one second losing focus, immediately recorded.

Oh, the good times I spent with her on through the night, and all the wonders she helped me build!


*Oh Inspiration by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Not exactly a poem, but I like it, and think it's worth sharing
Sabbathius Aug 2015
I'm here to set all matters right!
For years and years I'll keep this fight!
To bring this city’s **** to light!
To strike them down with righteous might!

These parasites who live concealed
Shall never see their dreams fulfilled!
Shall dig them out, the hand of God!
Shall punish them, the holy rod!

Impending wrath will swiftly fall!
Undo mischiefs of those who crawl!
Defilers of the sacred code,
Are those who I completely loathe!

It is not late, although, to turn
To save yourselves from certain burn!
Receive the blessing of Our Lord
And He’ll put down His fiery sword

From now until the very end
To all of you, my help I’ll lend
The city walls I shall defend!
Be sure! They will forever stand!


*The High Fanatic Speaks... by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
This is merely a work of fiction. I am an atheist myself, and it is not at all my goal to turn someone to any group of beliefs.

I have a made a contest out of this poem in another community. In case you are interested:

http://allpoetry.com/contest/2653089-Voice-the-Uprising-
Sabbathius Jan 2016
Around around, these stairways down the void
This relic hid, it must not be destroyed!
I keep the candles lit to guide the way
They follow straight behind in silent pray

It is my one and only task, my role!
It is the purpose of my very soul
I sweep these beaten steps in every side
Await arrival of new ones to guide

Whoever they may be, I welcome all!
And do my best to keep them standing tall
When finding hard to keep a steady pace
They trust the healing powers of this place

When languish weighs enough to shed a tear
Their spirit-selves depart and spawn in here
This realm provides the means to cure their ills
Without the need of dulling pain with pills

Proceeding slowly on this soothing trip
In state of trance, descending further deep
Forgetting lies, betrayals, plots and schemes
Embracing peace of mind in midst of dreams


*Keeper of the Mourners Haven by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sabbathius Oct 2014
For many miles we have travelled
Many sickness we have seen
Such confusion we've unravelled
In many circles we have been

Walking with bare feet on the spikes
Carrying boulders at our backs
Getting poked by countless pikes
Following these endless ****** tracks

To find him there sitting on his throne
With his vast velvet royal mantle
To cast us out he seems so prone
From this ****** infernal temple

For causing discord in hell
From there we fell
So deep into the dark
Into darkest shades of black

Unwanted in neither earth nor hell
We drift along the dark infinity
Void of space, a complete vacuity
So horrid a tale, it hurts to tell

Descending in darkness!
Ascending in madness!
Across the borders of the void
We swam through pain and fear
We haven't shed a ******* tear!
We wandered mindlessly
We felt so cowardly!


*Across The Borders of the Void by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Sabbathius Nov 2014
The birds have ceased to sing in morrow's eve
It is that time of year in which they leave
From hither they’re now gone to seek the warmth
Against the frigid winds advancing forth

The flying pilgrims search for sacred heat
Until they reach as much as they find fit
A thousand ***** were heard and off they went
To find a truer heat as they were meant

Their joyful chants no longer wake me up
As I enjoy my tasty coffee cup
No more do they provide a cheering mood
While feeding babes or searching for some food


*Pilgrimage on Wings by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Qynn Jun 2017
Sometimes I feel like Laura Palmer
Princess, precious, favorite daughter

I feel like I know her
But sometimes my arms bend back

Angel, sweetheart, filthy *****

Sometimes I feel as dead as Laura

Dead, wrapped in plastic
Somehow still adored.
TrinaMisa Nguyen Nov 2015
then when i lay in a box of onyx
somehow in a trance of sleepiness
even sadness couldn’t even come through
or happiness
only numbness could be described
ironically numbness became a feeling

the thoughts become overbearing
taking my own life becomes a choice
stepping out onto the road rage of traffic is an ideal

don't say that i am okay
insanity does not equate to "being okay"
the gray overhanging cloud terrorizes my mind and soul from within to the exterior
cursing my bodies with wounds of crimson

people wander among me with no clue
to how my mind can think of a world so cynically
my attribution to life is a torn up blue blanket
fabric barely holding together

temporarily existing in a corrupt societal world
GaryFairy Jun 2015
the defense versus the prosecution
the judge who hates prostitution

his name is john

the pretense lends it's attribution
leaning toward total absolution

the flame is on
we all have those thoughts, like "hmmm, i could have used this word instead
The Raven Tears Feb 2014
A song, a cry, a slither of rain
Chaotic words extinguish the flame
A weeping heart and bleakness to see
Scorch and churn on the brink of insanity.

Where lies the end of the burning pleas
That scolds with fire of the quivering seas?
Tranquil and serene in blades of grass
And clouds that wade and fade to pass?

Though misery deceives the shout from the dusk
Demanding time but ever so brusque
To wait the tables of the turning dark
Or forever catch songs of thou immortal lark.

The time may come to smolder the kindle
And smother the darkness that may still dwindle
Amongst these walls that caress the heart
They lie amidst the shattered start
Beseeching the while for the sanest depart...

Why do they leave me the colour of Death
With sobs of blooms entwining my breath

'I am what I am' that is what they say
And I scream whilst I carry an endless dismay

Is the rueful sorrow that carries me home
The same attribution that leads me to roam?

Is it not unfair how they follow Death
Through a peaceful endeavour despite such a depth?
But how can I follow one such as Death
When the one such as Death is I?

— The End —