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anastasiad Apr 2016
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Melanie Melon Mar 2013
It was the time of summer where every kid had silently realized that it was ending,
No longer halfway through, no longer half full
Leaking and spilling out,
like the gas in my twenty two year old car
We couldn’t stop it,
And the moments of high school summertime
The moments that supposedly turn into stories we tell forever
Hadn’t seemed to have happened.

Both of us on the swing lazily swung
Dizzily from side to side.
Climbing forward, falling in reverse
Our combined bodyweight shifting back and forth
Tanned legs kicking up in an attempt at unison on every backwards glide.
Gravity hung us there,
Pulling the swing toward the ground no matter the rotation.

I sat on top.
I wore bleached shorts and bleached hair.
I worried that gravity or more so my value to it
would crush him.


At the same time, I felt unbelievably small.


The air pressed in on me from all angles,
it touched my bare legs
it easily waffled my shirt.

“Mel, if you were squishing me, I would let you know”,
he assured with a cocky tone of his very own that somehow made me feel special.
I couldn’t help but think he was only trying to be tough
Attempting to let sheer willpower overweigh my well earned quads,
My six foot frame.
The awkward body I never quite grew into
Never knew how to masterfully control
Never knew how to fill.
Though I secretly (wanted to) truly believe him

On this humid night I felt like the ball was in my court,
Like I could do anything and everything.
That nothing could go wrong
That the boy that I was sitting on was genuine
And that I could simply drive off to wherever.

(I had a full tank of gas and enough money to get me to Alabama).

I felt small in this,
in this infinity of possibility all around me.
Like a weight was pushing into me
Putting on pressure that couldn’t be ignored
That shrunk me just enough.
I felt powerless to fate
Powerless to this planet
To this grand, glorified hunk of earth which was so much greater than me
(and surely my insignificant weight anxieties).

I felt like the gas was leaking out faster than I could use it.
I felt like my infinity was disappearing as I swung within it.


Just like that, I let the ball drop and the gas leak out.
We just kept swinging.
Laughing,
Wasting,
Talking,

Dying.
From the depression of the distances with respect to the horizontal and the planes that separated them from the surface, below the references that came against, single sediment had been destined towards the high eminence, before the fossal of megatons of aldehyde below the bilges of the final base, where the seventh rings of the goat ibex were perforated, all in the antipode of the Constellation of Capricornus; where the goats were enraptured in the binary of Wonthelimar, behind the floods of absorption that took the Diadocos far from where they should never have left, in order to extrasolar wishes and never to come. From the node of the supreme and poked aldehyde of the horn of Amalthea, with the bizarre analogy of Zeus and Wonthelimar, both mammals with milk from goat's udders, one from goat from Mount Ida and the other from Aldaine in the Alps, with milk from ibex and In the face of Amalthea that appeared in the fossal, all the Seleucid generals had already vanished, starting from the Viper Typhon, who in the retracting sub-mythology of Capricornus was transmigrated to Wonthelimar, swollen with the aldehyde transmuted into this alcohol and into the udder milk of the Ibix that He lactored, while they were all carried away as in the chambers of Auschwitz, in distant lanterns and lamps of the Calypso that he dismissed them, leaving them with the escorts of the ibex or goatfish in laudable stratagems, which vanished them away from their desires from a new polis or Nostos Patrída, sprinkling them with goatskin and flourishing essences of the kashmar of Zeus' nurse; Amaltheum or Amalthea.

The Iberian rings from the medrones in advance reached the two final ring nodes, here Wonthelimar intimidated them with an accurate adjacent bleat of the kashmar that rubbed their back, before the newest and last lux of Amalthea that vanished into herbaceous fruits that always He carried the barefoot medron with him, to start with the antlers dumbbells and re-transport them defeated to the species of snake that frightened the pastoral god Pan who shepherded, and then he submerged in the water after becoming Capricornus Ibex Fish. Being aware of this and of those who refused to continue listening, Ibics rings were unleashed until the seventh medron, feeding back with Wonthelimar who ad libitum created Venus in triads of Zeus. Wonthelimar and Amalthea were remote in the eighth and ninth medron of the antlers, they appropriated to each the portion of the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, and of the thirteenth Shemot so that their dualities and fumes from the unbreathable fossa would remain under the possessed surface of the pendular property balance and positive-negative gender correspondence. Right here Amalthea transmuted her mercy to save the world with her lactation of syrup and honey that was not in short supply, and that was extrapolated into a future abundance of food and nectar, making up for crusts that were uneven in average terms. From this bezel, both beings of the goat genome contributed to the pole of goodness for each one at the end of the benevolent cuirassiers of prospering, and not from the opposite that would lead them, even though they were dissimilar causes, towards a retrograde event that was not a consequence of the becoming of the plagues, and of the malignancy that does not flourish with the Shemot of the Parasha, to agree and lavish themselves on blessed virtues or deliberate wicked ones.

The meaning of a relative synchronic and factotum coexisting does not redeem the disintegration of an existential relativism in Skalá, the Hexagonal Primogeniture from one of its angular visions, metaphysically transfers from its temporary contingencies after its arrival on Patmos, while the temporary Seleucid temporality vanishes, It was affirmed from a contradiction since its truth was distended in the arena of Skalá not implying being welcomed, rather it was victimized by the absurd political dimorphism in a meta spiritual state, abdicating its dispersed retrospective, and now contemplating a compromise of the Hellenic genre, to gradually rebuke the virtues of their banners, twice as good for the purpose of reinforcing the will to accede, and not perish in the attempt to lead Alexander the Great. The criticism of founding the memories are of a revived past where it was not, marking the anthropological fact and false truth judgment, in meaning and contradiction in the polarity of both axiomatic genres, but that is saved when quantifying in who has to defend himself, if seeks to abrogate itself, in the entity that is characterized by induction and attraction of egonies and not of exo-egonies, thus describing it in the theme of "Do not support egos that recriminate other characters of frustration and empowerment of a Vernarthian logic split into Vern-narth. Vern has etymology of Bern or Bern olive tree of Gethsemane and narth of the ordinal scale that speculates its nickname in millions of northern sections of its origin, which subsumes the truth and the criterion of apocalyptic parapsychology, re-life of quantum historicity of the metaphysical and sub-block. -Mythological of Vernarth in his identical.

Everything seemed a strange self-annulment from a clear and understandable limit, but Wonthelimar rose to the surface of the Állos kósmos, finding himself in atmospheres of truth and reality of a Cantabile, who decided about the horse Kanti coming with him towing him from the Erebo de Chauvet Bilocated. As a musical and festive ending, he received them on the upper plate of the happened gestures, where a cabaletta rendered parts of a Cantabrian aria, in sulfurous and remorseful cavatina married with the cross emotions of a finale who sponsored expressions and festive Templar tales, with the descendants of Zeus or minor children, or grandchildren after this had to give him milk and honey but with báchkoi. Among the couplets that received him, some came about the smoke of terror that was confused with the dustbin of a Cavallo or horse acclaimed Kanti, with gasping bustling from a cardex, containing all the repertoires of a cantabile if this scene were to be repeated in The same epic allusion, and in random consequences, that go after a cavalcade that is not abstracted in real characters, but more in conformity with the well-deserved place of epic imaginative beings or in the operatic psychotropic of a duet, which would go flagellating in individuality and in each which is not content from another section of the Cantabrian.

The Universality of emotion and feeling is a tragic Parodo emulating voices of all those who sing from a cantabile galloping in their voices to the beat of the heart in some, and at the same time chanting stanzas and antistrophe in reverse epic and tragic lines, for the purposes of the coliseum that diametrically obstructs the Hellenic choir, which is attached to the intervention of the Hexagonal Primogeniture that was already beginning to rise in height, and in the prayers of Saint John, the Apostle and Prochorus from the captaincy and the ode that would begin to stanza, from the west to this and the antistrophe would follow with Vernarth, Wonthelimar and Alexander the Great from east to west. Ad libitum of their enjoyments, they were eating Greek snacks or Katogorias on the way in bases of Almonds, cinnamon, olive oil, sugar, and sweet wine that they carried on their backs in Rhytas shaped like the horns of Zeus and the Ibix of Wonthelimar, which the same Procorus carried on his golden back. The meaning is affirmed as a meaningless infringement of laws of temporality, and truthfulness at the expense of short evidence, and of facts that vanish in the light haze of causalism and not of effectism, when the adjective or noun is made of a strong verb in the Metabasis and in the imprecations that Vernarth gave.

Vernarth's metabasis: “the verse and the adjective will be subsidized by the noun in the construction of Állos Kosmo Megarón, from where mathematics will immaterially explain sap suckers under the noun in liquid milk of the color white and of the high nutritional value in female lactated, and of mammals to feed their goats or ibex. The soul of this prerogative implies that the verb will be to promote species rather than a nutritious milky elixir for Zeus, and the candor of his **** will tend to the bipedal or quadruped subject self-procreating from a Milky Specie. (Milky species).  Being ****** into milk by self-procreating snitches. Vernarth says (give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!)

Amalthea in rituals and relics from prospects of demigods was purposely cordoning them off in Mycenaean deities, from a contemporary Westerner comforting them near a hippocampus; with signs of ibex Capricornus, rapt at the nymph that spoke from Mount Ida in Crete and that she made congruent with the constellation of Capricornus, more precisely in the Cornucopia making this heraldry of Wonthelimar with Fortune, Abundance, Occasion, Liberality, Prudence and Joy. In a woman sitting on a throne, a young nymph with a flower crown, a naked woman with one foot on a wheel and the other unstable, a woman with sunken eyes and an aquiline nose dressed in white, two faces from the past and future, a woman happy with the exuberance of the Cornucopia with children and a palm leaf. Being the abundance that in serial Amalthea bordered all the ladies in different esoteric and Mycenaean prosperity, constantly shining with radiations on the present in the Unicorn Ibix, which Zeus left after breaking its antlers, unleashing kindness and plethora in fruit buds, and vegetables that were appropriated in the Fortune of Wonthelimar reissuing what in their domains they can do, and now in Patmos with its Cornupia being transferred from that liquefied shaft honey and milk cultivated with attributes of herbs contributing to the leisure, peace, and relaxation of the cosmic world that ascended in Wonthelimar as Ibix in advance of Capricornus, from where the Auriga always broke into his expeditions with a trajectory towards the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, where he brought it from the Capella Star for the femurs of the Diplodocuses who seconded Drestnia to watch over the hydraulic pits of the Koumeterium from Messolonghi, before traveling to Tangier.

The entire herd went back to an ancient promontory that was halfway up the mound towards the black styes or abscesses, in the central intuition of the fossa that began to dissipate towards their backs. Amalthea extends into the Állos Kósmos, which came in zoomorphic receptacles collecting the announced blood of the animals that flowed in black planks from the vortex of the fossal, towards the liminal or transitory sleeper of the fossal that oozed acetosities of the Aldehyde to be transmigrated after the bilocation of the Chauvet cavern. All wore willow halos on the crowns or diadems of their caps, including the proliferation of phantasmagoric Allies that went in rows from 780 to 680 BC. C., with fortunes of the Cornucopia that arched in magical arches due to the dissociative changes of the universe, as well as the circumstantial creed of some omnipotence that will cause emotional transgenerational transgression, in the rain vessels that they made fall from the Ombrio de Zeus, in a daily latticework closing the spaces, and only leaving for some intruders and onlookers to see his flashing Astrepé. Right here the diádoc fossal vanished, when it rose above the horizontal that poured into the Chronic Vernagrams of parapsychological personalities of ingenuity classicism and in Astro-concomitance, which would rethink everything that is past and future from a Vernagram, which is more than a compression of a mere future of the quantum spaces and the sacred medrones of the Ibixes with their direct relationship with Capricornus. Diverse capital moments were treasured in the breeze of the Vas Auric that was traced from the opposing moraine that fell in lapse-time, through the labyrinth in storms and thunderings that became planetary with the Lynothorax cuirass that Alexander the Great accommodated in the festoon border of his Aspis Koilé, kicking copiously as a sign of shaking the head of the gods who deceived him to be alive, and who was now reborn in the faith of Saint John the Apostle, favorite of the Mashiach and where he will have to wipe his face with the shroud of Veronica Before entering the Állos Kósmos Megaron that everyone built, in favor of a Panagia or Temple, unlocking the majolica that seeped out from the rest of the transmigration, and his own in the configuration of a corpse with a tricolor gesture.

The presumptive eradicated the side of the forearm rots that was being restored in Wonthelimar's laps, which helped him get up and catch his breath while the Katogorias snack filled his mouth with nectar and almonds with Macedonian Psiloi combat tactics with serum and flames of Alcohol dripped from her nostrils and sinuses in the sweet wine, which in pompous dilemma defied the judges of her life in the choir of the Bilocated Epidary Theater on Patmos, and in the ***** dry Kashmar of the orchard with the pale faces of the grotesque, that rested in the memory or Mnmosyne and in the fauna of the Thracian and Thessalian helmets.

Alexander the Great says: “here I agonized and now in the fresh waters of the springs of the Lerna, I will also marry the glorious mystay and bákchoi, in the memories of Vernarth seeing him besieged by Achaemenides in the stooped position of Dario III, to come purifying and sustaining of my limbs, learning to walk and speak in Neolithic techniques, which extruded me from the Lerna by barriers of the moon that shone from the bronze of my Leonatus helmet. Thus I could see that Vernarth, fought alone against thousands throwing fire through his mouth and his eyes, separating the waters of the Falangists, who plowed like ships deforesting the Persians, and leaving them in their mud, imposing glorious Hypaspists who unbolted from their back some arrows with heads of snakes and Hydras.

Vernarth watched as everyone climbed the Profitis Ilias mound, two hundred and sixty-nine meters above sea level, where the monastery of San Juan is located; here he was suspended in his solitude after everything that happened at the end of the moat that definitely I would return without the Diádocos, with a hint and its functionalities. From here Helios became genealogical, who snatched him from the kingdom of dead flowers, which were to be assumed from the Olympian where he will join him to the essential of Aïdoneus; immaterializing in the darkness of dizzies and the flowers that died in the genealogy of a new species. The scenic swept its cognitive and ferns with more than three hundred frank species that frowned like the enemy of an evil friend, with seedlings that expectorated from the resonance of the bushes that invited to thrive in the salty ripples that made a dreamer fall asleep on top of the kerchiefs or brambles that memorialized Gethsemane, burning his face and hands with psalms, telling him about his Baba. For when it is a luminary by night and by day, they will compare it with the white grayish drupes and mops, like those of the Bern orchard of Olives, in aqueous and resinous colloidal, which was crowned in harmony and syntropia in Vernarth activating intellectual conscious plantations, which will restructure its balance of ultra Hoplite, in metabolism of the Lentiscus flowers, with great brotherhood in the Olives that each time exercised the gift of bending their oleaginous self-species, towards planes of the Cornicabra olives, with large branches and high tree altitude that fruit within of the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko spin, juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, which with large branches and high tree altitude fruit within the Cornucopia that he now carried on his back, supported by an oiko line juxtaposed with the fibula on the right shoulder of his lymphoma, and with polyphenols in scale geothermal energy that still leveled the Ponto Sea towards the tectonic plate to give it the flavor that was owed from remote prehistoric times.

Patmos was aborted from an immanent consent and new force of the impending enemy in Pythagorean perorations and an offending thought. From this prerogative is born the generalized punishment of sub-mythological ethics in favor of legacies of allusions to reorder or defragment the enslaving and demolished bio culture, which would begin from the establishment of the Vas Auric found in Limassol, which took possession from Rhodes with clean scenes from Tsambika monastery. The epic ran like icy cold down the shoulders of all those who sweated for the generation of cops, and in domestic evasions in superior lordships to Hades or Wonthelimar itself, both sons of flocks and goats that nourished them by providing them with a mountain perspective, as a magnetic pole towards gothic energy that ruled more in the Magnetic North Pole, and the geographic oversize that reviled latitudes in riches that would dismiss Borker and Zefian, as masters distributors of the ethics of the Áullos Kósmos of Patmos, redeploying thousands of dead from pre-Hellenic times, so that they recirculate through the roots of the Kashmar, re-sulfurizing cinnabar saps as the germ of the subterranean Acheron, which consecrates the living and the dead in the eternity of the infinite Duoverse Universe. The order will lie in semi-shadows that even in the dark provide the pleasant warmth of camphor, with advanced Horcondising formulas, which will appeal to hungry souls by suppressing gifted energies, and by inseminating them with ovules without originally conceived organisms.

From Hylates, Cyprus; Zefian came by order of Vernarth, assisted with the extension of the earthly laborers of the Attic Calendar on the twenty-first of September, from the device of Apollo at the site of Boeotia, and especially of the Boedromion. The arrows that Zefian brought had an instant Boedromion crossing the lines from spring to winter, with seven arrows that Zefian threw into the sky and never fell, but if portentously received in the virginity of animals. The flora with seven golden arrows of the Chauvet de Wonthelmar cavern, condoned the exhaustive end of the fossal where they still remained, in a gesture of tenderness and relative Mycenaean genealogy, from Crete the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree was approaching, originating in the Zefian's arrows, to mark the new cardinal points, begin with the first two arrows that they put on the string of the bow, each one flying north and south trajectories and the other two that were once again attacked with the east bow, to shoot the arrows of east-west with southern magnetism limits. Zefian's imagination was of proportions that were not limited without wandering from their phalanxes when they pulled the string, like joys of a ghostly existence that pushed him in each bolt, presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for belated courts imposed from a cosmos, which he led by insisting on his will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating the association of the hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychological of the feared inter-tale alive that rebels in the arrows that they had not yet fallen and did not know their whereabouts. As plates or serial hosts, they were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the organic, vigorous, and anti-burn contravened Duoverse to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in aeonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities towards vast volumes of light-years, where eternity has no measure, let alone the existence that begins and ends born from a homozygous arising without a Universe, to hatch from the branch of the Heterozygous Duoverse, bringing different unions of eternal cells by universal divine decree, and not the union of disparate cells. The science of the Mashiach came in these divine arrows that marked the points of the cardinal in the numinous and exclamatory expansions of the exiled universe of Vernarth, towards the perenniality in itself, but being heterozygous for a world that would begin to live in non-organic cells, but yes of divine composition, over saturating the limits of the origin, and destiny of syntropy of the conscious actions of the metabolism of the Alma Mater and of the great doors when losing the bodyweight of the physical-ether, but yes from the platform of the Mashiach that will take them hands without leaving them abandoned, showing them that they were no longer children born of ovule-*****, but rather in the luminous matter, envisioning expansions of prayers beyond from the universe, where it will accompany them in a multidimensional plane..., and will have no end from a human scientific conception.

Wonthelimar says: “Since the omphalos was swallowed by Cronos, Hera's elegy was unleashed, for not raising her son Zeus in free clumps of goats and Ida's honey. I in the Alps went to the herd of the Ibix like a Zeus saved from the darkness of Chauvet in the mountains of Gaul. There are chisels that cut stones in beautiful whirlwinds, but I know that a lot of cosmology would not speak of the Mediterranean Cornicabra and its olive drupe, nor less of the Cornucopia that sinks with sumptuous and ephebian flavors in the fruit, and the greenish heraldry of the binominal that is disturbed in its phalanges eating and sipping honey, in antler pots with pride of the Ida and the Vercors massif”
Wonthelimar Amaltheum, Állos Kosmos Megaron
Lucy Ryan Aug 2015
be always wakeful
of the weakness of your bones

when you buy shoes
only wear one size too small
you will still feel the blisters
but your bones will reset

your shoulder should carry
no more than twice your bodyweight
so suffering is enough
and never crippling
anastasiad Jan 2017
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http://www.passwordmanagers.net/ Password Manager Windows 7
Jinsen Jeanne May 2015
Naw motha fkka I
Ain't hot ****
Ain't pompous
Knock nitty gritty
With ****** up kids
I got uh
E mergency
Kit put together
With pipe and tape
From the basement
You need gum
Paperclips
Got a leak
Motha fkkn leaking
Unstable, collect
N assemble new
You wit half ya
Bodyweight in staples
BMI justified
With baggage n
Fix its
It's only a problem
When ya round
Motha fkka I
Ain't hot ****
But I'm one
Of the most torn
Up turned up
******* in the pound
Bombastic sensations
Comin from all sides
A ******
No hater
Trouble you
Trouble me
What's it gonna be?
Depends on your visage
****, I could turn it off
N I do do on occasion
If ya kickin without
The free body vibes
I visit, permission
Can't be a thing
I do wut I want when
I do cause I trust me
You r basic n
Chastened n rope
N chains to the brain
Stuck on level
Seth ***** said
In time you lay stone
Work hurt sometimes
You must crumble
Breakin down
The mortar with
Nightshade in
Spray as pesticide
For the vines tangling
Strangling your
Home, it's unknown
If I gonna grow in
The right way but
I trust me so if
I'm so grown I outgrow
Then I gotta go
No hate
Emma Aa Nov 2014
"my entire bodyweight consists of sorrow and pain,
if only it was joy and laughter I would not care
how much it said on the scale"

but I knew what I said was a lie,
of course I would still care
for sorrow and joy
weighs the same
Simon Piesse Dec 2020
¡Ya!
Prepare the barco,
Empújalo through the scrub.
‘It’s not much further now,'
His voice sugar-coated with expectation:
The flap of the jib, the slippery release into
El agua negra.
Summer sun has baked the avenue of grasses
Into wiry nests.
‘Do not open the gate,' he fulminates.

Waiting for the tren to pass
The gaze of the pasajero
Picks him out against the lights.
Wait, cross, check, shut the gate like you kiss
A un niño.

She pulls truculentemente against his bodyweight,
The smell of greased wheels
Mixes with the **** of ducks and burgers.

Canta ella:
‘It’s many the time I’ve sung this song,
Though the wind blows like a gale’.

How many more times can he set sail?
Before he is buried in the fango
And the sea shanty disintegrates
Into the
Trees?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
but each truth-seeking man seeks no marriage, no eden as such, but the turbulent fate of a brotherhood: a family of men thrown into the depths of the north sea with no sight of feminine comforting, for a thousand years at least if note more: so she might be strained for giving affection and refrained from philandering: the wiser the man the more reward he sees in a brotherhood, than a harem.*

that seagull white backdropped against the plum
purple bruises of the sky pampered with immediately
lashing out a torrent but for seagull's sake
withdrawing for a consistency of colours not mingling
into a drear opening of a letter addressed
for some dear mr., in that virtuoso of waters cascading:
wishing i too had no umbrella
or be miniature under a mushroom,
as i am and forever will be, an ant's lack of sweat lifting
its bodyweight and more over bookmarks
and crevices we sweated rivers for,
and died, exaggerating... the outlasted remains
of chiselled rock, when others took to
climbing non-chiselled rock of mountain
for a compass they thought would
make others plagiarise their lives for theirs,
having accomplished the climb of the heights
thus suggested with no other comparative issuing
of demands... indeed to what height to what
depth is there a guarantee to be given?
to what depth to what height is a guarantee
of adoration lawfully bindingly fulfilled
with red carpet 24 hour surveillance paparazzi?
we have unlearned the face broken
by stone and forest pine...
instead we learned to be an epileptic narcissus
blinking into the frozen mirror of the lake...
but our face breaks a thousand upon a thousand
more times like this... for in looking elsewhere,
we forsake ownership of the things that
never reflected us, but were made mandible by us,
so now we have become mandible by them,
for the once prized mirror of narcissus in the lake,
has become a blinking circus act we dare not believe.
Ali Jun 2018
On the night of the surrender the moon rose late,
Like a blind insignia
Hovering in the dark.
-----------------------------
A distant radio utters a song that
seems written to be played on the last night of the world;
‘L o v e, o h c a r e l e s s l o v e’,
And nostalgia rips me swinging.

Time passes, unslackening,
Memories spin round in a blur and
Washes onto the shore- derelict, adrift--
Leaving us wondering,
‘ H o w w i l l i t e n d?’

We listen, in pained silence,
As the ocean murmurs - as ever before; beloved, unbinding-
A song about us -beloved, blind -
Leaving us wondering,
‘ H o w c a n i t e n d?’
For now, just promise me this;
You won’t unwish one thing we did, but
Wear them all like beautiful impurities.

Now I hold you, as you lay – sleepless- and the
Raw, naked twilight draws shimmering
Figures on your skin,
Leaving me wondering,
How anything f r a g i l e
s u r v i v e s.

Now I hold you, as you lay – sleepless-
Foreknowing the absence that one day, elsewhere,
You will look up
And missing something,
For a second not know what it is,
And through that heartbeat’s gap,
The manner of love and its bodyweight
-The tide of everything-
Will break like the Pacific Ocean,  
                                                      Up­on
                                                               Your
                              
                                                                ­           Head.
Kristen Lowe May 2014
If I could be anything I would be the imprint your bodyweight leaves in your mattress when you pick yourself up (again). I would like to be the curve of your back when you're tired and it's late, but there's still work to do, and the way your shoulders start to cave under your sense of obligation. I want to be the way your heart breaks when your father calls, and the knowledge that he will never love you like I do. I want to be the cracks in the tiles where the ground split open under the weight of the sadness you discard on the bathroom floor every time you step into your shower. I want to be the misery that runs down your drain as you wash away the dusty coating this world has left on your skin. I want to be the place your eyes wander to when you can't look at me: the broken sight of your self-loathing. And when the acid in your stomach has torn through the dwindling reserves of your tangled sense of place, I would be the anchor restraining the winds that rush through your sails. If I could be anything, I would be the way you inhale every time I leave, and the gravity that I'll never understand that brings you back to me.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
it happens all the time, that feeling of reading a saturday newspaper supplement; had i mentioned that i find the journalistic medium of writing, the most obnoxious? the most tiresome, the most wearisome, the most, how should i say: *******? i don't which i detest more, the politicians, or the journalists... i never seem to ever pick the "right" choice... it's the politicians with their lies, but it's also the journalists with their social-media "attention" to detail that bugs me... who are these people, who are they?

and it only comes in the shape of an article
you're never too old. or are you?
who are these cardinals, bishops and monks
of the "writing" class fooling?
      i ****** well hope there's an inquisition
coming...
   i'm just tired of a culture that only celebrates
but *one
form of torture / execution...
crosses have become so unimaginative that
they had to become necklaces...
              yawn...
                     but these (cliche) bourgeoise opinions
are worse than torture...
         women: bare legs, provocative dancing,
zara, bouncy hair, selfies, macron age-gap bf,
getting drunk, hats (ascot esp.),
                    sheepskin car coats,
             slogan t-shirts;
men: hassling d.j.s, messy hair,
              trainers,
                                ear­rings,
     earphones, live gigs, the "mate",
                           flirting, visible *******...
who, are, these, people?
      i don't begin to think that a rebellion against
the bourgeoisie came from this sort
of laziness, this sort of "attention to detail",
but then again, hyacinth bucket could
annoy anyone with a stern armour of metal...
who are these people?
              i've just been watching clouds at night
with the hazel coated sheen of the moon
scuttering the intruding mountains of
quicksilver sheen cauliflower...
listening to some trafficking moral debate
while in amsterdam everyone partied...
and thinking: you know, i might have seen
my psychiatrist for free, a world renowned
(can't remember her name) -
    but i found that seeing a ******* to be
much more effective...
slave? was she a slave to me?
  frankly, more like a psychiatrist...
         after all, i'm no quasimodo in posture...
and yet the biggest idiot in our company would
get a ****, and i: supposedly the type
that got off on conversation...
   seems i was never dumb enough for a casual
****** encounter...
      pity? what pity, what self-wallowing
could i ever be up to? it's the perfectly sighted
comic affair...
               it's no conspiracy that the feminists
have become so undesirable they imported
a load of north african ****...
            what?!
            that's not the case, who else would ****
'em if not the ***** replacement machines
of nigra flesh? someone has to,
                   overwise everyone goes ballistic!
i already have to ladies by my side,
ms. amber, a scotch fiery red head,
  and sophia, a dark maiden from rhodes,
with curly hair...
                      and it's not so much what they
do with my nether regions, as what they do
with my ego... that other phallus...
                    it always aims at a north korean
army march... prompt, intact,
  with nicely ironed shirts, trousers and
other aspects of the uniform...
          then again, it was never a case of limp
when drunk and with the transcendental
experience passing the madonna-***** complex
with a *******...
     always that glorified one-dimensional
experience of corpus (ad) dare corpus...
            i have no qualms, no inhibitions,
you'd be surprised at the notion of un-inhibiting
certain receptors of quickened gratification,
walking into a room with about 12 of them,
staring at you like they might just circumcise you
with their lips, and eat your liver while
selling your kidneys on the blackmarket...
  and yes, i like my latin,
but latin as the cliche reminds us: is not dead...
latin is not dead, it's simply derived from
the vulgate,
     lingua latina est vivus, in plebei, ergo
   est non mort
; and that's the usual ****-it you
apply to reviving the origins of:
               still writing in a latin alphabet!
         if latin was dead, i'd be writing in runic!
dead my ***... ever seen a baboon with
haemorrhoids try to sit still?
           had about four ****-cheeks on him,
****** decided to hang upside-down from
a tree... and no, two weeks in kenya were not great,
i don't know how those whiteys did it,
i spent most of the time in a shade,
  4 hours in an air conditioned room,
          3 hours prior to falling asleep on the balcony,
and probably drank my bodyweight of liquids...
so yes, i have a "moral" conundrum regarding
prostitution, esp. after visiting amsterdam...
**** me, beats sessions with a psychiatrist...
my mental illness? christianity,
  and how i found it hard to mantra mea culpa
+ quia propitius ero iniquitatibus eorum et
       peccatorum illorum iam non memorabo
...
which is a staggering combination
  of... "symptoms".
huma Oct 2020
Ever since I was a little child, I always wondered what it would feel like to be an ant. A little teeny-weeny tiny ant. Wandering around in this gigantic world. Following the sugary smell of life, yet all they find are scraps. Collecting all there is from it for their families, and no matter how small the food seemed to us humans, it would always be HUGE for them to carry.

Later on, I grew a bit older, and I started to think, how did the first ant that was ever killed feel like? to be stepped on by a huge giant foot, and without it even realizing that it had stepped on an ant.

How strange it is that such a critter can carry 50 times its own bodyweight, yet can be killed so abruptly.

Would it feel anything? Or would it simply just die? Would her family and friends even realize that it’s dead? Does it even have friends and family and little ants that cared about it?

I wasn’t really sure about the answer, but I always wondered about it.

And then it hit me, or should I say smashed me. That same giant foot I was talking about. No not only did it smash me, but it squished me, squished me hard enough, that I became nothing but a…? I guess I became nothing.

Since then, I knew exactly what the answer was. To be a little tiny creature smashed to the ground. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. Or did they?
A W Bullen Apr 20
Under this
is nothing new

flown


over my dead bodyweight
the sky reprises peace...

Though trauma grows its
root in dream,

I clover on a pearl
of sleep

upended by
a tender sun

gone


falling into

blue
?  once,
Marius Banik Feb 2020
I was laying on the cold asphalt
The night was cutting through my skin
I begin to slowly feel it give way
Bend under my bodyweight
I hear it screaming and twisting
I doesn't want to do this
I try to look arround
Every movement just accelerates
I try to get upright
I cannot
I waddle like a fish on land
It swallows my arms
I scream and I try
It screams back
I am so tense I feel like my stomach will explode
I connot do anything
I pray to the sky to take me
If I push so hard I break my right arm
The pain shooting through me
I bite my terth in the black sticky mass
They begin to crumble
My body spasms
My eyes are gauging out of my head
My vocal chords snap under the load
My ears are ringing
My heartbeat feels like an earthquake
A fingernail rips of the flesh
I breath big chunks of road
It fills me from the inside
I spit blood
I suffocate
I ***** and scream and explosively gasp for air
I can feel my skull is about to crack
And then I just let myself fall

Slowly I sink through the darkness
No sounds reach my ears
No light reaces my eyes
I do not feel any pressure
I feel so light like I weigh nothing
I drift down the path for thousands of years
I do not remeber everything
The darkness is pulling me

I am sorry for giving up
It was too easy
S Jun 2019
by your side at 1am
i was reluctant but i still did it

2am now i'm feeling comfortable

3am the cold air hits me and i'm excited
i move closer to you and you crush me
your bodyweight hurts in all the right ways

4am i've got you right where i want you
and ******* definitely have me

5am you refuse to admit it
you refuse to say the words aloud

5.15 we're in comfortable silence

5.17
you say it's getting late

5.19 everything went back to normal....like nothing ever happened
sarah Jan 2020
ten. it ****** the life from your mother, who wouldn't go to work or quit her opioid addiction or do any of the things she probably should have.

twelve. and it was in you too, in the quiet moments of perpetual anxiety and childhood trauma that had not quite identified itself yet. it moved right in, and it decided it likes the view.

fourteen. it exploded in your world. it's in the girl who had it all and in the teacher with a tan line where her wedding ring used to be.

sixteen. absolutely by now, you had met it too. a sort of absent numb. swallowing darkness. a blackness. but it wasn't you, it couldn't be. just a voice, perpetually angry and tired. your bodyweight you're too tired to carry.

mental illness does not have a face. it takes over in small, sly ways that only those who have lived it know the colors.

it wears the bodies of the girl dancing, the skin of the girl that sits at home with battle wounds (sometimes, this is the same girl). it inhabits the man always frowning, the boys always making others laugh. in the chests of poets, artists, musicians. it's clever. it camouflages well.

it may be in you. it is in me.

— The End —