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Robin Carretti Feb 2019
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
Ballads of important dates and places to remember like the day you are born the musical brain I would love to go back one time to memory lane
JL Jan 2013
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
Jonathan Witte Nov 2016
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.
Mauri Pollard Apr 2013
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.
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 ******* 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)
Diane Feb 2014
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.
It occurred to me only after writing and then reading this poem, that this experience occurred (around age 5), before some childhood trauma and it reads back to me that I had sent a yellow butterfly to my future self as a reminder of innocence and happiness. This is both chilling and comforting.
b for short Nov 2016
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.
© Bitsy Sanders, November 2016
Ken Pepiton Aug 2023
Let it rest.
Let us see better, saying
some say we have dues to pay,

duties to the whole human race,
race being loaded with royal faith.

Any propagation of holy order, go,

take the land that lacks any kings,
make men modeled on Donald Trump,
from boys modeled on the anti-hero,
and ---

Accept the offer of a satisfied mind, for a minute.

Poverty of being me, not obliged to any
powers of orders from God, general use,
under which, in America, pledged children stand.

Stepping beyond the ordered classes,
my generation, born into natural TV, Eureka!,
I personally watched Archimedes say it, on TV,
I was seven, and used …
-------------
Information gathering, intelligence collecting,
ever learning never knowing everything about,
ever, as a state.
Eureka!
Communists, say the word,
instant hate,
****, say it, sayit Niggerniggerniger ghuck yew.
Potential traitors, aliegiance pledge violators,
called to vote, under the laws God authorized.

Vote for fear,
vote for hope, vote for leaving me alone.

------------------ governing a self, letting any mind
be in you, being found in the gaseous we state, ever
after all's been said and done, a dozen times, or more.

The entertainment value of life.
Judging one's own experience, later than most.
Age tested…
ex agere, eh, gitgo, let it roll… therapy, in session.

Listen, Doktor, I am a good liar,
I just wish I were otherwise. That's everyman's truth.

It is written, all men are liars, not only Cretans.
Therefore, right,
knowing that, accepting that, we all naturally lie,
and if we are rewarded for the art of mimicry,

we lie until we die.

Think yourself to the source, when did the mind
on offer to the elite who hired spirited tutors,
change
to allow the untouchables
to read?
------- Freedom from unknowing why I disagree.

Over the last century, however,
Freud’s ideas have since been met
with criticism,
in part because
of his singular focus
on sexuality as the main driver
of human personality development.

https://www.quora.com/Do-you-agree-with-Freuds-theories

My AI, intuitional artistry, assisting informant, informs me,
- ego chooses to, a bit vehemently, dis-herd my hide.
Be not conformed to this world…

be not conformed
to the mileau projected as reality, you and me
being formed in, positioned
as carriers, or as carried messages, proof
of all naked mankind may bear up under imagining.

Stand and ask the chronicles. Bow and ask the spirits,
sit Zazen lotus on a goldfish pond, stride across surface tension,
examine
animated orderly symphony of
how big a show we can put on.

Splash.
Recall the age weapon, wielded unrighteously.
-- I can out time waste any young mind.
-- time acknowledged passing. So,
what
am I to do well enough to influence turbulence positively.
Make a point.

Think a cause, make up your mind, our whole mortal mechanics,
levers and weights and balances and tension holders and releasers.

Prods produce anger, and
any we we thought we were kicks it self to death, when…

- Cadmus, it is- and this then that stone thrown at
dragon's teeth, taken from Ares,
by  our selected hero,
fed early Book of Knowledge, and Britannica,
and Aesop, and Poor Richard, and all the Nursery Rhimes…
- just so right, if the least heat zone is cool.
Goldilocks.
Rapunzel, coming of age, rites of passage, understand.
Peter, the pumpkin eater, had a true Freudean problem.

Not some thing nursery children can parse.

Knowledge of the story,
holistic impression on the cultural psyche, do tell,
says the Id to the Super I.

"Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife but couldn’t keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.
Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had another and didn’t love her;
Peter learned to read and spell,
And then he loved her very well."

I'd better think myself a fine boy, for this plumb,
line upon line, steady sense of balance and
timing since, aim, edumacated
will to tell, provocative force, tensile strength stretch
of the imagination,
the imagining machinery, pull

Target audience, the attraction in us all, to hit it
the key first thing,
the corner stone.
Masonic
cultural syncretism, lying idle, conjoined heads and tales,
inspiring

preconscious, conscious, unconscious, subconscious
science - use, measure, from seventeen POVs, at once.
collect a consciousness,
form a we, me and thee.
We are perhaps the briefest form of mind,
the passing fancy, fantasy titular idea, the works

opera, machinations deploying ropes and wheels,
and crashing cymbals, Zildjians, no doubt, old ideas,

tinkling bells, and jingling bells, sounds of whips,
sounds of sails snapping, tacking,

ambitions lead us around the obstacles, land us on the sand.
------------
knowledge, expressed with confident proof,
poet's license taken as granted, this is all I offer life.
Any ant-like urge to gather for the colony, I offer this.

I disagree with Sigmund Freud, and Bishop Sheen…
and doubt we ever could have been friends, like me and

the few names I have power to recall, with a thought, like
a charged ion on a quest,

to prove the best use,
of any knack.

This is all I brought with me from my past,
I speak English and
I have a linked history through five generations.

Being amusing, and being a user of muses, are not same
in balance of Natural vs Artformed,
Art's own sake, they say, causa sui
the use of knowledge, knowing and doing, showing growing,
formations of cultural biomes,

rust dust, color of Mars, Ares, same idea,
a good god of war…

"Turn the other cheek."
Love make simple - imagine Romance Novels, all day, all night,
News as it would appear, after the generational curses
propagated at the K through 12 stage,
bear fruit on grafted limbs.

The poor you have always
with you, ye poor in heart.

Fitting war's reality, 2023
--fit, not fight
Pieces of my mind, hoping mostly not to lie, unconsciously.

Lines, floating on singularities too tiny to feel.
Forming
From our conjoined mind's past,
to our oath tied you and me agreement, I admit, I pray,

in much the way I prayed as a child,
hoping to win the lottery,
believing my mercy on the universe plea,
worked.
I can imagine news from the Daily Planet,
I can imagine pogroms looking like a zippo'd village.

Can't we all?
Is not the power of the message art offers seeing eyes,
worth the promise of redeeming shame, cash in the secrets.

The work of a prophet, use the best gift, fabricate a valid reason.
T'is today, Monday, once.

So sophomoric have we become, tomorrow never comes, we know.

Live for today, eh, seize the light, stretch it, stretch it, to the night.

Blessed. Favored above the cursed, happy having things to do, right.
Cursed. Tied to the fear of death, due to childhood trauma, Victorian
moral standards,
five moral generations ago, height of the mission to hide the theft.

History and new thought. Novelty constantly, let me,
entertain you,
let my words be the glue,

listen with a will to know,
and grow your own shelter from the storm,

become a passive unibomber, seek and destroy the glory,
iconoclasm chasm leap

of merest faith, spirit verbing lief as well, mine or thine,
whatever.

Where this is, in a construct believed in as direct objective
The Cloud of all collected knowns and their known uses.

I, ego of the entity I play, outwardly aware you are there,
thinking we think at once,
this time,
this instant, and some men of faith can sell that.
Some sit in the buzz of electrified retiremental bliss,
content. Sowing seeds of kindalikeness.

The prize of the satisfied mind… seek that first.
See what it turns into.
Letting the hope of doing good, act out.
Timothy H Jul 2016
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
Ryan O'Leary Jan 2021
If the Pope, Prince Phillip
or Hen Lizzy croaks it in
coming days AstraZeneca
can kiss they *** goodbye
and that will be the end of
the experiment to nullify us,
let us all pray together now.
Yonathan Asefaw Jun 2018
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 ******-fingers
I rummage up a ****-hole
like college ****-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.
Charles Sturies Aug 2017
All I got was rose petals inside a couple of pages of an old Encyclopedia Britannica book, but it was good enough of a present, from whom I don't know.

I suspect it was from my ex-wife.

Ringo just got a photograph, but I'm sure he treasures it - of me as a little boy, I like to pretend.

Petals, pictures. She loves me, she loves me not.

Yeah, there is a little bit of a flower child in all of us, even me,
and the love generation isn't actually a hate generation in disguise like I suspected.

I don't try to **** people with kindness, think I can **** just with my eyes, heard I was a "tough cookie" with a kind heart (maybe so)
but I don't think some people are such sour apples anymore
and I think that there's basically good in all of us.

By they way, do you ever notice you improve your lot a lot without even noticing it sometimes?

It's like at Christmas when they say "big" or is it "good" things come in small packages.
Charles Sturies

— The End —