"britannica" poems
Ballads R-U the
nourishment
Like the Bella baby
greens
Tossing your salad like
The artwork deviant
Like the myriad
The musical chairs
Messages unique piece
Playing the brain organs
The new road of legions
Cerebellum moving
Perky pinks the possum
We move into a certain era
Intense Opera breathing, pacing, dreaming
More feeding the balance of love needing
Musical digestion
Heart rate inside
your movement shows
affection
All themes like soap operas
The nervous system musical brain
Gets damaged like the Asylum
So emotional heartbeat got more
rhythm
Your hums needing tums
The Lifes crises
But not feeling
accountable the brains works
Every function ballads of love
Inside your heart diction
Like the ballad-making
Your best transformation
Orchestrated hands to lead
The musical brain
Love letters arrive on the train
So tranquil love
physical momentarily
Has a certain quality
like the ballad of love
mutiny
We find in life its a long sip
The brain wave long neck
Giraffe hot cafe
We feel everyone's tragedy
Living so high
in the (Castle) the step up
Not giving up the highness the
majesty the brain depressed
But such a parody foods for
the soul no control eating binge
You want to dodge out
But you're the musical genius
Magical brain fast and furious
Is tricky to remember you have
The talent
To be Lucky*
Fill it with love and gravity
He's the laughing stock
of the comics
Like the simple life
He's the built-in love
a ballad with such structure
The popular form of poetry
Musical notes a blend
of symmetry
Chariots of fire the key to love
Whats truly above all we need is love
He takes your breath away
Reading into the
"Britannica"
Archie comics and Veronica
Historical moments Cleopatra
The ballads of culture
Songs we remember
I love September the day I was born
Ballads and songs
"My Girl"
"Stop Look Listen to your heart"
"Love is all around"
You came to the right place
Peace and love, please
stick around we love you
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC
He beams as he enters my bedroom
Holding a glass bottle
Bout a liter with a light label
Ether? (i was already down a hot dessert road with a pint of it in the back on the way to Las Vegas in a red sportscar)
No my son
Embalming fluid
Quickly we scrounge for money
And with almost zero effort
We had an eighth of some funk
We feel rich as we walk
And the rain falls
A good omen
As we smoke a cigarette near the retention pond
A falcon picked up a black snake and carried it over the trees
Marijuana soaked in embalming fluid
The bodies are emptied and filled to help slow down decomposition
He reads from Encyclopedia Britannica about embalming
I imagine ancient humans sitting around a fire in the center of the dessert
They are throwing massive amounts of marijuana on the fire
Inventing gods and dancing
They were each dipped and allowed to fully dry
We talk about all the **** our egos have snagged lately
As he packs
The hit
Like plastic to the tongue
My lungs become black in an instant
Filled with an acrid white smoke
Exhale the soul
**** that was fast*
Stillness in everything
The building vibration at the base of my skull
Reverberating through me
each word
Spirals off into thousands
Of volumes of information
The processing power
Of the machine
Capable of this existence
the psychotic episode of existence
It tries to talk
Surely it thinks it is something
How fine it is to know that it will all one day end
In an instant neither dark nor light I will die
And I have no fear of this
An instant of life
Boiling over to its brim in thoughts
To feel one moment of true ignorant blissful love of another soul
Love just another reaction to instinct
That we love to label with
Big long pages of words
And inventions to make
Them faster until everyone knows what life should be like
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
Until you pulled
the trigger you
knew nothing
of wild boars
except tales
your father told
you as a child,
but suddenly
there it was
fierce and feral,
yellowed tusks
flying at you—
the tall novitiate.
So when you
raised the rifle
to your eye
and fired,
your mastery
of boars burst
over African
grassland,
splattered
in a grisly shower
of comprehension:
red words
splashed
on knee-high grass,
paragraphs hashed
out in final breaths,
until the depleted
subject of your study—
tumescent body
and stiff squat legs—
lay dead in African
savanna, the obsolete
entry you never read
in your Encyclopedia Britannica.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Look at this fool.
This babbling fool that stands
over me.
A garden full of burning flowers
visible through his eyes,
but not through ear to ear.
The things that run from his mouth-
which I do not blame them from doing-
**** my brain cells.
He thinks I care.
All I want the former fool.
He who taught me all I know.
The walking book cover,
dictionary, Britannica.
The ultimate thesaurus, movie star.
Bob the Rabbit.
It's in its cage.
Say hi to Bob.
I admire you.
The temperature.
The west and east egg.
All I desire is again
to sit and look up and admirably
watch words spill out of his mouth.
Not these dead song birds
flying out of his.
Not this spineless man walking
on his tongue.
Not, Not,
Not him.
In the distance, a foghorn yells, "No one cares!"
but he is Hellen Keller's doppelganger.
I am slowly going brain dead......
black.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
The telex caster flickers on
and the chap from the BBC, states
the last of the balloons are erected
we are ready for lift off
Slowly the land pulls away from the earth
time to rule Britannica most glorious
going where the winds takes us
and where we land, we will take as ours
Using only sound weapons
and the whispers of cold winds
we are so ready to take seizers
for this is airship Britain, full of lunatics
All don their red jackets
men, women and even children
no more muskets or marching
for this land is made for fighting
We are the now the Kunstprodukt
so ready for war, and so wanting
ready to take back what we have lost
this is battle of airship Britain
Only the elite will attire in black
for they are the hard core warriors
and they will jump into action
before we land, and play dangerously
We will rule where the wind takes us
for Britain is not on the map
and soon we float over to you
and land on your ****** lap
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2012 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The sun was shining and I was free and warm,
chasing little yellow butterflies
alongside the garden where my mother was working,
a source of food for our family
along with factory pay and Saturday night band gigs
with bare feet and lilacs I rose above it,
watching myself, a small child caught up in her world,
thoughts and music floating with purpose
uninterrupted wondering if there was another
version of me doing the exact same thing
at that exact same moment,
in China, in India, in Africa,
although I did not know the names of such places,
I knew the pictures of dark skin and brightly colored
clothing, from the Encyclopedia Britannica's
prominently positioned in the
bookshelf, center of our living room
and it seemed that I could feel the other “me’s”
that we knew each other and spoke via the
sound tunnels created by earth worms
and the encyclopedia girls seemed happy too,
simply to be alive, dancing to their songs
yet there seemed to me another, quasi Diane,
this one not so different, nor so far away,
but she was beyond my grasp, and unable to hear me,
and I felt a vivid, deep longing for her,
eventually, after minutes of chasing, the butterflies
could no longer be found, remembering reality
I was sad for a moment, but I imagined that
one must have fluttered off
to that other little girl
through the hole in the air that I could not see
and I smiled, hoping she would be able to catch it.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC
So I can’t trust the Times, Fox News, or the Post.
Too left or too right, just parasites hungry for hosts.
From you, fellow tax-paying citizen, I take note.
I listen to you — that angry defense of your vote.
Are you going to tell me what I am able to trust?
Before this land of the free is left to ruins and rust?
Silence speaks volumes,
like the encyclopedia I loved, circa ‘94—
devoured for hours on my living floor.
(Sidenote: That encyclopedia included several pages on
the Holocaust. But then, I suppose,
the Encyclopedia Britannica shouldn’t be trusted either?)
So what must I trust if I can’t share the news
without being challenged because of my views?
You say I can’t trust the posted or printed, so instead,
I'll trust something much louder in my heart and my head.
I'll trust that empowered white supremacy in a place
where "all men are created equal," is something I refuse to embrace.
I'll trust that our freedom of speech is not our freedom to hate.
Black, brown, yellow, white— that’s not up for debate.
I'll trust that hope will swallow such hate in the blink of an eye—
choke the breath from its lungs and drop a beat to its cry.
And then I'll trust that history will one day forget
that we've failed to keep its pages from repeating just yet.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
Don't, for a second,
Believe your familiarity equal
To the obsessed appreciator
Because you studied the author
Or painter, in school
How vague the prefrontal cortex, the memorization of Wikipedia (or generation Encyclopedia Britannica) or MFA syllabus bullet points
Focused on the minute details of joyful
Operatic beauty personification were you?
Or the mark delivered by a professor
The essay, the test?
Or the cute one in the class?
Or the one which your over-achieving spirit must compete?
Brilliance discovered in work you GET outside of such demands is a stark difference indeed
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
Reading Journal #1
Rummage a book
I’m done bulldozing
about how much I
kaleidoscope textbooks.
Pick up Exodia and
obliterate me to the
shadow-realm
(Get to point? Ok.)
Reading Journal #2
Syllables
Gibberish.
Lectures
Syllables.
ZzZz
Gibberish.
9/5 work
Reading Journal #3
I’m scrabbling syllables to
strut them like drag queens
I’m bored out of vulture-brains.
I got gigolo-fingers
I rummage up a ********
like college porn-stars.
Reading Journal #4
****
****
Lectures
College.
****
??
Newton.
Reading Journal #4
Do you read Britannica Dictionaries,
an alligator of an FAQ?
It Einsteins verbiages like ****
man and s u c k s
I’ll add abbreviations the next time
I scribble average joe mean-girls-esque
diaries.
Reading Journal #5
…Awkward,
I don’t remember writing
this Morse code doggynote.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
I still think of the burning black eyes of thee, Shreeta;
the most beautiful desi girl thin as a sun ray;
smart as my vintage Encyclopedia Britannica;
sweet as heavenly honey, never stinging me;
bee rubbing thin hairy arms together into my memory;
Shreeta the only devi descended in sandals
holding a single candle lighting every star in the wide,
wide sky; whose sharp-cheeks & caramel features
art an epiphany & the definition of every order of love
from blissful Nirvana to the realm of demons
where thou's bare feet truck through snowy mountains
where the albino Yeti falls in love w/ thee;
so perfect as the earth itself personified;
sit to **** in ur condo's luxury super-toilet;
there is always & only thee, Streeta &
my love will always be overflowing upon thee & I will
drink ur crystal clear ***** like sweet, sacred strawberry
scented ambrosia
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC