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Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
When I first met you, you took me back to the 70’s,
With anarchy, *** pistols and beer soaked blazers,
****** jeans and pipe dreams and your love for jumping off of tall things
under the impression you could fly,
You spoke to me and I felt the whole weight of my body collapse down,
And to this day I thank my knees for not buckling.
SE Reimer Nov 2015
~

i have never particularly cared for him or for his style of play.  there is a fine line between knowledge of one’s talents and arrogance and i have always thought Kobe walked on the downhill side of that line, when doing so was unnecessary.  of course it did not help that a Lakers / Blazers rivalry cost the Blazers at least one NBA Finals berth… most of us are, after all, most likely to gravitate toward our hometown team.  

but on seeing this post from Kobe in the Player’s Tribune, i found that i simply must acknowledge the classiness of his retirement penning...

instead of a letter, the guy writes a poem.  how can i not embrace this?


~

BY KOBE BRYANT
LOS ANGELES LAKERS

Dear Basketball,

From the moment
I started rolling my dad’s tube socks
And shooting imaginary
Game-winning shots
In the Great Western Forum
I knew one thing was real:

I fell in love with you.
A love so deep I gave you my all —
From my mind & body
To my spirit & soul.

As a six-year-old boy
Deeply in love with you
I never saw the end of the tunnel.
I only saw myself
Running out of one.

And so I ran.
I ran up and down every court
After every loose ball for you.
You asked for my hustle
I gave you my heart
Because it came with so much more.

I played through the sweat and hurt
Not because challenge called me
But because YOU called me.
I did everything for YOU
Because that’s what you do
When someone makes you feel as
Alive as you’ve made me feel.

You gave a six-year-old boy his Laker dream
And I’ll always love you for it.
But I can’t love you obsessively for much longer.
This season is all I have left to give.
My heart can take the pounding
My mind can handle the grind
But my body knows it’s time to say goodbye.

And that’s OK.
I’m ready to let you go.
I want you to know now
So we both can savor every moment we have left together.
The good and the bad.
We have given each other
All that we have.

And we both know, no matter what I do next
I’ll always be that kid
With the rolled up socks
Garbage can in the corner
:05 seconds on the clock
Ball in my hands.
5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1

Love you always,
Kobe
judy smith Aug 2015
Summer Finn is the charming, elusive love interest of protagonist Tom Hansen in 500 Days of Summer. From her playful personality to her cutesy hair ribbons, actress Zooey Deschanel's 500 Days of Summer style is irresistible. IMO, the overall look of her character is not a far cry from Jess Day's style (the leading lady of New Girl, also played by Deschanel). However, Jess' style is on the kooky side of whimsical while Summer's errs on the feminine side.

Summer's style could be described as girly, quirky, and ethereal. The ethereal factor probably has more to do with her attitude and personality, as she tends to keep Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character Tom at arm's length. (I know, who in their right mind would do that?)

The baby blue clothing that she wears throughout the movie also reflects this sentiment, since blue is regularly associated with sadness. It is almost as though Tom knows subconsciously that his relationship with Summer will not end well. This makes perfect sense in filmography terms because the movie is shot in a non-linear narrative. Right at the start, the narrator even informs the audience, "This is a story of boy meets girl but you should know up front, this is not a love story."

So here's how to channel Summer Finn's charmingly tempting style, because looking like a modern day femme fatale is one of my personal favorite things.

1. The Summery Tea Dress

Channel Summer's vintage style of decades past by with a lovely, feminine tea dress. Summer's has cute, capped sleeves, a magical swirly pattern, and it appears semi-sheer (adding a touch of naughtiness to her outfit). Whichever style you choose, make it a modest length with flirty details, whether that be sheer material or cheeky cut outs.

With its sheer sleeves, cutesy Peter Pan collar, and adorable buttons, this darling pale blue dress is just the ticket and is available in sizes S to 4X.

2. The Cat Eye Makeup

Cat-eye makeup gives off a vintage vibe while also adding a sassy feel to your beauty look. To tone down the sass and keep it less Catwoman and more Brigitte Bardot, keep the rest of your look super natural. Think dewy skin and rosy cheeks.

This vegan eyeliner has a super thin brush so you can create your cat-eye flick with ease. If you're feeling funky, you can even pick an alternative color such as white or purple to really make a statement.

3. The Alternative Workwear

Summer proves that workwear needn't be boring. Put a youthful spin on the classic, white shirt by wearing a sleeveless style and pairing it with high-waisted, tailored trousers.

This classic white shirt is a style steal and can be paired with a multitude of garments. It'll make choosing your work outfit much easier when you're bleary eyed and you've not yet had your morning coffee.If you wish to wear a more feminine style and channel Summer's gleefully girlish side, then why not wear a mini dress? As long as it's tailored in some way (like Summer's stiff short sleeves) and sports a formal flourish (like the lace hemline of her dress) then you should totally be able to get away with wearing it for work. If in doubt, throw on a blazer. Blazers make any outfit look formal.

This pencil skirt dress with its stripe detailing and capped sleeves is sure to have you looking like the best dressed in the office.

4. Up Your Hair Accessory Game

Ms. Finn is often seen sporting some kind of adorable hair accessory. She changes it up from powder blue ribbons to strappy, modern headbands to suit her different ensembles. A ribbon worn as a bow in your hair has connotations of Sandy from Grease and in turn adds a youthful naivety to your outfit.

If you're short for time on a morning, throw your hair into a high ponytail and clip this cute bow into your barnet for instant vintage vibes.

A strappy headband is nostalgic of retro Alice bands. However, the straps keep it modern and elegant. IMO, Summer has nailed hair accessories. She wears the pretty bow in her free time and the grown up headband at the office.

I could totally imagine Summer wearing this simple yet feminine headband. Plus, the pearl design will add an air of sophistication to your outfit, helping you to appear oh so ladylike and mature.

5. The Off-The-Shoulder Chiffon Dress

Seen in a completely different look, Ms. Finn looks stunning in an off-the-shoulder chiffon gown that juxtaposes hilariously with the "*****" game she plays with Tom. To me, the décolletage is one of the most sensual parts of a woman's body and exposing it can sometimes feel sexier than showing off your cleavage or wearing a tight dress. The addition of the chiffon plays on Summer's ethereal, magical side and she reminds me of A Midsummer Night's Dream characters. The key to this look is picking a flowing, fairy-like gown.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
bleh Dec 2014
'i've only ever really read one poem. i, i have to admit.*  
You know, that, that one poem that everyone’s read, whatsit,
Howl by Ginsberg, 'best-minds-of-my-generation-destroyed-by-madness,-starving-hyste­rical-naked,' , yeah, that one;'
'It's just, I identify with it so strongly.' she says,
'That poem is soo me.'
It's funny how commentary on a generation 60 odd years ago come across as timeless insights..
how we learn that true spirit of rebellion and counterculture three generations ago,
  as it is taught to us by two generation ago countercounterculture academics.
but I guess, inevitably
                                         we
                                                  return,
  to those half drowned pontifications inevitably decried into transcendental truth by the onward spilling ratchet of cultural recognition;
  that sense of universal oneness generated by the unwashed ramblings of beat-generation hipsters dense innuendo in run on sentences running, running from their upper-lower-middle-class New York homes and their privilege of true vacant meaninglessness and despair,
   to those nervous tucked in shirted clean shaven scholars swooning over the same seme drugged, melancholic bearded men profussing the deepest of opaque truths only found up the furthest reaches of their own *****.
  As we push through to our lectures, the mosaic in motion of blazer wearing mac-users and mac-pac wearing blazers,
  As we hysterically interpret the formatting conditions for our reports, which could hang in the balance of whether the dreams we once had will ever be actualised,
  As we felt lost and found and found and lost at those park benches under the stars, where occasional strangers strolled by offering sessions and life-stories,
  As we paid exorbitantly to get out of our parents homes, and into tin-can flats with broken windows, absentee landlords and cracked paint only held together by all the moss, (the empowerment that is wage slavery,) for in our youth, poverty is not an ever-present pejorative, but the rite of passage to show that we are alive,
  As rituals of manhood are defined by two things and two things only; how much insomnia one can accumulate to meet insane and inane deadlines, and how much one can illuminate the walls in ***** from all the beers, spirits, cheap wines and questionable home-brews,
  As the government dismantles the human-rights commission, and we nervously attend the rallies initiated by the radicals, and the man on the megaphone calls on the crowd to chant and we can only mumble and laugh nervously at ourselves,
  And when the next speaker runs onto stage feeling the need to plead to this already nervous, placid mass that this is in-fact a PEACEFUL PROTEST, and that we are all true patriots and they insist everyone start singing the national anthem and we all look down and we again mumble, or pretend somehow not to hear them,
  and when, in this biggest independent rally around a unified cause our generation's ever seen, we have never felt so alone ,
  and isolated,  
                                  we
                                             remember,
                                                                    those earlier days,
  When we'd bleach our hair; we'd poison ourselves white, in the vain mystic hope that this was just the transition period to the time when we'd get true colour into our lives,
  Remember our wonder at the Eurocentric Asiatic television representations of the Abrahamic faiths, given transubstantiated holy revival by the medium of Saturday morning digital pastel pasture; when we were children staring excited and wide eyed into the Metatrons Fire of Sinai 'Random Almighty Mega Damage'; as Dante and the seraph class Tyrant-infused-Michael inevitably made battle with YHWH, -in the one True End,- as we grinded within the monolithic emerald obsidian halls, Mystical wonderment spilling forth from our reddened hollow eyes, at the beautiful unlimited expansive world contained within our console/consoling digital unit discs; conformally mapped and etched into the convex hull of our minds,
  Where we were gods, doing battle with every possible creature in morphospace, filleted into overpriced cards and cartridges, for which our strategies meant so much to us though none of us really understood the game,
  When we could quote verbatim every piece of dialogue in GTA2, and get concerned glances from our parents as we conjured veiled imagery of bukake-ladled innuendo which we didn't really understand until six or seven years later,
  When sexuality was a special secret club our elders and the kids in the years above came across so wise for being a member of, rather than an anti-turing test; a farcical ritual where everyone tries their best to imitate the hyper-reality of MTV while hiding the nervous feelings that this whole thing was really meant for someone other than us,
  When creating a whole new lexicon for our self-hood (be it artistic, ******, political or philosophical) felt like existential emancipation; a transcendental rebellion against the normalising identities and semantics of old, rather than an impenetrable circle-**** taxonomy,
  When one day we'd unveil a new term in some text, and it would completely change our outlook on every corner of our lives,
  Or, the next day, when we'd give up and just sit back on rolling banks, and look out at a veil of stars,
  Or the next day, when we'd wonder desperate and painfully, which of the last two was the real pursuit and which was wasted time? (Or was it this day, the day spent building an illusory dialectic between them?)
  Remember when we were in kindergarden, and you had to pass through the kitchen, -the adults zone,- to get to the toilet, and you'd feel both shame and wonderment listening in of the snippets of conversation muttered by these titanic figures; discussing abstruse issues from the newspaper in foreign yet noble tongues?
  Remember when we were teens, and every form-checking observation and question from these same adults was so painstakingly pedantically banal and asinine, that one could only respond with monosyllabic grunts and silent hysterics?
  And remember as 'young adults', when we'd inevitably entered this same dull Aristotelian world of forms, how we'd ask the same adults for advice on filling these paperworks, at once still asemic gibberish, and at once the fine-print that contained and predicted our lives?
  Remember when our dreams for the future were not bounded by the economy of our grade point averages and just how much debt we were willing to incur
                                …
I've seen the best minds of my generation climb into pre-packaged little boxes; and pay through the teeth for the privilege of doing so.  
  Akin to a 'Howl' they call it? Our cry for selfhood? What a scream.
It's not even a cry. Barely a whimper.
More of a zombified groan, completely aware our intrepid Journey of Self is just a pricey guided tour. (Tv Ad's static commodified existential emancipatory platitudes; 'your place in the world' / 'well it's my place and it's my time' urgh.)
And so we march asleep; all lame all blind.
  Trudging through the mind-fields; arguing, unravelling the semantic distinctions between the empty boundaries and the boundaries of emptiness.
  Transcribed down for essay deadlines,  /  assessing our lives trajectory as dead lines,
Becoming increasingly aware,
  We are not the living beings, the dasein, the Übermenschen being actualised; we are the machinery through which the institutions, the factories, the markets and education facilities actualise themselves.
  (While the only acceptable language we can breathe in opposition to these ratcheting pedagogical machines is the lexicon they provide us..
  ('oh, you hate systemic neoliberal alienation; the deestablishment of ontological anthropocentrism? Tell me more about the esoteric uselessness of academic culture.') bluh.)

But

       the more we follow those phantom images we built of ourselves,
the more we become aware they are but sirens; hypnotic dreamlike figures luring us to our doom,
  and as this awareness dawns; and the cognitive dissonances and schizophrenia grows,
       We


                                just try to keep calm and carry on regardless.

Can we really claim the arrogance of having a better path?
The conceit that there's a better cliff we should be guiding ourselves to to top ourselves off?
I don't know,
I reaally
really
just don't know.
..i think i started out with a theme here, but it mostly devolved into venting.
      i finished another year of university recently. i'm not really sure to what extent higher education's given me perspective on life, and what extent it's simply annihilated what little i had.
   from my experiences of student culture, i feel our generation views itself as abandoned by the world, but to good for it anyway. We aren't the bohemians or beatniks or hippies or punks; our drinking and drugging ourselves to death isn't a counter-cultural high-minded rebellion. It's more a prideful self destructive egotism, a self derisive narcissism.   or something. i dunno.
  whether it's from cowardice or a more genuine scepticism, i certainly have no idea what i am (or ought to be) doing in/with/about this world.
Tell me, Gentlemen:
while you soared higher than your fears and dreams could ever reach, into the blue crystal infinity,
did you hear the voices of angels echoing off the wings of geese migrating south for the winter?
how did it feel,
fighting for a nation that measured your worth in disheveled water fountains, mop buckets, dust rags, and potato peelings,
defending stars and stripes stained with the same molten white abhorrence smeared on ******* bombers?
did it hit you like a G force?
when you climbed into that cockpit, audaciously red, the blood rushing to your head, was it bitter hand fulls of cherries sweet?
when you returned home through back doors and alleyways to face an Uncle Sam with burning crosses in his eyes,
when you stood curbside at your own homecoming parade feeling confetti and streamers tickle the bridges of your noses,
tell me how it felt, Gentlemen.
will my brothers and sisters who fight only for tennis shoe wealth, understand the worth of those medals on your scarlet blazers?
if I listen hard enough to those jets breaking the sound barrier will I hear your story?
tell me, Gentlemen,
what was it like to fly?
infinite respects,
Curlie Fries Mcgee
Linda Kessler Jun 2012
Ladies, in thier ballgowns wade,
thier masks they have made,
so they wade across the ballroom floor,
for the sign on the,
Big. Brass. Door,
a masquerade, it reads,
A Masquerade.
The men,
ready in blazers and tuxes,
wearing thier masks,
awaiting thier midnight mistress,
thier...**** seductress.
Then, the man in black and white,
guides his mistress inder the moonlight,
for a dance, perhaps a kiss,
at the stroke of midnight.
At midnight, the clock sounds,
and all you see is the spinning of gown after gown.
Ding. ****. Ding. ****.
the sound becomes a beat,
ready and awaiting the eager dancers feet.
Ding. ****. Ding. ****.
the couples dance, but not for long,
for this...
this is the, Last. Song.
Ding. ****. Ding. ****.
At the end of this song,
the men and women,
reveal themselves, and at long last,
they shed thier masks.
Then the man in black and white,
grasps his ladies hand, and holds it tight,
then he gets down, on his knee,
and her gasp...
brings an end to this story.
This poem has been published in a book! :D
Maria Enika R May 2012
Single life is sweet
And a lover’s life is a dream
But then there is that
                 Space in between
That doesn’t seem real
At all.
It’s the fall
From cloud nine

To the loneliest limbo.

It’s watching sparkling sugar coated single earthlings
Below show off their uncommitted free spirited
Confectioner outfitted
Figures and naked fingers
Bubblegum ******* blazers
And frosted fickle flaked fedoras
Suiting each been-there-done-that suitor
In runway Yong Wild and
Free

And then you see
Above
Airy fairy angels in love
Wearing pale peachy perfection
And creamy chiffon
Adorned in pearly promises
Baby’s breath and fresh roses
French kisses and rubbing noses
And of course
The stupid
Valentine’s Day cards.

But you are far
Away from either world
You are a girl
In silent confinement
Trapped
On Cloud Five nothingness
Like a time bomb
A volatile child
Ready to explode
At any moment
So kept
In icy isolation
So that no one
Could hear the cries
Of your eruption.
Andrew T Aug 2016
You painted your eyelids with green velvet and ruby red. The fractured mirror kept your insecurity at bay, as sparkle blue glitter poured all over your head from a little tin can.

We drove across the bridge, and through Shocko bottom, stopping at a nearly deserted parking lot sanctioned by an honor code. We double parked behind an Acura sedan, and waited as you snorted half a gram of Molly off your manicured fingernail into each
nostril.

You took in a deep breath, smoked a Parliament, and blew smoke out the
window. After ten minutes we shambled out of the car with our purses tucked under our armpits, and red fire dying in our eyes. When we reached the Hat Factory venue, the line disappeared from our view and we walked to the entrance where two bouncers were posted up. The tall giants marked our hands with black sharpie ink, drawing a large, bold “X” on each one.

Once inside the spacious warehouse, we ascended a white marble staircase and paid a ten dollar entry fee. Another doorman took out his marker and drew a red line, crossing through the dark black “X” that was drying on our hands. You broke off and away, going
straight to the bar. The bartender asked what you wanted to drink, and you requested water. She smiled and gave you a red solo cup filed with tap water and ice-cubes. After you thanked her, she handed you a bright pink glow stick that you wrapped around your forearm, fitting a figure 8 around your skin like a cloth sleeve.

On the stage was a young man dressed in neon colored plaid and skinny jeans. He climbed up a tall stepladder and jumped from the top, belly flopping on a beautiful African Queen bodacious gluteus Maximus, daggering deep into her soaking black spandex, the decadent bodies swimming on top of each other, stroking and staining the pink gymnastic mat with hot sweat and salt. A huge beach ball colored with red, white,
yellow, and blue pinwheel stripes sailed through the air over the balcony, smacking into a deathly thin model who was smoldering her Parliament cigarette into a clear glass
ashtray.

Mollywopped undergraduates gathered around circles where reggae artists harpooned inflatable black and white killer whales with thrift store bought switchblades.

Laying flat on his stomach was an Asian photographer snapping away with his Nikon digital SLR camera, pale hipsters in ***** black blazers and black fedoras hurling red and purple plastic assault rifles into the intense mass of worry-stricken college students carefree for the moment, gyrating and grinding to the womp-womp bass booming from rectangular speakers that squished in a disc jockey and his hardwood stand with his mixer and two turn tables. He scratched the needle along the worn edge of a battle-scarred vinyl record. His fingers zigzagged the sliders, pressed down on buttons, turned up the volume knobs.

Some hyper-maniac golden child bounced around the dance floor, sneaking up behind university sophomores mesmerized by the makeshift floodlights in the rafters blinking on and off. Conversations were made in the head, but never opened up when the girl approached. Stuck up super senior girls with heavy black mascara and matted eyelashes raised their eyebrows and swatted away ***** flies with a wave of their lotioned hand.

***** girls dress in high heels and septum piercing, their ear cartilage stabbed through by unclean metal. A rude person bumps into the Hyper-maniac golden child, causing the golden child to shove squarely into the rude person’s back. Name-calling ensues, threats fired and received, looks exchanged and bitterness rose over any other tension in the fuming room.

In the far right corner were a couple of kids making out; they’d just met.

Walking away from the fight, sidling between sweaty ugly people, the golden child swayed upstairs to the second floor, passed another bar and balcony tables, chairs, and dance platforms.
He went through a swinging door and joined a conversation between
a bunch of strangers. Wary around the golden boy, he starts practicing his standup Comedy routine, almost bombing on the first joke. Cheap jacks burned bright orange after a blue flame ignited the tapered paper end. Arms snared around the golden child’s body. Oh how nice! It was his friend from Modern Grammar class, he used to sit next to
her in the second row and copied homework answers from the blackboard with her.
She was happy.
And he was happy.
Heather Moon Jan 2014
Black crows fly above me in the sky. They fly like the wind on a whisper less winter day. They fly in the stream lights of sun, the crisp chill that makes people like chimneys, taking the heat of our internal being and freezing it into steam.

I recall Vancouver at this time, when flimsy white metal iron fences were too cold to touch; when I could see the ***** of frozen water on them, little ice drops. I remember that old Chinese lady, unusual to be a chain smoker but none the less. Outside in her plastic sandals from an Asian dollar store and her hands rubbing briskly as she smoked away. She was older, white haired even. She had some Chinese dolls, golden cats adorning the sides of her door and cement lions greeting faces at her gate.  Her house a “Vancouver special” with red shingled roofs and a flimsy little yard. The chilly morning smog of the city nestled in corners, lingered over sleepy buildings, settled into back doors of coffee shops or swept in a dance with a broom over the awakening shops doormats. Most ladies of the area gardened in their yards or I would catch them sweeping the water off of their back decks but she just sat all day, nothing more to do, just sat, smoking.

The Asian community in Vancouver is vast and big. Chinatown was a mystery to me when I was little. The dragons and fortune cookies, the rows of heads sloping down the hill into the city, the streetlights designed like black gum droplets, gazing at the passer-by’s. My little head opened wide as I held my father’s hand and got lost within the dizzying crowd of fantastic colour and pungent smells like fish or other scents of unknown origin. The unfamiliar language spitting off the tongues of faces I didn’t know. And finally the descent, the bus ride back, the warmth from the heater, warming my little hands that wrapped around a lychee fruit juice box and that golden sun gleaming through the city bus window and strutting on the sidewalks. I would watch the artsy people pass by on the streets, Mohawks, colours, art galleries, and also sophisticated gentlemen in suits or business woman in blazers and heels. Gazing out and seeing each person. Each house each building. Each human, living life so differently yet how similar they all were, we all are. I wonder if I was I just a crescent, a slip in the corners of these people’s eyes. Or perhaps they too recall a similar scene, and in that image within their minds there walks a little girl, ample with curiosity, lost in the wonder.

The crows laugh on electric lines, a time has passed and light drizzles begin to wash over, fogging lines of car windows, drizzling and spraying. The school bus home kind of rain, the one that stains cement and makes sing-song sounds as it drips down the gutters and drainpipes. The rain that makes the colour red pop out, the one that shivers hands and rests on pink cheeks. The crows laugh at my dreaming, as I sit in some old neighborhood leaning on a dumpy alleyways wooden garage door, stuck in some memory. Or rather they laugh because some woman is standing alone in the rain, getting drenched by nature’s eternal bath.
SK Fisher Oct 2011
Yeah those wild hooligans, those mini hell raisers
What was their motive? to be trail blazers?
  
They're smoking squares, and sneaking out
Facing alota scares, but never cry a shout

They're simply cool, calm and destructive
Shoutin out obscenities, and being abruptive

Yeah the boys remain true, to themselves and their crew
Simply bein themselves, and  askin who are you?
Neko Majin May 2015
A new thing has happened, a new consensus reached, new wise men crying out in the streets. A message as strange, as it is bold, conveyed to those who are of yet not very old, spreading like fire to those who desire it.
A wisdom that fills the mind with understanding, and the heart with wrath, they no longer desire the common path, a small few among many, the trail blazers rise.
The wise see through the facade, leaving the lies for  the fools, and the pawns, they see the existence with no purpose that the masses adore, In ignorance they find peace, in the lack of knowledge they are content.
A lie no different from the last is enough to throw a life away without regret, blindly excepting whatever is presented as a worthy cause.
An absence of knowledge, and a surplus of faith, spiraling towards an unavoidable fate.
vera Mar 2018
Imagine a single breath,
left alone in a hollow chest.

Grey seeping into white
Color bleeding out like a pen,

Violating the marrow of my bones.
The blue-black of my veins,
Lost against my feathery skin.

The union of so many memories,
Real and imagined.

Black blazers shrouding me,
with prayers and tears.

Convinced in the everlasting,
As much as I was for awakenings,
I close my eyes (and dream).
The Noose Dec 2013
I haven't really laughed since 2009
He said,
He then divulged his struggles
As I did mine
We spoke of the mutual regret about not keeping in touch
But with conflicting schedules, relocations and studies
It is comprehensible we veered in opposite directions and lost contact

My estranged bestfriend

We reminiscenced about the time when we were school kids
In stiff shirts, massive floppy hats
And giant blazers we practically drowned in
How eager we were to go home
When the siren went off at 3:05pm
The shanenigans at the pavilion
In sixth form
When we were the lords of the academy

A strong grip on my giant mug as if it were the holy grail
Stirring my something that ends with cinno
Huddled in the corner of a cozy eatery

In his company once again
it felt as though I had arrived home where fire burns incessantly in the fire place
On a winter's night
With a soft blanket over my shoulders

We laughed about my truancy
And how he got kicked out of the ruby team on account of his rather lanky physique
He imitated our biology teacher and tears flowed down my cheeks
That kind of laughter
You feel in your core
And your whole body shakes

So captivated by the various discussions
We both forgot to sip on our steaming beverages

He narrated a few short stories about the events
that have taken place since we last conversed
I in turn narrated mine or lack thereof
He emphatically tilted his head to the side
God, I had missed those gestures of his
It all came flooding back
His mannerisms
The way he moves his hands when he speaks  as if he is trying to literally hold the conversation

For what seemed like a lifetime Before saying goodbye
Dead-eyed
We stared into each other's eyes
Almost as if to telepathically say
Do you remember the time
When we were so alive.
This is rather tedious, pardon me.
Liz McLaughlin Mar 2013
So I said to him
"I've got my demons"
Two bit termites that eat me away
'Cause I was never a real girl
--would you look at her nose--
Lying *****

And then he points back
Says look at them skeletons
Hanging from the closet
Among button down shirts and sanctioned blazers
But they're made of plastic
Some cheap bio lab representation of what's meant to be human

NO I scream
And my voice bubbles out like tar
Paving over his cracked ideals
Sealing up the sink hole where I buried my heart
--saving it for a rainy day--
And I slam the door in his face
Hoping it hits the ******* nose he stuck in my business

Hounds are scratching at my door
Whining for a chance
To rip apart the rabbit
That's hiding in my head

I stand up and let them
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
look how i was fed guilt - look at how no one
screamed a care for the candle going out,
that roaming stars were born -
trail blazers i and they - i was fed guilt and
subsequently they were fed hopelessness -
they can joke all they want...
i'll be the one laughing over their graves,
people fear reading poetry because they fear
the hemlock - poetry is a hemlock...
they fear the personal, they really do -
you can write whatever you want when
humanity is lazy, and with times such as these
humanity is really lazy - they had to
create a secondary celebrity, not one built
on merit, but one built on per se -
becoming famous is like getting a free lunch
these days - that backlog of Darwinism has
finally spawned, draw back irrational history to
a dozen men as examples, call them Charlemagne,
Philip Augustus, Cnut (not variant of knot with
u but Ka-Noot), Genghis Kitty Chuckles,
Alexandria and the 5th Harem of Macedonia
named after her - Comrade Mao and chow mein -
Adolf and Hinduism... Erik zee Beetroot und Ashland -
we're criminal - we left the tribunal of heaven's sake
for a while to keep the black'e a sack of potatoes
worthy of a boxing match - and every ******* time
people wanted us to revise our vocabulary - every single
time... ooh racist... ooh anti-feminist... well thank
you Brother Orwell... i'll oysters with that observation...
see you in 20; you know what i dream of?
the wild west... yawning quickly like an Apache
making a war-cry - hand in smoke signals,
pop pop cherry, pop pop cherry drop, pop pop
another whitey gets scalped.
send me to the butchers! seriously, i want to go to
the butchers and the slaughterhouse... they really should
send children to slaughterhouses than to see Mike the Mouse,
otherwise know as Mickey - see the butchering -
i'm in one of those moods where i write because
i have a chance in hell to get a prize,
or that i don't wish to have one in the first place...
or because i'm ******* that this woman once wrote
of ****** liberation in the 1960s, and now she's writing
about glorifying arrange marriages, a jewel franchise -
i could be asking: what do women want?!
but that's still feminism with a ******, the real thing
is all about bogs and frogs and privacy,
knights and slap-stick humour -
                                                         thank you, minus the wife.
20 years on i'll be the one who's supposed to be jealous
that you own a Porsche - and i'll be asking about
the M.O.T. - like the two mattered for my care to ****.
i pay zero tax... you pay how much?! ooh, too-shay
and tooth decay, i swear i told you a pea-sized dollop
of fluoride and job done under 20 seconds...
you doing peppermint ******* with that mouth while
reciting a goodnight story to a child?
you know, before the haemorrhage i was such a decent
person... i know, one of the many boring facts i
claim to be a second birth... a Kentucky fried chicken
gets more sympathy at a vegetarians' conventions than i do...
i'm the criminal worth a spank and a nod of disapproval
with a tut-tut-naughty-naughty wandering of the index finger -
the French ******, the English were playing
rosy-cheek-chequers reminiscent of the Victorian black attire
while the Suez swelled in what became know as
the ****** Monsoon in a f.g.m. ****.
well, if my vocabulary be criminal... i should have been
taught to be illiterate, or at least be taught sign language...
if you don't like it... *******!
topaz oreilly Sep 2012
The moralist  is playing again,
bleaching your hair
is an unspoken uniform,
with so little soul
acetates don't get played.
New words gets bandied "plebs",
but without the de-rigueur  Corduroys
or  navy blazers,
we are all be tarred
with the same brush.
Meanwhile the coach exhaust  fumes
abnegated our pilgrimage to Stamford
and we all now agree we  
lived beyond our means
in exiguous Britain
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY




YA SEE ME AND MY BROTHER WERE TEASING ONE ANOTHER AND OUR FIRST

FAMILY PET LADY GOES MISSING, AND SCHOOL KIDS SAID IT WAS WEE, BUT

IT COULD’VE BEEN PINEAPPLE JUICE, AND I STARTED UP A BOWLING LEAGUE

CAUSE I WAS GETTING SICK OF MY BROTHER BEING THE ONLY SPORTSMAN

IN THE FAMILY, SO I JOINED THE BOWLING AT THE BELCONNEN BOWL, MET

TWO NICE FRIENDS TRISTAN AND JASON LEE, I ENJOYED PLAYING WITH THEM

UNTILL A MATE GOT ME INTO HIS LEAGUE, WHERE, MY PROBLEM WITH MY BOWLING

STYLE AS A KID, I TURNED MY HAND, BUT I HAD FUN BOWLING, IT WAS GREAT

AND EVERY THURSDAY NIGHT WAS THIS BIG NIGHT, I MET CRAIG AND JODIE

WHO I DEVELOPED A CRUSH ON, BUT CRAIG SAID, SHUT UP FATTY, JODIE’S MINE

AND CRAIG AND JODIE WERE TEAMED UP WITH ME AND LYLE, YA SEE LYLE HAD POWER

AND GOT MORE STRIKES THAN ME, AND JODIE WAS A COOL, PRETTY SWEET GIRL

BUT CRAIG WANTED HER, BUT YA CAN’T BLAME A GUY FOR TRYING, AND THEN

CRAIG HAD A MATE NAMED BILL, WHO INTRODUCED TO ME AND LYLE, AND HIS KIDS

WERE SIMILAR TO BRAD, RANDY, AND MARK ON HOME IMPROVEMENT, AND I REMEMBER

WHEN I GOT A STRIKE, I CHEERED AND WHEN I MISSED I WENT OH DRATTA, AND

BILL’S KIDS, WERE PLAYING AROUND, WHILE BACK AT HOME, MY DAD, MUM AND BROTHER

WERE WATCHING THEIR TV PROGRAMS, AND AFTER I FINISHED, I PLAYED WITH

EVERY KID AT THE BOWLING ALLEY, SAYING I WILL CHASE YOU, AND THE KIDS SAID

RUN RUN AS FAST AS YA CAN, YOU CAN’T CATCH ME I AM THE GINGERBREAD MAN

AND I GRABBED ONE KID AND TOUCHED HIM INAPPRIOTELY ON THE MOUTH, AND

HE RAN TO BILL, AND BILL AND CRAIG TORE STRIPS OFF ME, I WAS SAYING

I AM A KID, JUST LIKE THEM, CRAIG SAID, SHUT UP FATTY, AND GO HOME

AND THEN I DID YMCA BASKETBALL, WITH MY BROTHER, AND HIS FRIEND

MY TEAMS WERE THE BLUE BLAZERS AND THE WANDERERS, AND EACH

TEAM WON A LOT, AND I SCARED A FEW KIDS, BUT I WAS NEVER THROWN OUT

OF THERE, I SHOWN UP THERE DRUNL ONE DAY, THE GAME WAS COOL

BUT ALL THE TOM FOOLERY, THAT WENT ON BEHIND THE SCENES

WAS WEIRD, I REMEMBER FRANK’S MATE ROBERT, HATED HOW I GRABBED HIM BY THE MOUTH

AND I WENT TO LYLE’S FLAT TO SLEEP, AFTERWARDS, TO WATCH TV

BUT I AM NOT THE KIND OF PERSON FOR SLEEPOVERS

I PREFER TO STAY AT MY HOME,

I WENT TO A LOT OF YOUNG DUDES HOMES

YA KNOW, JUST TO MUCK WITH THEM , YA KNOW GET ****** AND FUCKEN ****

MY FAMILY HAD A NEW NEIGHBOUR, THE CRABBY BUS DRIVER AND IN CAME DAVE SCHULTZ AND HIS WIFE

AND THREE KIDS, COREY, BRENDAN AND CANDICE, AND I SWUNG THEM AROUND

IN THE FRONT YARD, AND AS BRENDAN AND CANDICE CAME OVER ALL THE TIME

MUM AND DAD SAID, I DON’T WANT THESE KIDS COMING OVER ALL THE TIME

BUT THEY WERE TYPICAL PARENTS, AND ME AND PATRICK, WENT TO SEE JIMMY BARNES IN CONCERT

AND EACH NEW YEARS EVE, PAT WOULD HOST THIS GREAT NEW YEARS EVE BASH WITH US AND HIS FAMILY

SO I WAS A GREAT PERSON, BUT THERE ARE MORE GREAT STORIES FROM THE ALLAN FAMILY ARCHIVES
theinsatiate Jul 2013
For Rodney, whose light never seizes to shine.*
middle fingers up, middle fingers up - put your fists up!*

The Black Blazers;
they march and trot over,
the heart of the city.
Like seasoned veterans of war.
Unknowingly striking,
as they would on a gruesome battle field.

Buttoning their starch-pressed white shirts,
at the break of dawn,
like soldiers with bullet proof vests.
With the hope of becoming the hero at work,
even if its just for the day.

Elaborately folding their carvats,
some wonder,
'Do we really need to leave?'

Looking at their love,
in deep slumber with a hint of a smile on their face.
They take one glance at the mirror,
never looking back,
they go off to protect,
they go off to war.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
oto historja z kantem, co podwójne ma dno, gdyby napisał ją dante, to nie tak by to szło.*

existentialism never caught on in england,
it was under the scalpel of an autopsy,
divided in the extremes,
i style magazines, or in the saturday newspaper
edition of gloss, ensuring the world knows
about modern gladiators' (footballers') antics
with boyfriends at home and the girlfriends
on the prowl - feminism's by-product - hmm -
there's a common saying in england:
'i have an existence, i don't have a life',
well... ex- (out of) every instance, it's a life,
i know the big words sound foreboding,
but let's not make it a life of any concern,
unless you're dressed like Mr. Portillo
traversing the American continent in yellow
chequered shirts and pink trousers and green blazers...
style... gotta have style walking in Wisconsin...
the pretty english 'have a nice day' air about
you without perfumes... yes, Mr. Portillo is
the epitome of dressing like an englishman
cursing Voltaire... lollipop goo to my liking, mm...
hey, i'm just a drunk with an itchy feel for
language... me poet, me poet de facto...
ever heard of midorexia? me neither, until today...
even the rich aren't immune...
tan-lines and short shorts aren't enough to
define this odd anorexia of lost youth...
it's supposedly defined by wearing sunglasses
anywhere than on holiday -
see... this is where french existentialism led
the english - it led them to an answer: itemisation,
overt itemisation - born from every believability -
born from every centric to the the european
continent measurement loss exporting flesh from
the ivory coast to the florida measurement -
a pint for above half a litre - the statue of liberty
had many ******* under her skirt...
including king john as one of the fathers...
they really didn't think about existentialism,
no thought invoked made the shopkeepers sigh
and say: excess itemisation is required -
we need cuff-links, orange juicers via ponce,
we need smartphones, we need leathered shoes
(18 carat-hark pig), and belts...
we need all these distractions to go against
the french suggestion of a 35 hour working week...
live to work, don't work to live...
it never caught on... they decided to protest
against Sartre... because he lived with his mother...
**** me... i should have asked for a surrogate too,
and two daddies... and I.V.F., i should have,
because suddenly everyone became neurotic
with Freudian misuse of the Oedipal theory -
Mr. Portillo and Alan Shearer just left the game early,
one's a backpacker with a camera
and the other is a football analyst - left the game
of chance political slander... wise guys; bravo! bravo! encore!
K M Jun 2013
Cashier’s line, foot tapping, texting, heavy sigh

The steady beep of the checkout

The kid in the baseball cap in front of me

His headphones don’t contain the music

“I don’t wanna be a solider mamma, I don’t wanna die”

The bus whines as the light shifts from yellow to red

A woman coughs, violently choking on years of tar, she looks around anxiously

And rights herself with a casual flick of her cigarette

A couple briefcases walk by, donning blazers and red ties

“Ya gotta be the best if ya wanna make it there. Brilliant! Boom boom boom!”

A woman sits inside a cafe, the spot where people do their people watching

Instead her infant captures her attention, cooing at the pink bundle in the stroller

“Yes you are the cuuutest little thing aren’t you, aren’t you?”

A man flicks his wrist to glimpse the time while he pumps gas

Silent, wanting to be elsewhere, that’s why he’s filling up his tank

A swarm of tourists, each waiting for the others to advance so that they might ****** the prime spot for a photograph

Their voices melt into one excited static

Cars honking at bicyclists and bicyclists yelling at pedestrians who yell at bicyclists

The river flowing quickly beneath my feet planted on the bridge

The Earth alive, rotating beneath the river

The Earth hurtling through the galaxy, through the universe

A passerby scolds me for not moving

Hurrying along
MereCat Oct 2014
“Our characteristics smear through us,
Like colours in a stick of rock.”
He says to the audience of ties and blazers.
“If I cut you open, what shades
Would I find in your cross-sections?”
“If you cut me open,
There’d be a fair amount of red,
I should think.”
I say behind my sharpened teeth.
“And my parents wouldn’t be very pleased.”
Oh how witty I am
With my quick fire of sarcasm,
And petulant spasms of acrimony.
Eight miles away,
Our house is full of September;
Raincoats and Crane flies,
And I water my Guinea Pig’s tumour
With tears I owe elsewhere.
A teacher at my school
Committed suicide, people say,
While we skipped waves
And created poetry from the leaf-light.
They can’t tell us the details,
Of course not – sensitivity is key –
But that tells us all we thirst for.
School clockworks forwards
With a hole in the Geography office
And I forget about remembrance.
He drove a BMW and laughed
Small laughs that coughed with nervousness.
I sit in History, pen-chewing,
Thinking of all these more important deaths.
The school bells don’t hold silences
The year sevens don’t stand
Or bow their heads in room 180
We try making futures for ourselves
And apply ourselves to those things
That still have chances tied to them
Like clover leaves and birthday candles.
We turn on lights in the evenings
And I wake myself from darkness to darkness.
My life consists of the cooling,
Cotton-throated early mornings
And the bike that my brother bought new
Six years ago.
And the drag of my newspaper bag
That claws backwards from my peddling.
The world is blue and grey with rime,
I rip my fingers on letterboxes.
My shoes fall apart from the heels
My ballet shoes fall apart from the toes
My life enjoys unravelling itself
From wherever I’ve chosen to stitch it
And I fray and crimp at the corners.
I prefer to go barefoot
Across the rinsed, diluted garden
That smells of rotting apples.
Ballet tights rolled up my legs
So that my bruised toes get kissed
With grass slobber and the faded zeal of autumn.
Slugs crisscross pavements like surgical tape
Then get stuck and frazzled there
While the sun toasts them.
“Maybe I’d find hopes, dreams,” he says.
“Maybe you’d find organs.”
You’d find me weeping over pirouettes
And geometric lines and extensions.
You’d find a twice-broken arm
And an array of internal fractures.
There’d be shards lodged between each rib.
My parachute lungs, pumping filth,
Would continue to tear and furl
Until they wouldn’t resemble
The things we scalped in biology.
I re-write lists of ‘Things To Do’
In the hope that they’ll seem shorter
But I add all my flaws to them
For amendments and for procrastination.
For some reason people still expect things
From this emptying girl
Who actually thinks
That the one who cut into her
Would be in danger of finding
Nothing but a brittled, bitter hollow.
I highlight my essays
And highlight the cracks
I’m carving in my personality.
I paste impressions of myself
All over my exterior shell
Alongside character traits.
Who knows what lies beneath
The papier-mâché of well-played parts?
My fingers play music on the computer keyboard
More than they practice the piano.
But the songs they make are far from sweet
And rarely beautiful.
My parents think I’m working
On Hume, Bentham and Kant
But really, I write jaded poetry
Which forms its own philosophies.
“Your experiences would be evident,
Spread through your character.”
My brother ate away at his life
Until he starved.
They set him down in a mental unit
For the ‘Screwy’, ‘Freakish’ and ‘Insane.’
So I buried my childhood
In the side ward mazes
Of hand sanitizer and tubes and tombs.
“I’d find what makes you unique –
Your religion, perhaps.”
I laugh away the suggestion
That is actually the truth of how
My Sunday mornings fall under ‘Church’
And the afternoons are ‘Top Forty’ –
I don’t even like chart music.
How can I be ashamed of the faith
I try fervently not to doubt?
The sun drips from the evening sky
Like a squeezed lemon
And Monday cycles round again
I live in a little world of spirals;
Eternally coming back to the same place
Just worn a little further down.
I waste my life on the vanity
Of mirrors and self-deprecation.
Sometimes I think I must be arrogant
To make the pretty little assumption
That I don’t have to wear make-up.
It’s funny that I lay my skin bare –
Always –
But can’t manage to strip myself down
To the crudest, rawest truth.
I can only write for people I don’t know;
I let my parents believe blindly
That I’m a creative prodigy
Instead of human
By refusing them the blessing
Of honest words from ink and paper.
But the truth is;
I am not the faded mystery
That I pose as in my writing,
I’m just someone who sits in school assembly
And tries to make self-portraits from words,
And tries to forge intelligence,
And tries to never grow old,
And tries to be something,
And tries nothing,
And tries –
“But what I’d really want to see
Is compassion,” He says.
I turn my face down to my knee bones
And permit myself to agree.
Compassion, I tell myself
And, just for a minute,
I feel a little less
Superficial.
Keely Anne May 2013
i am afraid to see you,
because i am afraid you will covet parts of me
that i have cultivated on my own.

the color yellow,
regina spektor and ukeleles, blazers and old dogs.
pieces of you embedded in me.

yours.

but mine are sunny days, and glittery pop music
the way i drive my green car too fast
and my red lipstick

my habit of singing reckless harmonies
to the songs on the radio
going away to college and dyeing all my hair pink.

mine.

i don't want to see you.
because harmonizing with you means losing something that i found on my own, and leaving my red lipstick on your face--and we both know it will come to that-- will only leave my lips pale and wan and you telling me to slow down means that i will never drive alone again and whether you tell me that i should or should not dye my hair and run away i will do the opposite just to spite you and not for the happiness that is finally mine.

and *******, you do not get to galavant back into my life with your
"Happy birthday! <3"
and your
"I'll be in town this weekend, can I see you?"
and run my life again with your manipulative *******
that i learned to absorb into my bloodstream,
or spit back into your face
because i had to get rid of you

i don't want you to know what my new favorite book is.
or about that one movie that i've watched of my own accord more than once
or the song that makes me cry about the future because these things are mine. I do not belong to you anymore and I will never belong to you again so long as my heart is my own and if i have to give up seeing you forever to make that so, then so be it.
5/7/13
sloppy word ***** about a person i know.
Dylan Witte Oct 2013
I was dragged here against my will,
Though these places aren't foreign to me.
The same hollow men with blazers on.
Women in dresses stare at the clock.
This is truly the worst.


Great, one's glaring at me.
Come on, I said "clock." I'm minding my own
"Aren't  you going to get me a drink?" she asks.
Was that a question or just a command?
I don't really understand women.


"I think you have the wrong man," I say.
See, I'm trying my hardest to leave alone.
She leans forward, begins to impose.
"What are you, gay?"
Arrogant's not my type.
What do you want me to say?

I watch her hand go for the glass.
She's not aware I've played this game
Too many times before.
So I catch her wrist and turn it back,
and water spills all over her.

A crowd of men pick me up.
The most glorious of strikes to the face
Sending me back to where I belong,
My comfortable couch I ride alone.
If that's the world, I'll just stay home.
He Pa'amon Apr 2014
The alcohol that you measure in your graduated cylinder  
is not the alcohol you binge drink on the weekends,
is not the alcohol your parents drink out of elegant crystal,
but they all burn.

Burn like the knowledge that knowledge gets you swallowed into the abyss of faceless statistics only to fill up the remaining desks left by those who care too much not to.

Life is too short to worry about why 1, 2, 3 has turned into your abc's while life screams just shut your textbook, please. There's love, and ***, and drugs just waiting for you to realize that school rots the brain, not Mary Jane.

But Mary Jane still sits with her nose in a book, knowing life doesn't end when the graduation caps fly up,
                                                           up,                    
                                         ­                        up to the top of her class, because money may not buy happiness but without a solid education financial stability is a joke, and it's a matter of time before you crash and burn,
                                                                ­          burn like the alcohol in your red solo cup, chugging away the inevitable:
                        life is wasted by the try-hards and the try-nots.

The geeks and the nerds whose potential is squandered by the system, teaching them how to read rubrics and recite rhymes and reiterate the same ******* spoon-fed to them by those who failed to exceed to the limitations of the textbook.

The hippies, the druggies, the ones who can be found in the dark hallways and back rooms and hugging the outside walls all see the futility in it all. so why not jump out of an airplane without a parachute because each joint only lasts a few puffs, and the high only a few short blinks until you are thrown back down to earth.

High school reveals how you will survive life: in one impetuous bright burst or one prolonged apathetic smolder. But all the blazers and all the late-night homework-doers will have to put out the flame or turn off the light sooner or later.
One day we will be dead.

Our daughters will flood
the buildings of power like we
never had the gall or opportunity to afford.

They will bleed on the steps of
civil law and **** along the the stark
black lines of “rules” like pale meat pandering
for sympathy within their own box.

The powder on our faces and the cotton-silk
of our garments will stifle the very licked down,
spit smothered lies they raised us with,
gutting the cage and raising the dead.

What will they do when we amass
like the folds between our legs, bellowing
like the sounds of our *** and forming
in the clean cut lines of blazers and slacks?

Can they get a handle on the heave of our
*******? Can they take the pulse of our
wombs? Out, in, out, in, like the very ******
they aided us with.

How many months in a lifetime do we
have to bleed and clean to earn ourselves
the right to humanity?

Our girls will know more than this;
mark my words. Our children will see
the right they were born with.

We will be free, we will be free, we will not

be silent.
The look in your eyes
hooks me,

taking me back to the days
of my grandfathers, dark
whiskey in hip-flasks kept close
to their chests, eating tinned fruit
and singing to warm themselves up
on cold nights

I remember the sound of their voices,
thick and throaty, as if forty
cigarettes a day had eaten
into their chords

I wear their blazers sometimes,
Over a red dress, imagining myself
before they thought of me

wondering if they felt the rain fall
on their face as blood washed the
souls of their shoes

I know that your green eyes
are searching my face for signs and
similarities, the past threatening to
seep through the open pores
of my skin

I am corrupted
Elena Smith Dec 2015
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Ralph Akintan Feb 2019
Recircled czars drenched
In the blood of despotic swayers.
Encircled proteges with the
Aura of treacherous thorns
Keeping vigils in the basilica
Of authority
Year in,
Year out .

Selfsame partners in politics,
Selfsame partners in crimes,
Selfsame partners in progress
Selfsame partners in poor
      governance,
Setting subservient subjects
In perilous bays of hopelessness.
Scale of disengagement
Dangling carrots of
Intimidating threats.

Recircled ideas.
Recircled inhuman governance.
Recircled personages.
Recircled wasted years.

Deluge of prognostic plans
Sinking boats of tale.
Decades of experience yielding
Inexperienced tzars.
Torn garb of treachery
Covered up blazers of falsehood.
Stench of stasis enthroned on the
Stool of power, wrenching
      corruption from the grip
      of guilt.
Populace sitting on sulky
      directing the horse of
      hardship with the
      wailful whips of
      perseverance.

Epochal terms of wastages
      roll in
      and
      roll out
      like a spiraling
      viperine grass
      snake
      beneath the
      hybrids of weeds
      on a crest of
      spring cress.
Yet, promises promoting
Superannuated gains of
Effortless dividend.
Caroline Feb 2013
I looked in my closet today
Overrun with cardigans, trousers and blazers
And one lonely glittering dress
But instead of threads and buttons
I saw the child that once huddled in the corner
Carpet pulled back
Revealing the blades
The hooks
Staples
The toys she knew
To express herself with
The taint on her heart growing
I looked in my closet today
And saw how far I've come
Out of the darkness
Laura Jul 2018
Blood courses, velveteen.
Alabaster & bistre limbs
inosculated, drawn up
by a methadone sun
to flirt with July skies.
Vertigo fails to fool-

we once loved at night only, scoring rind,
moaning premature world weary woes.
They appear now like blue-violet trail blazers,
defiant against the doubt of heady heights, 
guiding me to you:
my codeine haze, my shoegaze rhapsody,

‘Close my eyes / feel me now':
ours is the real thing,
kissed by the fervent fire.

— The End —