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Criss Jami May 2014
Fiat lux and
Then I stand and see how it looks out on
Gnothi seauton psychologies of a naughty automaton he is
Out speeding on the autobahn while she is
Now sleeping on futons in peace it's

Not pieces that need to be re-ordered yet
Since he's reckless but wrecks less when he's courting it's

A sport, you see a ticket's his master trophy in-
Deed endorsing his Porsche-speed matrimony down master row and she's
Driven to this racer who makes her en-
Force things, they later make her take her lead like lead's erasing then vanishing
Banished from whatever it is they're drinking and it's cleaned
Running from the pitcher as if it's her fantasy
Love who's the catcher who has her and
Now you see
It's not lack-lusting but luck-lasting because lastly
Down the street
Is where I swear we're running faster from crashing, finally

Into this dreamcatcher's hazard
Our dreamcatcher's hazard
Oh have you heard

It's absurd that the whip cracked
Yeah the Porsche was hacked baby transformed back in two and back into a nat-
Ural rural state where the horse power level was more morally sta-
Ble biblically faith-
Ful foolishly a-
Ble but yeah we take over whatever we face-off and baby we're faster so we'll have to chase after our

Dreamcatcher's hazard and
That dreamcatcher's hazard's a
A madness that is learned

And it's absurd
So say the mattress is glowing it's holy
Matrimony, so don't look lonely it's only
Master Roshi, to say to chase your dreams
It's you and me be-
Cause for you my blood is flowing
For you my blood is glowing
For you this blood is flowing
And too the flood is blowing
It's true our love is growing
Gourab Banerjee Jul 2016
Newspaper to news channel
Headline to breaking news
Gangrape or molestation
Foeticide or honour killing
Dowry ****** or eve-teasing
We're uninterrupted
     "    restless
As well in daylight
Or in the dark of midnight
We're the winners
     "      "   topper
To achieve our goal
We're reckless
Proud men of shameless nation
We're Hon'ble Indian Men-Written on 26.07.2012,Thursday
Erik T Blaze Jan 2021
I am
Casting down imaginations
To the pulling down of., strong-holds
Gearing up for the., long term
But from the outside looking in?
May seem bold
or  quite
MAD*
( Well )
Just referring to the thoughts
that I have
that are really not that far- off
while dreaming of.,  REVELATION
No fabrication on my part
As I try to separate the Light
from the Dark
with high hopes and
Aspirations
Which is.. a sen-sational sensation of flying high
as I'm being
           vated
ele-
                  Elevelation
High on
Or something like a planned
Evo-lu-tion that is so
True
Staying true to my elevation in 2020
leading into 2020 one
Now seeing  Dou-ble
Vision
( Although )
Some might try to fix it?
Yeaah
But I would beg to differ
Cause it would take.. Twice.. the listen
Care to listen?
Just to see things
Different
And at the same time?
Shuning the carnal mind's version
of seeing  Dou-ble
Vision
May call it.. Twinning
Which is the true definition
of being  Dou-ble
Minded
So to combat this?
I would just never
Mind it ( meaning )
There's no rules or
bars of
Confinement
For no 20 or Eye is missing
from my
INTUITION
Raised suspicions?
Well., Just hoping that you will
tread.. carefully
And stay
Centered
As you enter my center of words
and.. penning
As I write the vision
I'll make it plain and simple
No Subliminals
Or either I'll keep it at minimal
While maintaining the
Visuals
As usual
As I keep on gaining in
WISDOM
Do not follow your heart follow God
MAD* ( CRAZY )
Anne B Jun 2014
Norwegian:
”Og kjærligheten ble verdens opphav og verdens hersker; men alle dens veier er fulle av blomster og blod, blomster og blod.”

TRANSLATED BY ME:

English:
"And love turned out to be the origin of the world and its master; but all of its roads are filled with flowers and blood, flowers and blood."
I truly love this excerpt from Hamsund's 'Victoria'. This book reminds me to believe in love - even when it sounds like a horrible cliché.
A Letter To My Aunt Discussing The Correct Approach To Modern Poetry

To you, my aunt, who would explore
The literary Chankley Bore,
The paths are hard, for you are not
A literary Hottentot
But just a kind and cultured dame
Who knows not Eliot (to her shame).
Fie on you, aunt, that you should see
No genius in David G.,
No elemental form and sound
In T.S.E. and Ezra Pound.
Fie on you, aunt! I'll show you how
To elevate your middle brow,
And how to scale and see the sights
From modernist Parnassian heights.

First buy a hat, no Paris model
But one the Swiss wear when they yodel,
A bowler thing with one or two
Feathers to conceal the view;
And then in sandals walk the street
(All modern painters use their feet
For painting, on their canvas strips,
Their wives or mothers, minus hips).

Perhaps it would be best if you
Created something very new,
A ***** novel done in Erse
Or written backwards in Welsh verse,
Or paintings on the backs of vests,
Or Sanskrit psalms on lepers' chests.
But if this proved imposs-i-ble
Perhaps it would be just as well,
For you could then write what you please,
And modern verse is done with ease.

Do not forget that 'limpet' rhymes
With 'strumpet' in these troubled times,
And commas are the worst of crimes;
Few understand the works of Cummings,
And few James Joyce's mental slummings,
And few young Auden's coded chatter;
But then it is the few that matter.
Never be lucid, never state,
If you would be regarded great,
The simplest thought or sentiment,
(For thought, we know, is decadent);
Never omit such vital words
As belly, genitals and -----,
For these are things that play a part
(And what a part) in all good art.
Remember this: each rose is wormy,
And every lovely woman's germy;
Remember this: that love depends
On how the Gallic letter bends;
Remember, too, that life is hell
And even heaven has a smell
Of putrefying angels who
Make deadly whoopee in the blue.
These things remembered, what can stop
A poet going to the top?

A final word: before you start
The convulsions of your art,
Remove your brains, take out your heart;
Minus these curses, you can be
A genius like David G.

Take courage, aunt, and send your stuff
To Geoffrey Grigson with my luff,
And may I yet live to admire
How well your poems light the fire.
Hilda Jun 2013
.
"That there Is'belle's house stinks wunderful turr'ble,"croaked Emma Beiler at their quilting bee.
"Jah...vell," sighed Rosanna Yoder. "All them there katzes , ain't so?"
Accordingly the two ladies set out to pay Travis and Isabella Salter a visit, only to be politely told that they had were in the process of taking some cats to a local shelter.
Two weeks passed and to the Amish folks' disgust the odour had merely intensified.
"Them there Englisch are chust liars!" Potato Sam spat the words out along with a *** of chewing tobacco.
" Ach, vell," sighed  his wife Rosanna, unaware of her heavily sweating underarms. The Ordnung  strictly forbade deodorant as well as perfume. "Reckon I best  mosey over and see fur myself."
Travis opened the door with a tired sigh.
'Chust thought I'de ask vhat fur stinks yer house up so vonderful tur'ble...Izzy tells us youse gettin' rid of them but-"
A puzzled look crossed Travis weary face as he glanced toward the kitchen. Irritation gripped him, not lessened as Rosanna glowered at Tabby washing her face on the couch. Then a waft of a familiar scent, overpowering, drifted toward him from the kitchen. Brussel sprouts enhanced by -.
With all the stress, Isabelle was increasing her calming herbs, mixing the powders.... Valerian?
"Good evening, Mrs. Yoder." He motioned her toward the door, locking it firmly behind her. For a long time after she was gone he stood staring out the window.
CLStewart Nov 2015
I am not him
I am not the reason you wake up and I am not eligible to feel
I am not your world and I am not your baby's breath
I am not him
I came into what is to be called ???
un·fath·om·a·ble


A weapon of your desire and a torn up wet nap
Annie Sep 2014
Such a fool for you,
she once said

I believe so I am what a
fool for you
  my thoughts   t
                            u
                               m
                                    b
                         ­               ble
tumble and fall
how I lost my mind thinking
of you

Your touch, your love, such lust
  Look at me,
such a fool, such a fool for you
but yet I do not trust you
with thy heart but how not
  when you give so much lust?
Tell me, am I your baby
or one of your little ******
I hope not,
as you put your head between thighs
"more, more, more!"
You're disgusting, I hate you
such a fool, a fool for you.

You walk around with your
head held high
think you are grand
some kind of god
I've got news sweetheart
your nothing but a poor boy
& such a ******* bore.

          ....

I'm sorry, I've gone mad
you make me mental loving you
your soft words,
such lies but I am
such a fool, a fool for you
   You love me,
you love me not
what do you want?
You're making me insane
and I think its time to walk,
walk out your door  

I am nothing to you,
but a Friday night tour
I'm done, I'm gone
  but forever will I be a fool,
such a fool for you.
ryn Dec 2015
.
/                                  /             /           /    /           /    /
/             /                       //          /        / /        /
/           /     /    /             /                       /        /       /    /
//               /        /     ••        /               /    / /
/      /           /      •••   /                 /   /
/            /         •lift me up over-          /             /
/      /    head•for i only seek to shelter    /      //
          you•from the sun who'd scorch you red          /
•from monsoon rains that'll chill you blue•you
may at times think i'm cumbersome to carry•when
the winds of change put you in all kinds of weather•
but i can collapse and fold... i stow away easy•keep me
close and i will spring to your aid... whenever, wherever•
such           is my           pro-   ••   mise           to...           you•
•                   •                  •       ••      •                  •                   •
for
yo-
ur
lif-
e's
un-
pr-
edi-
•••            cta-                   
•••          ble                 
journey•
                


soon you'll find my words to be true•
that i'd forever be your brolly
For my family.

Concrete Poem 22 of 30

Tap on the hashtag "30daysofconcrete" below to view more offerings in the series. :)
.
ryn Nov 2015
.
     *(              |                      •    ||    )
   (   •|               |                )
(          |||     •  |  )
\   |        |   //
\ || •   | //
•       ••     ••
•like clockwork,
  her day would begin
•pressures of life like no
one could imagine•toting the
crushing weight upon her tiny shou-
lders•responsibilities and expectations that
would overwhelm before she falters•she'd ***-
ble as she groans her duress•her skin would crack
to release pent up stress•then there would come a day
•her exhausted veins would rupture and then give way
•she has the most terrible temper•but we would still flock
to her•
why?*........when time and again she offers us strife•

simply because she provides,
she gives us life•
Concrete Poem 12 of 30

Tap on the hashtag "30daysofconcrete" below to view more offerings in the series. :)
.
ryn Nov 2015
.
•come with me on a
special trip•hop aboard my big ball-
oon • hot air from flame, the canvas would
sip•higher and higher, we won't be back too soon
•the clouds would gently kiss our cheeks • the sun
would bathe our skins with gold• mountains below
seem minute pointing up  with snow covered peaks
•turning oceans into lakes...the world seems to fold
•offering myriad picturesque views from up ab-
ove•from any angle none would lack•lastly
we'll drift...along the currents of air and
love•you could then finally say that
i've brought you on a memora-
ble trip to  the moon...
and safely back•
\         |         /
\       |       /

•••••••••••
I+++++++++I
I+++++++++I

•••••••••••
Concrete Poem 4 of 30

Tap on the hashtag "30daysofconcrete" below to view more offerings in the series. :)
.
You burden me with your questions
You'd have me tell no lies
You're always asking what it's all about
Now listen to my replies
You say to me I don't talk enough
But when I do I'm a fool
These times I've spent, I've realized
I'm going to shoot through
And leave you...

-EMF

You weigh the world with your questions
You'd have us tell no lies
I'm always asking what it's all about
Now listen to your replies
You say to me I don't talk enough
But when I do I'm a fool
These times I've spent, I've realized
I'm going to shoot through
And leave you...*\

THE THINGS YOU SAY,
-EMF

JESUS

you're
unbelievable...

YOU'RE SO UNBELIEVABLE!
-DJM
Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
Chaucer. Cantebury Tales Thunk Another Time

might be
unimaginable to most

Urbanites of several recent generations
in
These untie-ted states

city folk have never told stories
by the mile,

with piles of rocks marking trail tailin's

so old
that trail, marked by that pile o'rocks been
so long since foot trod that path

only scratches on the rocks say which way we
all
got
here. Today, as we call it.

Hueta, esta dia, right now

here. Walk a while, we're off to find reason
to believe.
Someone I heard thinks we all do.

I believe we do.
---Wha'bou' un believe? D'jewthank we'all'kin?
kin we all un be lieve,
leaven well left alone, hill folk, some say...

...hidden things thought thank worth,
beauty, as an idea,

for instance.

Sunsets.
... ...Yes, and the early morning does
have gold
{}
In'er mouth,
privilege all ovahdat.
Got the rot
all dug

dig it, all dug out cavity, crowned in gold

turn that empty cavity inside out, the wise hermit's cave is paved.
Plenty room for all his eukaryotic friends

then flouride, po-luted our ****** fluids.

Play that song on that ***'ar wit thraystrangs, po'man lute
Jew or juice harp
poing poing poing y'ken?

and keep time wit' the walkin' drum. Do that
dentist drill dance, then sing us a
song o'six penitents
patient sufferers o'the way thangsbe,

left well enough alone.

Strange love was to my tale as, that Bannon guy
might be today. Trump's last quarter email player?
Y'know the guy. He's Youtube famous. Bannon,
(Steve,

or Bruce? )
No, Bruce Banner, was the hulk of burning credulity, the pile
symbol
driver. Digging down to bedrock
.... That's how the Macedonian kid did, at Tyrus. ( ify'wishy'knew)

Pier pressing past the farthest reach of tide.

Past where pearls take graunular expansion to

knackerin' gnosymagi  levels of possible hidden glory believeable by few.

Teller, the infamous Mr. Teller, he taught me duality.
Im balance, make fission, break, slam fuseconfuse, blow

don't burn the whole higgsian bubble to expel the very idea of anti matter, it may be useful,
rightusable or ible

Moby grandular totally tubular, what a clam can do.
According to that story, why not feed swine pearls? I'll tell you.

we may come back to right here, this here here,
if 'n' only

if we do not forget where we saw that

landmark a cient elder mustaset

Straggler mumbler, you okeh? Y'got a story.

I'll listen. It's yetawhile
t' can't we bury it.

---
is the granularity of perception adjustable or ible?

We are li'ble to learn, 'fwee

live so long. Said the old caned creature, in the way back.


-------
At the edge of credulity, eh

how far is how ever, far or ever, time space

same same, but

right. Re
al ity ness realreal reason able ibility

we, you and I, this state of least sharable ible ness
we, at this point,

dancing hermetical waxen winged shoes into flames. Teller level flames.

-------
what lies did I un believe? All of'em.

You seem real. (dear reader)

A pier past the last tugged tide, into the deep

-----

peace, in fly-over country on a sunny day.

Ah, where I live, there in
my peace valley overwitch the marines fly every day

and I talk, in my revery, basking in the sun with my lizard brain in heaven
I talk to the cadre controling machines named for
subjected peoples, Apaches of all sorts.

I knew Johnny. And I knew his brother, Jonah.

Johnny Appleseed and Jonah Whalepuke.

They could been twins, save
the smell and wind's role in the story, when it all

stirs. SSTop and ask, dear reader, is this safe, this place?

Adlebraned idyl word forms framing un imaginable worlds.

Goodness gracious sakes alive gnostic means

you know. Here's one we agree on:

Heretic tic, there a tic tic time you re

call the warning bout finding one's ownself in the book of life?

This is that. You can't get past it on your knees,

this is the bar, you don't pass it, you cross it.

Who inherits the wind if the meek inherit the earth?

inspire expire it is breathing, all the way down.

bubbles. ity bubbles ify bubbles some time bubbles

awefilled imagined bubbles in bubble forever,

mazed bubble pops

those aren't real. Gnostic heretic is one who thinks
he thinks and has all the knowledge

in the real world,

in his hand, and
it ain't even five gee. We can go faster or deeper. You choose.
We gotta understand what standing and under mean as a thing

we can miss. aitia indicates wisdom is not pre packed with
understanding.

She says, you should know by now.

Nothing missing, nothing broken, though ye walk

through the valley of
your own shadow death as I drip drip drip

hear me, gotcha once, gotcha twice

ripples in time can you hear me now?

Thanks.

Seed. Time. Harvest. Information re
garding the entire process

was intentional. You reap what you sow. That is kharma.

Life ain't fair eventually. The good guys always win. It's in the hermit's will.

You can read. It's said, the man
wombed or un, who can and don't's no better armed then than
the critter that can't

read the sign that said stop.
Funeral musings
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
God Bless the Europeans
All talk Islander Carribeans
S=S Seance Superstitious
The cool pledge Americans,
Suspicious regions secretively
scrumptious Gummie bears
legions

Rambling computer dummies
Those dragonflies showbiz
Dummies the crew
Zazzle S to Sparkle
Pickles and pregnancy
The Hebrew National

Nathans Franks contest
Are we missing the SS
without the ramble, it will  be
someone's gamble
Not many things to impress
Those little bites to nibble
The bigger bites stumble

All words over Google
Too much rice or noodles
All Gods foreign hot rods
With their lady poodles

Ramble words at the racetrack
All talkers hail to the Queen
The King deck someone is all
talk watch your back

Without the poise
Well mannered words
They will never be back
Backing up her timeless rose
Holy Grace SS for Serenity
smoother sail rephrase

Deep contemplation
Ramble on the
crossword mission

Rambles but silently
Like her meditation
So many changes new
revisions of more
accusations
Up-words like the
Moonwalkers

Show business SS- Abby-Abyss
Access summer dress more or less
Abrasiveness  love blindness
Aggressiveness to kindness

Rambling on words
The plethora
Traveling in Space like
Dora the explorer
True love confessions
Being subjective way too
submissive
How do we live without them
The right words to say to them
To live with someone
Not talking to them and
holding them
The wanting feel the loving
Time so in the needing

Rambling for lust well being

But bust to bust
All she got was ashes
All layers like a desert storm
So alarming like clockwork
Ramble words again and again
They were all deceivers
To Ramble or rambles on
like her last will OH Bill
What a smile ****
Double **** good cheater

And  those hope words
they named her

HOPE SS Smashing table setting
But silent words like
a deaf-mute accidentally wetting
How do we cope to
fly like a kite
The last testament to my
Savor S to be
(Blessed) to be visited
Her **** Chanel French lips
with nothing to say Oh! No
Her French skirt rips

Say Yes! to LUV she rambles
on and on just dream on
Like a recital play
Her rainbow sky
of the skittle

Who needs this
midnight rambler Joker riddle
At midnight he talks and his a
certain physique

He does have lip smacker
Fruity trustee puncher
He's the mighty hot roses
Bless S for her sanity
There she goes
Rosemarie eating Italian
Calamari for dessert
Tiramisu with her
Tiddly dee TUTU

Her cousin mumbles
Eating leftover
Campbells soup
Feeling like a chicken
without my words
I will crumble

There she is Robin Rambles
Hot Scrambled eggs
What about Rod Stewart
see those
rocker legs
Hot mouth rambling
Light her fire with
Apple mystique
candles

Her body angles showing her
good talking samples
She had the best cheeks
and dimples

Loved her Chinese food
Veggie steamed Dumpling
But jump for the love
Her or him to Babble
Westside story Maria
Word fight rumble
So cosmic her coffee moon-shiny
talk of the comic funny bones

Ramble like a song I tunes
The midnight traveler what
hot body fuel

Why is this world so in shambles
I need to find a smooth talker
The nocturnal
Writing so many words in
her journal

Roll of  words SS SCENIC -SOUL

The greater expectation
The poem of philosophy
Birds and the
Rambling Robins
Biology
Only one word saved them
(***) she rambles 69 reasons
Why her voice should be heard
Hour of rest full bloom season
Her rambling head
The French chef brioche
baking
The bed post was shaking

SS>> Sensual-Seductive new
awakening she worked hard

But he rambles forget the
S- Solitude words we
have no peace
And sometimes
Road less traveled
Full of maniacs with
arrogance
Let's not take the fun
out of the resistance

Ancient Grecian times
of swords and more
Sensual Roman words
A love decent she is
rambling
Like her first love
delectable
Like her first taste most
recent words can also
come and go with a stroke
of her paintbrush

Her most important words
can be deleted
Do you really feel blessed
Another (SOS) SS? save me
We're talking about rambling  well maybe I fit in Robin Rambler I am not the gambler only the housewife of New Jersey all beachy the book reader this is more to the story about the world wild birds all words chit chat now get your coffee or tea I will be rambling on that's me
James Court May 2017
be        au      tifu           lu      ng              ra              teful              talent­e
dd       iff      icult          lo       vi              ng              messy           suppo
 rti       ve     spitef         ul       w             arm            jealous          caring
  cr      az     ychar          m      in              gs               martd           epress
 ing   br    av      et         **     ug            htle             ss     ge          ne
   ro  us     inc     on       sid     er             ate              ad    ap          ta
   ble m     oo       dy      co      m             pass            io      na         te
    stub      bo        rn      af       fe             ctio             na      te         cr
    itica      lp          ra      ct       ic            al  ar            gu     m         en
    tati       ve           w     itt       y            un  pr           ed     ict        ablec
    our      ag            eo    us      to     ­      uc   hy          friendl          yrese
     ntf      ul             he    lp      fu           li      m          patien           tflirty
      sa       rc            as     tic      in          te      re          sting             boastf
      ul       cu           rio    us      in          fle     xi           bl    er          el
      ia        bl            e      cl     ­   in         gy     cre         at     ive        ta
      ct         les         s       **      ne         st     emo        tio     na       ld
      isc         ipl       ine    d        fo         rcefulsex         yse    ns       iti
      ve          su       lle      n        m        od         es        tf        ru      st
      ra            tin   ge         n  thus         ia           st        ic         hy    po
      cr             iticalp          lucky          cl            um     sy        am   usingp
      os             essiv            ecalm         in            g        sn         ide   friendl
       y              pom             pous         ad            ve      nt          ur    ousch      
      ar     ­          ism              atic           br             ok     en          and perfect
If you're on your phone turn it sideways
Sofia Aug 2010
Life
it is a strange thing…

an exquisite creature…

And I am not entirely sure if it bends, or breaks, or bubbles up and floats away—the colours shift and melt and seep through the holes of floors and ceilings. It spreads like a plague from one broken body to another— or it is a light hush upon the breeze carrying our inspired hearts to higher places?…

The awe is so immense, in times like these. I feel the vibe. I just wish you all could see, with eyes I have been blessed with…

Just a touch, a second is half the wait till eternity, just hold in, hold on, hold up.

It is calm.

It is simple.

It is finished.
07/18/2010
marina Dec 2013
i  don't want  to live in  the
                            s p a c e s
between   your   words,   i
want to be  found in every
syl-
                    la-
                                     ble
Julia Jan 2016
I will never learn
Fear and paranoia pull
As my heart strings tear
*jm
Brandon Sep 2011
***blebee* buzzing
From flower to my shoulder
Don’t pollinate *me
Samuel Apr 2012
the feeling when you
  s
    t
      u
        m
          ble
                 somewhere
                          you
     shouldn't, sweet-gum
                  letters
          gathered for a solitary
        rendezvous
                        then casual
              destruction
                             glimpsed from                                                                                                                    afar

everyone wants the shoes to
fit, but
    I've worn those and
                          many others in my time
and the heels always
blister
trf Dec 2016
Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old **Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
   Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.  
                                                        ­    Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy…                                               SwOosh. Hush!
           Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
     A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
                     Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
        In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
        This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
                “I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
                     The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
                                          Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide.                               As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
            Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
       guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
               This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.


_TRF
In the bathroom of a pizza parlor there was an elongated, framed b&w; picture of the periodical table of elements. I took a picture of it and my flash glared in the middle which I thought looked neat so I manipulated the image so it was skewed and a little blurry and the above elements were the only ones that I could actually see from the photo. Credit to Breaking Bad.
mEb Jan 2011
1-english

I gargled solids much like boulders of the throat.
Upon a dreadful goat,
the lamb was slain in name of said reign.
To diminish the waters
drenching fields of green and brown,
rugged earth, and jagged cliff.
Up nor down no liquids found.
I am placed to flummox the hard matter
of dirt and swallow whilst hurt.

2-norwegian

Jeg gurglet tørrstoff mye som blokker i halsen.
Etter en forferdeliggeit,
ble sauene drept i navn sa regjeringstid.
For å minske vannetgjennomvåt felt av grønne og brune,
robuste jorden, og rufsete stup.
Opp eller ned væske ikke funnet.
Jeg er plassert for å flummox denharde spørsmål
om skitt og svelge mens vondt.
The walks of life I see;
such             little               hope
I have             for hum-                 anity
stum         ble blind           alone
never able to see reality.
Wake Up!
Richard j Heby Dec 2012
When nothing else
                                                inside you
matters except
                          getting him

that’s passion in a bub-
ble:lust. blushed.
And all he wants to do is bust
a bubble.,;                                                  ******­
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
man, a shattering of woe against the shoreline of synonymous
due applause - or kindred with the devil,
burrowing to circumstance the saharan shadow,
tipped shortest via noon,
                    how experience
    humanity without a language,
that god brokered, and not sanctify
Pontius Pilate as the saving grace?
  lava mea mani mundi -
wash my (mandi(ble)) hands clean (purus) -
aristocrats of Pompeii... ugly *******;
       differed - as was the price
of entering Oxbridge.
                 which is why the content
of dreams was questioned, rather the context...
because who was the narrator, after all?
                  why didn't Freudian theory
question the narrator, but instead superimposed
itself as the gravitas narrator: combining both
content and context of dreams?
                   i find it scary that Freud
managed to toy around until the point where
he found a dysfunctional dummy staging horror
that lacked all necessities of a ventriloquist
       framed toward a subplot: embedded in needing one.
  is Freud the only person to provide narration
for the phenomenon of dreaming?
                i still find dreams caged in Kantian noumena...
i.e., why do they happen in the first place?
        i think it's strange that dreams occur in the first place,
that's the context question,
  Freud already answered the content question:
****** Pythagorean truce: it's called all geometric shaping
fits the answer: *******.
      yes, that's me done & dusted...
                           i'm just wondering about what need
we have within Darwinism to dream... what are
the evolutionary downsizing benefits?
isn't dreaming a delusional cauldron that disturbs
our will... or is Hollywood dead and our fancies
are no longer fanciful... what would a history
of dreams reveal, merely Joseph as the sole
dream architect?
                     Freud was but a man,
he said something about the content of dreams,
he didn't say anything about the context of dreams,
i can't find anyone to explain to me
                a need for a context and a need to dream...
i guess the people who dream are as easily
impregnated with a summary of Voltaire's Candide...
that this is: the best of all possible worlds...
          sure, but inscribe upon this world
a concentrated censorship of dreams...
       let me dream the last thing i might see
and give it all the mechanics of what others dream of
to the tilt of fully-embraced enhancement fakery...
             i will still not understand how you managed
to lodge a photon inside my cranium, or why there's
a need for me to dream, that's Freud point + on the content,
but that's also Freud point minus given the context...
    not if i have to hammer a thousand nails into
planks of wood will a dream matter to me....
             by god, make your money from analysis
dream content, but you'll end up a pauper analysis
dream context... are our lives so dandy and simple
that we retreat from political hierarchies
                            and what needs to be addressed
and with tails dragged between our hinds
                  we create foci for translating dreams into
a realism that can never be realised, because being
a realism, it's only a superficial version of
the pain that reality is?
                  yep, so much "wording",
and how many breaths did you inhale and exhale
while i said that? me too, on words: too many.
             Freud can have his content-invoking
affirmation of life and the subsequent prejudices...
but Freud cannot have a context-angling depravity
     to forward life, and consequent pejoratives
being suitor:
             for those who dare not think
                    are easily converted to dreaming...
and those who care to not dream,
   are ushered into the most obscure thinking
   that has not parallel with celebrated thought
akin to Einstein or Newton... but then again,
the celebration of dreams have only one representative,
and he's biblical... oh sorry: mythical.
yet that's where it all begins,
and it is a great sacrifice... to abandon the comforts
of dreams, in order to think uncustomary
   or even murky, uncelebrated thoughts...
                         to think the mundane and non-applicable
insistences... and then dream nothing,
and then see humanity's impecible practibility
  in the do rather then the lost assertive of be,
for humanity does the most, and is the least...
  for every hundred of do instances,
there's but a hundreth of a be instance worthy a mention;
meaning? do the plumbing...
       chop the timber, fix the electric...
                    no one tells people to reach a frantic embodiment,
or calls for an impersonal god that might leave them
   personal & authentic... everyone always asks for a personal
god that leaves them impersonal... robo-tectonic akin
  to Islam... thus ascribing: quantifiably nihilistic...
                   is my life too unbearable to continue or
unbearable to convene such a life, and quote:
  "simply nodded" on my Christmas greeting card...
******* cha cha cha...
                             i ain't a trebuchet,
but i'll swing a plum with a pair of knuckles
should you need more lip-balm for a smooch;
i'm just jittery about the date you'll test me.;
because the other-half-of-me was particular
about that dietary schematic of anorexia;
some said it was cool amphibian akin to ambiance
and hence the strobe light and break-dancing epileptic:
                       coffers full of chuff!
o lookie lookie, who the ****** unit of the
daffy bunch: quack squint-mc-dire...
no wonder she says her name's Chelsea postscriptum.
TR3F1LD Sep 2023
have you ever felt like you're trapped
in a prison you self-erected & cast
yourself into? like life's something you're terrible at
existentially wack so dreadfully that
there's a reasonable question to ask
where are your testicles, chap?
'cause, like a man that commits a va[ɛ]nishing act
once he detects that his lass is expecting a brat
the way you live is cowardly; a hell of a lack
["way you leave"]
of ***** akin to sO̲mebody bereft of his nads
comfort zone ain't
much different from a coffin you are a hostage to
A̲lthough no way a freaking throat spray
will treat you okay
["coughing"]
if you want to live akin to those a[eɪ]—
—zure-hued pills treating fever or pain
["want Aleve"; "want to leave [the coffin]"]
you've gotta Beatrix Kiddo your way
outta it; in fact, I'm 'bout to evince one more way
[the "outta the grave" scene from "**** Bill: Vol. 2"]
by which you portray the thing aforenamed
that ***** reminds of a tempting she-devil; you have
["attempting"]
if you wanna feel good
to ream it, like a guy, keeping it broad, stretched like a ****
or else it's gonna be you
the one winding up f#cked, much like a chief authoritarian das—/a##—
—****/—hole when his dishono[—]rable rule
winds up effing collapsed; like a pestilent brat
you get it, but your co[ɑ]nstant pla[ɛ]n of attack
is digital escapism helping to kick aside depression, a tad
though; 'cause no matter how much you la[ɛ]m, you get back
into the real—nE̲ss that you have
which is quite a mess like a lass'
coif when she's outside, & the weather is trash
raining, just like Hussein in his presiding days (trash, reigning)
I might lO̲O̲k to be an evil-minded skate
now, but, seizing the opportunity
like some viced ***** gained
a role O̲f a rU̲ler with
an unchecked political might & aimed
at establishing a tight-grip reign inside the state
[opportunism]
I hhhooock... thooo... spit on tyrants' graves
and graves of their compliant aides (ha-ha)
without the slightest shame, I, like a crane for construction, raze
["raise"]
their heads—tones by a mace from the knightly age
bet taphophiles ain't gonna like the way
in which I behave; ones who're enviro-cray
better get fire squa[ɑ]ds awake like a rite that takes
place after someone's life has waned (a wake)
'cause I get mY̲ hands laid
on a pulverizer with spirits of wine & spray
it on those scheissers' grave—yards, then make
[German "scheißer"]
them go, like the face of someone laughing so wildly they
are about to split their sides, ablaze
the rhyme-insane, yet quite cheap, brain
is, like the most upright stiffs reign—ing for a long time, depraved
thanks to the West-produced mass
culture (tha[ɛ]nk you a stack) & has a relish/penchant for gals
with looks of models composing the "dekok plus" class
["dekok" (Esperanto) - "eighteen"]
the problem's most of those lean to[—]ward sE̲lf-confy lads
and are mostly/mainly 'bout lettuce, in fact
which makes me remember the Jack
the Ripper case (letters)
[more than 200 letters signed as "Jack the Ripper" were written]
so, as for a GF̲ for a chap
like that, having one seems like an excellent pad
[house]
for a beggar to have; impossible like a saint autocrat
(like a saint autocrat; absolute absurdity)
forget it, let's yap
I mean, let me get to something else I would yap
about; not an oriental-grown chap
but into rhyming 'cause I'm a perfectionist that
["ramen"]
takes this thing as something he's no[ɑ]t ineffectual at
if not for the aesthetical cast
["cast" in the sense of "outward form", etc.]
which is rhymes, I'd not even bother tryna express all this crap
[especially, the personal one]
'cause what's the point when nigh-on none on the web who reacts
to whatev' you say or demonstrate?
remember I had the more pleasura[—]ble past
virtual realities, not having to go to a jO̲[ɑ]b that stinks
nO̲ stupid po[ɑ]litics (these were the times)
which is ****̲te you can't take null notice of 'cA̲U̲[ɑ]se you twig
it's the post-enlightenment time gO̲ing on, A̲[ɑ]lthough it's
a giant & atrocious auto[ɑ]cracy
you abide in, as if you were related to the dude presiding
as the head of the big state kept, like a group of do[ɑ]gs in—
—volved in a mush, united; in terms of music, I̲ went
["you are Biden"]
from somewhat generic electro[ɑ]nic
sh#t, both, ba[ɛ]ngers & melo[ɑ]dic
ones to heavier & dA̲rk sh#t; however, I, regardless
still dig some graves like a fellow with boneY̲A̲rd shifts
[Christian Mochizuki, better known as "graves"]
though wouldn't tE̲ll that I am go[ɑ]thic
given that, it's okay I̲f I
["if I" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "ifa"]
would get benamed with the
word "grave-digger"'; might as well take mE̲ a
****** ***** 'kI̲n/sI̲m. ta
a playing card; though I, as I've said, am no[ɑ]t
[a card with "spades" suit]
gothic, outdoor appa[ɛ]rel's all black (all black)
like a visitor on a cemetery plat
in the course of a burial act
void inside, an atramental-hued gap (mental)
which makes me something like
a walking black hole, as well as the fact
that I'm surrounded by
space like it; kind of Arthur Fleck that's yet to turn mad
which sounds a mite
hair-curling like waving, so, before you find
yourself a bit horrified, let me get that clarified
to be more precise, a marbles-wise
lighter case, 'kin to a lighter casing
with the web to distract myself from the lack—
—luster realness, yet, with all thA̲t
flammable crap, ptui, I mean negative crap
I'm like a walking ba[ɛ]rrel with gas
it's better not to set a lit match
my way, it's appa[ɛ]rent, like a stem a pear has, a psychotherapy cab's
["a pear end"'; "cabin"/"cabinet" in the sense of "private room"]
where I should be spending the time of mine
instead of sitting in the bedroom inditing rhymes
as if you hit upon rhymes so tight
that their existence is considered a kind of crime (indicting rhymes)
but I'm the type with a b#tch of a mind: if I
have not a really distressing existence, then I am fine
like that dog sitting inside, despite
the room inside which it sits
is, like someone after an imbibing spree, lit (this is fine)
in other words, as it's been divulged not long ago
I stay pU̲t in comfort zone
like an autocratic **** roosting on the throne (scuuurred)
["****" in the sense of "****", "*****", etc.; "skirt"]
————————————————————————————————
implausible as it may sound, a bullish thought's approached
[implausible" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "implausibowl"]
my mind: I may be someone looking lost, although
I, unlike someone unable to move or gone, still go (that's the spirit!)
dull right to (like an average new-school rapper) **** nowhere
["dull writer"]
"a depressive rhymefall" by TR3F1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
brea Mar 2013
Laughter reaches new bounds
When you ask/ax me
" do I have pasketti on my face?"
Like a wild aminal you crawl
Over and smear that pasketti
On my cheeks
Like 60's rouge
Never meant to leave the Avon catalog.
cute comf-ta-ble sweaters
Swath lithe body like soft down
Byrds outside singing
Dancing in green foil-age.
Go join them,
Eyes chatoyant and comely.
With pasketti still on your face
You chirp like them byrds,
Such ebullience fits in with the robins.
Eric W Jul 2012
Weaving words,
so carefully. Every
syl
la
ble, crafted.
Spectacularly
laced, though the
unforgiving blue lines.
Wonderfully
chased by the
deadly silent black pen.

These words,
meaning or no?
Mischievous and
deceiving. Or
hopeful and
believing?

Where do they go?
Where do they lead?
Follow them, yet
could they be
seen?

Fortitude and fragility.
Miles apart, yet
undeniably the same.
In the world of words,
it's all just a game.

Coincidental rhymes, and
sentimental times, or
simplistic virtuosity, and
complicated philosophy?

These worlds in words,
are never as they seem.
But who are we to judge,
when the words in the world
are never what we mean?
Ashley Garreau Feb 2015
This is the part
     where everything
                        changes.
This is the part
         like an orchid
                requires patience.
This is the part
      where the universe
                                    bends
                      ­¬                       and you fold
                                                               the paper
                                                        into
                                           flowers.
Cover me in chrysanthemums.
This is the part
        where our knees become inch worms
     under the table.
Cover me in dirt.
This is the part
      that   comes   on   slow   at   first
      then
      heavy
      urgent
      pulses
      rush
      through
      us
      adding
      impulse
      to
      injury
            manipulating
    our insides
              twisting
       folding
            contorting
  every nerve
            until they


RIP.


But the pieces don’t get rest.
This is the part
    where the lions roar
    like violets showing their teeth
    at the sun.
    They nibble the flesh
    without breaking
    the skin.
    It’s paper thin.
This is the part
    where I ball up my paper fists
    and wrestle with the tiger lilies
    while you remain at war with my tulips.
This is the part
    where we dig up the dirt
    and we ruin us.
This is the part
    where the dandelions B U R S T
    like supernovas
    and suddenly
ev-er-y
    syll-a-ble
           counts.
You said
    Everyone's b/ r/ o/ k/ e/ n in some way.
You said
    when you were young
    you saw the miracle of birth for the first time
    and you've been turned on
    ever since.
You saw life spring from the womb.
I think I saw you mesmerized by the way things bloom.
You tell me
     about your birds and bees
     like how getting your head rubbed
     at the hair salon
     turns you on.
Well, this is the part
       where I rub your head
       and turn you on.
This is the part
     where I see your dark side
     and learn the true meaning
     of the blue in your eyes.
This is the part
     where you flip me over
and tell me
"Don't stop."
I don't stop.
Why would I stop?
I can't
stop.

And
    this
         is
          the
             part
                 where
                        we
                            fall

  A

       p
          a
        r
           t.

Tell me you don't want this.

Tell me you don't want this
   and I'll leave this bed of marigold
and
    change
  my
      form.
Tell me you don't want this
   and I'll never hold your gaze
                                                          to­¬o                     l   o    n      g
                                       again.
Tell me you don't want this
     and I'll unfold myself from your side
     along with the paper flowers.
     You can take back the roses
     **** the daises
     but leave me the daffodils.
Tell me you don’t want this
     and our forget-me-nots
     will forget us
     and our bleeding hearts
     will bleed us dry.
Tell me you don't want this
                                  and I'll rewind the movie
                           play it BACK
                 from the beginning
         only this time
     we'll pay
attention.
     I'll silence the lions
     and put them BACK in their cages.
                                        I'll bend
                      the universe
         BACK into
shape.
But tell me you want this
and this will be the part
where we pick the paper petals
                                                  off  the
                                                           stem and
                                                             ­         watch them
                                                            ­                           fall like
                                                            ­                                    cherry blossoms.
                                                       ­          He loves me.
                                                             ­                   He loves me not.
                                                            ­         Forget me.
                                                             ­                       Forget me not.
scully Jul 2016
in·ti·ma·cy
i. the catch they refuse to put down in books forgotten in church pews is as follows; heaven only exists in your memories. you create heaven in moments that have already happened, without the pearly gates or judgement. it is why you always reminded me that i am not aware of what i'm missing until i've immortalized it into something i will never be able to experience again.
ii. you do not, cannot, exist in the emptiness of one person. the brutal truth is that no one is worth it. everyone lies on their back and sees the same world in different shades, everyone is making mistakes that keep them up at night, they have no room to contain your multitudes.
iii. you are only subjected to understanding how selfish this notion is when you become too much for yourself, when you wish more than anything to stuff your runoff emotions and times you've stayed up singing to the sunrise into the cracks of someone who'd rather get drunk late and leave the bed cold in the morning than tell you that you are not as important as you like to think you are
iv. i am not as important as i like to think i am

ab·sence
i. i can't bring myself to say sorry for leaving, i am chasing sunsets and even though i hope you are sitting in one dimension or another, i refuse to be tethered to these actions. i love the noise of your boots on the asphalt but i will keep you in a moment that has now already happened and make you heaven after i stop hearing that sound like my favorite song when i wake up at three AM and forget that i am alone
ii. i have always had intense eyes and you used to tell me that the way my hair falls in front of my face was your favorite thing in the whole universe but you stopped brushing it away to see all of me and i can't help but be worried that maybe i stuffed all of my anger into the parts of you that were still grasping for air and i smothered your flames like a child holding onto a bird so tight it dies in her palms
iii. i remember waking you up in the middle of the night and saying, "do you think that love is just timing how long it takes you to get the other person to hate you?" i don't remember your exact reply but you started sleeping in a different bed after that

in·sol·u·ble
i. one time my mom told me that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result so even though there is no medicine that will numb my senses and make it hard to wake up early but keep you foggy in my memory, we should stop trying to mean it when we mumble out "i love you" all the times we are both bored and too lazy to find someone new
ii. like most people who choose writing over therapy, i am a liar. i have always been a self-centered liar that only cares about myself  but for the sake of inspiration on my fingertips i can pretend we were in love at one point or another.
iii. i talk too fast and you told me that you hated that about me before i threw something in your direction aiming to miss and hitting your shoulder (i'm sorry) that was our worst fight and you stopped looking me in the eyes until i packed up all of my things and tiptoed around your temper and out of the house
iv. i didnt exactly keep count but i think it took around seven months and twelve days for me to make you hate me and you've never said it but the whole world feels like it has shut me out and gone cold and if recounting all of this is what heaven is supposed to be like, i would rather fall backwards into hell because at least it is warm there

rep·e·ti·tion
i. i've exhausted all of my apologies because i have been conditioned to feel bad about not fulfilling peoples expectations and you made the word sorry sound sharp, i am far away from my ambitions and if you were still here youd call me lazy but youd kiss me after
ii. when it is very late, i start to believe that maybe i have the capacity of multitudes inside of me and thats why all i do is feel sorry for myself, because i am the only one in the world capable of carrying the hearts of the people that don't love me anymore
iii. when morning comes, i am always able to convince myself that i am not as important as i like to think that i am.
this isn't exactly finished because im not satisfied but such is life i suppose.
Omarcito Jun 2022
Mystery.               Mystery.              Mystery.


mar-                                             ­                       mar-
ble-                                 ­                                     ble-
eyes                   ­                                                  eyes





                                 noitcudeS
                                 Seduction
Kay-Rosa Aug 2019
in·ef·fa·ble
adjective
         too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words
         "the ineffable beauty of her freedom"
          freedom to speak, to sing, to love

          "the ineffable beauty of her freedom"
           freedom to live, to laugh, to fight
elle Mar 2012
Why do I do this?
To both you and myself?

Why do I crave your approval?
Why do I need your respect?

Can't I just be strong?
And move on?

Nope. I still need someone to tell me I have potential.
            I still need someone to let me know i'll make it big one day.
            I still need someone to give me that little but of encouragement when I'm too ******* myself.
            I still need someone to sit me down and say, "I believe in you".
            I still need someone to give me advice.
            I still need someone to look up to.
I respect you so much.
We had our differences but all in all, you're still my role model.

But to you, I'm nothing.
Hurtful words roll off your tongue so beautifully.
                     I don't understand!
One day you think I'm amazing
                                                         The next, you're telling me im just mediocre

I may say your words are empty to me
....But I hang on to every last
**Sy-lla-ble
Ken Pepiton Sep 2019
twice read, I find
my points have mostly
been made in plain geometry, were I to see

from an imaginary Euclidean POV

pre algebra and zeros and pi, as fa's I know,

Euclid makes a point.  ping
do re me, too.

We need some assumptions. True.

Words, Logos per se, re
main the principle tool used right
by both wisdom and knowledge and, now,
under knowledge stand two parts

see likka bubble, zygotic go, knowledge all good

big ol' bubble, knowledge of good and evil,

both, and you know both's a real big
old idea to think at once,

gotta have a push and a pull,
a listing and a lusting,
a compulsion to explode
versa verses reverberating assumptive
implosive con ex in clusives ping 3
do re me
sounds of music all disneyfied hills alive
from the POV of a flea
in the bark of my favorite pine, aw a
crow
dream
alla this,
how sweet is that, you guys don't know what that might
feel like, unless,
you know: in my realm,
right try angles reflect light in odd spectra
bounced from assumptive edges of unknowns.

Euclid, yeah, he failed to know everything anybody learned since he died,
we all know more than he ever did,
though
his timeless thoughts
remain. ..
as mine to twist into art-intuitive
artificial intelligence.
-----
Stop inter, ah, this fits here (no where else, per haps):
an e-ruptive Voltarian pledge of troth from an old bet lost.
Spelchek can't tame the pen, truth emerges
twixt i and e, subtly.
See,
intell still makes sense con egence on the end
and has aright to slide meaningfully
past spelchek and
evil Grammerly Aiing me.
See, both religating and relegating, merge and link.

Right, we assume
we prove flat Euclidean right exists. Okeh.

Here is the handln, wir machen schnell zwei

ping ping points ping
there was there three,
we did not see one, firstime, missed a point,

now, we may see beyond the first assumptive, abruptive,
inter
rupture rapture at/to that lacred nacred sphere.

A pretty pearly gate. Eggish in shape.

This, I imagined was the proverbial NAND/NULL gate,
an old door into superbloom summer
manifested to capture your
attention please, breathe
the beauty,
sneeze,
let it be.
Please, your self has private interpretations,
so it ain't prophecy.
No prophecy from Jehovah and them other names
the supreme being goes by
in woke reality
with quarks in it--  
no
secret intended to hide truth
(secret is same as private here, no private
interpretations) from those who can't see times changed.

---logos logic force, forces chaos into a bubble boing being
--- a peer pressure surge urge dopamine don't fail me now
--- devise a device depicting the mergence,
--- a logo for reality, in a word.
--- one artist made a circle, another formed a square

so many
interruptions, if you could only know,
you could be live, Euclid,

scary thought? no. a hope. an arrogant philosopher's hope
carved in stone

In the beginning == you know, right, everything must mean some
thing or nothing remains to measure worth,
as knowns unknowable for the effort
that you don't make
--- like Tristram Shandy, the marbled page, we few ever knew,
--- first gentle, re-cog-nize justify, ify ify yourself

Wisdom-******* children,
magnificent in countenance, as winners
of the won war fought before the peace.

--- easy treated, like "no sweat" a
--- Jeopardy version of Leela, the big show. You still die. it ain't scary.

resume the assumpting pressures
peer 'em up
umph, try

delta delta delta force chuck-nors negate  negate

dive dive dive

We must be read
y
we got us a bubble of being, in real life poetry.
Tha's deeply memeingful.
Here abouts. A bit o'breathin' room in the long dance.

But Euclid pointed out what I see from my old couch on the porch
on the westside of a piece of land
that pro-truded
from prime-eve, a fractal level a billion lacred layers
time-wise, geo-time-wise ago
yond hither, whence we was words a playin'

silly songs children read and sing along then seem to forget until

some go mad in our dotage and become as little children, once more but

we know now how to learn anything we wish to know.

This could be heaven,
according to the description I was given when escape from hell
was my selfish desire.
Self formed from scraps I over heard as a young'n.

A point remains to appear made in the assumption.

Ah, hey, right tringled triangles.

sit witme, see star one, assume natural numbers a re-able
one two 3
iii --- signals scramble-ble
see we have two brains

two whole brains with minds and minds and minds of their own

and you love simplicity.

Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Pick up on one and leave the other won in a spoonful o'luv

look from my eye to that star,
consider this, Euclid winks, too. One aim alone is right,

thus there is the edge of the sphere of my visual known universe,
the bubble of my being.

Eat me raw or don't eat me at all. said the bull headed god somebody
influential in reality
killed

A bullheaded being, a rampaging ****** slain by some named being
a hero, not me or you…
though new legends lien in wait, eh?

ah, time shift assumption, Euclid POV, nonessential,

flatness is a fractical impossible unthingable thing, plainly stated

imaginable, non-re-alizable.

Spread as spilled milk never cried over, take heart, hoped for
evers come to be
noticed as they pass, plenty people pass
these days,

endurin' to the end is all it takes.
Euclid don't matter and Jesus done cared.
Ah, suffer it to be so now, what difference can one... letter let be loose in a word rattle as a long wind winds its own way to an unmakable point.
SE Reimer Jan 2017
~

her coach, like Cinderella’s,
was what brought her to his side.
but what she'd failed to see,
is that a good man may not be,
quite exciting as the bad boys way back home,
so she packs up all her shoes n’make up,
headed home where she can wake up.
now its coach that takes her,
and all he sees are fading lights;
as that red-eye in his mirror is roaring,
down the runway then is soaring,
off into a stormy night.

he used to think that
fairy tales were promised,
that all a woman really wanted,
was a knight in armor shining.
but now he knows that love can't grow,
when all its seeds are tumble weeds,
that roll on down the open road;
just looking for a good time man,
a handsome cowboy and another rodeo.

now all he’s left with is,
trying to make some sense of this;
all her lying to him,
why she left him crying for,
all the good he thought she’d brought.
but sometimes it takes
some time in silence
to see what damage has been done,
to see the cold side of a woman,
that all her prettiness and fun,
is a terr’ble substitute for love.  

he used to think that
fairy tales were promised,
that all a woman really wanted,
was a knight in armor shining.
but now he knows that love can't grow,
when all its seeds are tumble weeds,
that roll on down the open road;
just looking for a good time man,
a handsome cowboy and another rodeo.

this i promise, know it well;
good-time girls can’t cast a spell,
that lasts a lifetime, when a fellow
needs a love line, nor can they
ever heave a lifeline, when
all the chips are down. 'cause,
when someone else is drowning,
and everybody's yelling ’bout
a fire the house is burning down.
that’s when she does
what she’s best at...
running out of town.
no, a good man needs a woman,
who will always be around.  

~

*post script.

please don’t ask where this one came from... he does love country music and it may just be one too many catastrophes he’s had to watch; it’s certainly not about his own woman, for she has been his privilege to love and care for now just shy of forty years.  no, maybe it's so many lives exploding, love imploding... sometimes it feels like so few know what love really looks like anymore!
Alas! At the dawn time,
Pinky sees Doe and Buck,
Stiff on a gummy fold’ble pad:
And each roll to 'scape each made,
Stripped their skin so callous.
Shortly, a bigger mice arrived,
Not nosy, taily and clawly,
Threaded fearsomely and made’way
Dear Doe and Buck for life.

(Flashback)
Pinky: Oh Precious Father
Why oust you and Doe alone,
Long during dusk decend,
Yet make us hide astaya’day?

Buck:   Curious and cutie Pinky,
The world a’day; nice and bright,
Is but an awaiting dreary ambush.
And a’night: a bit dreary ambush.
Doe and I: nosy, taily and clawly,
Will make something in your belly stay.

Pinky: Oh! Precious Mother,
I’m nosy, taily and clawly.
I can raid with you a’night,
And swift through ambush a’day.

Doe: Anxious and eager Pinky,
A full fall from far a sky,
Is as the voyage a’day.
And a breath once expelled
Is as the raid at night.
You WILL a’day get crashed,
And MAY a’night **** breath expelled.

Buck: Curious and Anxious Pinky,
The raid a’day and a’night,
Is as the sides of fate coin:
A home-hole return, Or a home-hole no return.
Ding **** Oh Pinky,
It’s time for our raid.
More shall I learn you,
If my side is home-hole return.

(Off Flashback)
Then whispered and cowered the other Watching mice:“The coin’s ‘no home-hole return."
Sketches  and Rough Analysis
This poem is a dramatic poem because of it adoption of the fictional surrealistic characters. However the style of characterization that makes the poem classified as dramatic, the poet deplorationof the essential features of the plot element which is peculiar to the genre; drama, that is, flashback, makes the poem indisputably a dramatic poem.
The poet through the auspice of existentialism, an ideology advocating that the 'essence of human life outweighs the existence of human life', recounts the struggles of humans through the surreptitious miens of animals such as the family of mice to pontificate ‘Home’ through the sides of  a coins which determines  humans’ fate as to life or death.
In the poem, the poet present home as an inevitable habour; a place of censusing the entire memebers of the family as to knowing whomsoever that got ensnared to death in the oddites of life during day or night task of struggling for survival.
Using he biological family of mice as a satireto represent human struggles and the inevitablity of her challenges: the search for food and death, the poet imply that the problems of real rats in the hand of humans (represented as 'a bigger mice without long nose, tail and claws) is the same as the problem real humans suffer in the hands of the unknown who tends thwart human life presumably because humans are seen as alien invading for their (human) survival the territories that belongs to the unknown.

Summary of Oluwatimilehin's No Home-hole Return
Pinky a child to Doe and Buck sees his parents stuck in a human made adhesive trap, and each attempt his parents made to extricate themselves got painfully peeling their skin till they died.
Pinky alongsideother mice sees the cruel death of Doe and Buck as well as the fearsome being without tail, long nose or claws who packs away the corpse of Doe and Buck.
At the sight of the cruel scene, Pinky recalls the last conversation he had with his parent the night before the present dawn.Pinky asks why Doe and Buck often go out long at night leaving him alone and making them stay at home during the day. Buck replies and justifies his moment by explaining that the day could be nice and bright as it appears, but come with a dreary ambush and the night,: a less dreary ambush. Buck however assures that he together with his mother will provide him food daily.
Pinky goes again to his mother, Doe,presenting himself as one that is experienced and can withstand the hustle of  the night and can scale through the day's dreary ambush.His mother comes in bluntly at Pinky by likening the day hustle as a full fall from a far sky which leaves no hope of survival. And she likens the night raid as breath which we expel we may hopefully live to **** in.
Buck corks the whole explanation by likening both the raid of the day and the night to the two sides of a coin which determines ones life or death. And if it determines life, then the coin is a 'home-hole return', but if otherwise, the coin is a 'no home-hole return'.
mûre Jan 2012
e r s t w h i le
the sounds i sought
cupped palms to cradle
The Goldest Hour
-each fi re f ly
sy ll a ble
though lit in
your eyes,
could not measure nor hold

Words are evanescent.
Pay heed to my soul.

— The End —