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Cindra Carr Nov 2011
I’ve died
I’ve felt the brunt of dis-ease like a disease
The final straw that has broken my heart
Drove a stake through instead
Why now?
The leftover time I’ve been allowed
Is filled with hollowed out emptiness
The screams of pain when there is no one to answer me
Bursts my life at the seams
I have died
I’m gone for sure this time
I cannot even fill the time I have in between
Because I am numb
Dead inside
Without that genuine human touch with no hurtful motive
I’ve gone and died
Withered blossoms of socialization should have fought hard
Hardly fought instead
The weak politeness crept out
I have died
With no thought for the future
I’ve cut my past off to live in the blankness of the present
Don’t fret
I never really lived anyway.

cc111911
ryn Oct 2014
Perhaps I'm encased in a box
made out of two-way glass.
A biased one-way mirror...
Mutual vision doesn't meet nor pass.
When you look at me,
you only see,
yourself for all that you care...
Me? Just a faint suggestion that I'm even there.
   Maybe that's why...
      you ask about my life,
      about my strife.
      When I'm about to unload my
      head,
      I end up having to hear about yours
      instead.

Perhaps at times I travel around
in a bubble of frosted glass.
Only a blurred version of me...
Clumsily ploughing through the mass.
Incoherent, misunderstood and unclear.
Unintelligible muffles of hopes and fear.
   Maybe that's why...
      My words are just perceived as
      playful rhymes.
      Never keeping up with the times.
      Words regurgitated but no one
      realises what's coming undone...

Perhaps what I need
is an armour of bulletproof glass.
One of unique quality...
One ahead of its class.
You can do and say what you want.
A shell that would bear most of the brunt.
     I'll be impervious.
          I'll be protected.
               I can be indifferent.
                    I can be jaded.

   Maybe that's all I need...
           A shocking stunt.
                 A fresh perspective.
                      A new plan.
                           Revised objectives.

   Maybe a different name to start all
   over...
      To tie the binds and thoughts that
      scatter...
      Hoping of holding everything
      together...

Come morning, all will be
      forgotten...
Maybe I'd still be beaten.

   So for a chance that's,
     fat as hell
           or
     thin just a sliver...
Truth is of the three, I have neither...
So...

    *what I've said doesn't really matter.
ryn Sep 2014
What's my worth?
Am I worth a second glance?
Till present, from birth
Am I deserving of chance?

What's my value?
Am I worth time spent?
What did I do?
Did I squander the life lent?

What are my virtues?
Do they even shine through?
Do I put them to good use?
Or useless like a pair less shoe?

What defines me?
Is it the words that write?
Or work I do diligently?
Could it be my punches in a fight?

What have I done?
Take your time to think
Did I do it with a loaded gun?
Must've done something; must've missed the link

What am I good for?
Important work or menial labour
Could have I done more?
Achieved alone or together

Do I think differently?
Indulge in fairytale notions
Is it sheer folly?
To believe in magic potions

Am I just silly?
Do I dream too much?
Accept reality
Am I capable of such?

Do I shirk what I carry?
Should I have said no?
Did I delay and tarry?
Have I nothing to show?

Am I wrong to feel?
Is it foolish to want?
When it all is real
Now bearing the brunt

Do I wear you weary?
With my endless stupor
Why can't I bury?
Before we expire

Why do I wallow?
Wading through eye puddles
Should I just burrow?
Deep into these riddles

Why do I falter?
Why can't I heal and rise?
Why do I break and shatter?
How do I stop my eyes?

What is this dense forest?
Must everything be obscure?
Can I not be honest?
Can I not be insecure?

Could I be any more random?
Asking as they come to mind
Have I compromised my decorum?
Have I been blind?

Should I delve even deeper?
May I go on and ask?
Am I worthy of an answer?
Or should I just don my mask?

Gargantuan was my crime
Thick was its girth
Absolution this time?
Of it am I worth?
Grey Aug 2015
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would do so much more.
When I say the things I do.
the terrible words that I see douse the lights in your eyes,
I cannot help it.
They flow from my mouth like wine from a bottle,
a bitter cognac into a cup,
and though your flame should sometimes be fostered by the alcohol,
at times it is too much.
For that, I apologize.
I would be better for you.
I would fight your battles,
be the brunt of every joke,
be the example of those who do not care,
take any punch your enemies might throw.
I would believe.
I would feel passion enough to believe in something.
I believe in nothing,
but
I believe in you.
In your light and darkness,
in your speech and silence,
in your disbelief in me.
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would die for you.
Tommy Randell Apr 2017
come blow my brains out
with your body of a gun
frazzle my eyes
with your smile of a sun

crush my bones
to splinters and shards
teach me mercy
is only for *******

let your kisses be fire
your breath a disease
bring your apocalypse
down on me please

sext me the text
the call to arms
skin me alive
with the blades in your palms

I don't want it cosy
all hearts and flowers
rain down on me
like a meteor shower

and the knife of your tongue
and the knife of your tongue
pressed to my flesh
like the touch of the sun

let it brand me as yours
burn me deep so it shows
I'm the brunt of your love
as everyone knows

through the 50 shades
of your tendencies
I am the prey
and you are the need

a willing accomplice
to mutual destruction
where passion results
in total eruption

it is not perverted
to want love this way
you know it and I know it
it's 50 clichés

in public poetry
on private sheets
it's what happens to normal
when preverts meet!
A satire, of course, on the whole 50 Shades phenomenon - I was going to call it 50 Shades of Clichés but choices are choices.

'Preverts' ? ... yes, that's right. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ud9zBKJJQe4  Hahahaaa
ryn Jul 2014
Windows to the the world through which I see
Images of shortfalls and views of perpetual inadequacies.
Shut my lids ever hoping for a change in scenery...
But only pictures of emotional chaos, mistakes and uncertainties.

Visions I can't ignore and they can't be severed;
Like a splinter that's embedded but can't be retrieved.
Reluctant at first I wish to have them captured...
Capturing all the disorder, but have the beauty all sieved.

Beauty and light engulfed by this visual turmoil
From windows to canvas, I paint but with a sombre brush.
Vicious strokes represent the feelings that roil;
Devoid of pardon; sing of pressures that crush.

This brush that I use; I've taught it all too well.
It could paint even when running on the subconscious.
It never does relent, nor never will it ever quell,
It'll keep on painting the dark side of the senses.

My canvas just lays receiving the brunt of the strokes.
It lays there quiet; accepts it all without struggle.
Like fuel to a bonfire, it provides and also it stokes;
It lays there ready to accommodate the dust and rubble.

Again the brush finishes with its last deft touches.
Producing the same painting it's painted over and over...
They will never depict meadows with the farthest of reaches
But a portrait of me; staring mournfully into forever...
melli7 Jun 6
Eyes tired of bearing the
Brunt of my notyet game
Plan regarding sleep and I
Don’t blame them
Marla Oct 2018
You've built me up
Then torn me down.
Secured my cuffs
To bricks
So that I'd drown.
I've never been me
Around you
Because my loyalties lie
Within this heart of mine.
Can't you see
The wicked little world
You've created?
The deluded fantasy
That keeps you
Fascinated?
You fascist pig.
Fattening yourself up
Off the brunt of my back,
Then kicking me out to
Wander,
Societal refuse with their
Burlap sack.
Drifting off
Losing life
One little drop of pain
At a time.
This blood in my veins
Maybe there because
You made me,
But it'll stay there
Because I decided
To save me
From the cold
Razor sharp
Lie that is
You.
The brunt of your will
the hammered vacant
out of the bag look
of your swill
the brunt of every joke
especially when I'm not
joking
like when I described
our most spiritual
(ehem) moment-
I spray painted the *******
you put on the forehead of your ex-
wife's Buddha (ancient symbol
from those parts but the irony
was lost)
to place upon the grave
of our favorite cat
I supplied the pillowcase
while my dear panzerblitz
of a man dug. and dug
and I suggested that he
mound the dirt to allow
for sinking
he looked up, morning sun
in his bloodshot eyes,
"Do you think I've never
dug a grave before?"

So, now, whenever I look out
the back door the Buddha shines
not so much me anymore
I laugh out loud, inside joke
to be sure, and not my grave
anymore
Onoma Jul 2018
listening to the clacking rounds

of traffic skipping beats...bridging

storms overhead.

watching her water below, break

a tide.

we're flowing together, she's never

the same--as i am not.

we both know when to leave each

other be, and when not.

a wind falls and spreads her many

faces today--and i keep mine as

straight as death.

we keep at our reasons, till we spit

them out.

she's unsheathing a shimmering

sword across the Manhatten/Bronx skyline...

and she's telling me it's a **** good fight.

i lower my head, and make intermittent

eye contact with a respect that bears the

brunt of being Mothered~

i spend more and more time at her feet...

because she courses no return.
sweet dreams to the dismal things
on the shores of an apocalypse
perhaps we are day-dreaming
breathing in these noxious fumes
consuming our own impermanance
is it ignorance of law
or the lure of the commons
that has doomed you
to inhaling all this perfume
threads of light scintillate the moon
an uncommon fuse
forged between your heart and the sun
so come dance and drift
in between rifts of space and time
that melancholy face
oh how i’d love to hold it in my hands
and stand up against you
i never stopped to over-stand you
don't think about it just let it out
before it consumes you
as fast as a spray from a humpback whale
the powers are receding
and we are needing to refill our cups
brunt and blunt like coconuts
what a stunt you pulled
how did you know
that they'd let you get away with it
its phenomenal the mood you instigated
a repatriation of the delegated fields
free of spite and allocated yields
until we became two foolish flowers
that now must die
in order to perpetually bloom
Gangothrii Jul 2018
Colors blurred to a banausic bore,

Sights I crossed, sought my eyes no more.

Paths overused, they bore the brunt,

Of thousand hopeful feet that met the end.

All so familiar yet so strange,

What’s that my heart so craves?

Is it the fruit of seed, sown so early?

Or the bloom of desires, of my heart.

Choose I should, one path,

Can I not have it all?

Weigh, I must, of what that matters,

Or shall watch as many dreams shatter?

Some who came, made a choice,

Others just stayed, without a voice..

Many lost their battle of dreams,

That crossed their imaginary realms.

Hate I would, to do what all do,

Regret I shall, if I don’t follow.

Someone cry out for a piece of me,

Shall surrender all of me, in blissed peace.

Thoughts that bled in colors so wild,

Drained away as greys remain,

Nobody asked for a piece of me,

So I walked the path that was set for me.
Joseph Zenieh Feb 13
WHO  IS  INDEBTED  ?
A man and woman fall in love and wed.
They live together in a private home
to share one life for better or for worse
and get the fruit of love, a little child.

Who is indebted to the other side,
the child or parents, to the end of life?
The parents have the crown of gold they wish ;
the child abruptly finds himself around .

On earth, man has great chances of renown .
One can enjoy his life and bounteous gifts .
Yet life can be big worries and much toil ;
he may not like what they for him have done .

Who bears the palm and who has borne the brunt ?
This life has its surprising ups and downs .
In your opinion, who would get more gain,
the child or parents who know what they want ?
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
____________
Andrew Feb 4
Excuse me for my brunt ******
Of sunset said the desert horizon
Purple with desire and shame.
The apathetic ending of the turning and
The more expressionless thoughts.
Sorry for the stars, said the night
Not necessarily apologizing but merely conceding to
The infiniteness of ending (all the way). The owl
In a canyon on a cactus, on a cold winter
Night, in a dark deep winter night. Even this
The sunset understands, the dawn
Like knives to the spine, digs in. Said
The punitive earth, here I am for you to explore
Open my oceans, abuse my stones.
Julian Delia Jun 30
Contorted like a torsion spring;
Tense, like a drawn bow string,
Like hell hath no greater fury to bring.
Energy, begging to be released;
Bearing the brunt of the mortal coil,
As the shuffling forth proceeds.
Brought to steam, a kettle about to boil,
Like a frying pan with too much oil.

Unable to stand down,
A stand-off of an existence;
The tables have turned, now,
Listen to the resistance’s insistence.

I feel like I can’t unwind,
Like life can be a party,
But I always leave my buzz behind.
Trying to find a place to fit,
A niche, a nook for the carving;
A hook for a song, a stitch in time,
Anything to feed a hungry soul,
To save myself from starving.

I can’t relax, nor lose my focus;
Pleasure is not happiness,
What you crave is probably bogus.
Distractions mean running away from reality;
Contraptions and lies,
Falsehoods draped in formality.
They say the flame that burns twice as bright,
Burns twice as quickly;
The hands that are twice as sleight,
Become twice as tired,
Twice as fragile and sickly.

Alas, I know that one day, I will lose my tempering.
I will become frail and exhausted,
Like a wanderer who’s lost his bearings.
My knees will become weak,
My arms will become heavy.
Time and the vicissitudes of fate -
They’ll swing by to collect their levy.

Let that day come.
Until then,
I shall march to the beat of my own drum.
Fun fact: I refer to Shakespeare and Snoop Dogg in this poem. Other than that, nothing is particularly fun about it.
Pauper of Prose Aug 2018
Internal winds that wail with might
A sudden outpour of downpour
Distress accelerating
Into regions physical and mental
Untangling its hair of horrors
So that miniature hells hail
And free will and free thought,
Take the brunt of the damage
Now paralysis is peppered over all
But with one sneeze vigor is awakened
So see all is interlinked
For natural disaster
And natural remedy
Are naturally destined to occur
Agony. seemingly everlasting, allows the muse to come and through the curls of her hair my fingers run.
Lewis Bosworth Jul 2018
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,
So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.
Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.

But choir’s five songs are causing my descent.
Their off-key pitch a momentary slide;
So harmful do I find it to my pride
That autoharp and banjo I will rent.

If music I don’t wish to circumvent
And tracks or melodies to take in stride,
Then practice every day til I’m bug-eyed!
Perfection is the prize self-evident.

No tuba player’s yawn will stop the train,
Nor second movement snores encores abate!
The lights are dim, conductor bears the brunt,

So now ten weeks’ hard work to entertain.

Allegro molto at the starting gate,
My tuning fork and pipe right here in front.

© Lewis Bosworth, 2018
Ghazal Apr 26
A tiny bundle covered in teddy-printed pyjamas,
He fidgets restlessly on the panel of the giant machine,
Preparing him for the scan is my most basic task of the day
Yet the most annoying one, because I cannot get away
Till he is asleep enough to not be afraid
Of entering into the mouth of that daunting cave,
Treating a child is so very difficult I feel,
No matter how detached you try to be and see
him as a "case", how do you neglect the truth that,
A being not abled enough to even climb out of the cradle,
Has to parent a disease that gnaws at him day after day?
I shake off such aberrant emotions and join his coaxing mother,
I know what she would really wish for at the moment would be,
To scoop him into her arms and lull him off to sleep,
But she has to be the rock she never wanted to be,
The baby had moved the last time, this one has to be error-free
So, allowed by her to take his cannulated hand in my gloved one,
I give the magic drug a carefully measured plunge
Into veins that are too little to bear such brunt,
Yet have been forced to endure this pain that can never be considered
Fair!
We two women watch over him, transfixed,
Noting his every sigh, his every twitch-
The Mother, anxious, cupping his now limp hands only with
The embrace of her eyes,
And I, the Doctor, though following my medical instinct, watching for
His breaths, with each chest rise,
Also find myself enchanted by the mysterious state this child is in,
Is it a state of dreaminess? Or of dreamlessness?
Is he floating into a dark endless sky? Or is he navigating between
Silver-illuminated stars?
What is the meaning of the half smile on his face?
Is he envisioning a world where he is happy,
Sans needles making insensitive designs into his vulnerable skin,
Sans masked doctors promising they wouldn't make him cry,
Sans missed school days and birthday parties,
Sans heated fevers creeping into his bones each night?
Minutes pass and we are broken out of our respective reveries
His fingers have started to weakly trace the red beams of light,
His voice has begun to coo indistinct chatter still unshaped by civilisation,
Its tone and urgency getting louder and surer,
And before he begins to frantically search for his caregiver,
A little more magic will be needed before completion.
I re-enter the glass cabin and inject again into his system,
A last few moments of painlessness and oblivion,
The gaze becomes dazed again, the smile reappears,
His mind comfortably wanders back
Into a calm nothingness and silent, numbed peace.
"The scan has concluded without event", I make a file note,
While the images on the screen begin to light up with disease.
O’ my Dear
Do not fear
All the burden
All the sorrow
Just bear

Your tears are precious
Don’t let it waste
Save it, collect it
Wait for the time to come
Then use your anger to boil it

O’ my Dear
Let your tears to
Become steam
Such steam has power to
Burn Kings and their Kingdom

Such steam has power to
Turn the entire empire upside down
So don’t be in haste
Wait for the time to come
Transform your tears into warfare weapons

So my Dear
Don’t cry, bear the brunt
Recognize the Power of Tears
Then conquer the evil
Change the world

Create a world full of joy
No Sorrow, No Burden
Joy and Joy forever
Peace and calm everywhere
Happiness, Happiness everywhere
Do the poor peoples who are always sufferer have no  options?
Seventeen and out of school, out of short pants, and already been kissd, Bevan scored a Lab Assistant Cadetship in the small but vital laboratory at the his small home town hospital.

Within a couple of weeks he was already taking blood from patients and the town residents. His first placement in the laboratory was bacteriology. Next came biochemistry, then finally haematology.

Humour was his forte and Bevan scared army national service men, called Nashos, coming to *** in a jar, bore the brunt of his jokes.

And then the news came that the Laboratory was going to close down and services taken over by the Dunedin Hospital, a nearby city.

Unemployment was on the cards and he was upset because only the sick didn’t work in those days.

And then his marble rolled out of the national service barrel.

‘No way will they take me,’ he thought. Can’t speak properly, overweight, too intelligent to be a grunt.

“I’ll just be in the way Sir, “
Bevan told the officer when he had completed his medical.

The Officer in Induction looked this broad bombastic Kiwi directly in the eye and told him that he had passed his medical with flying colours.

“But what about my speech defect and I’m at least fifteen pounds overweight and surely I’m too smart to be a soldier. Yes Bevan was arrogant, and determined not to go in the army.

Prime Minister Holyoake had just committed New Zealand volunteer troops to Vietnam and there weren’t enough Kiwi soldiers available.

“I see you’re an excellent swimmer Bevan,” said the officer. “ he went on to say, “you swim at the bottom of New Zealand in the freezing ocean.
You are a life saver and you are the swimmer with a piece of canvas around you, dragging a nylon rope behind you, mind you.”

Usually Bevan would have been chafed to get such high praise but he was absolutely certain that did not want to go.
“No ****** way!”

“Your teachers and friends tell me you never give up Bevan. You’re ****** stupid, not smart.  You’ve a smart ***, that’s all. You’re get in a scrap and go like hell but always lose because you’re not a born fighter, are you son?”

‘What a relief, he’s turning me down, or so he thought. “Y-yes Sir. I’m n-not army material”

“Stop it”! Yelled the officer.

Bevan thought his ear drums were about to explode.

“This is the first time I’ve heard you stutter. You’re putting it on, aren’t you Bevan?”

Almost true. He didn’t stutter when he was angry, when his adrenaline was high and when he was drunk.

“John, call me John, It’s my second name.”
If he was going to do fourteen weeks basic training, Bevan is the last name he wanted to be called. “With respect Sir.” Bevan even saluted him.

“Listen to me Bevan, I mean John,” The Officer was actually civil to Bevan, big surprise.
Then he went on to say,
“You’re fit with medical training. You don’t faint at the sight of blood and guts. And you’re stupid when it comes to a challenge. You’re always got something to prove.”

“When do I go to Waiouru Sir? Bevan was **** scared of basic training. He didn’t even play rugby. He was a solitary boy when it came to sports.

“You’re not going to Waiouru son, it’s Papakura Military Camp for you. You are going to volunteer in see if you can pass NZSAS selection “

“The NZSAS what? And where the ******* is Papakura. I’m a volunteer?

“Auckland son. New Zealand Special Air Service. Yes you are going to volunteer. What else you gonna do. Stay unemployed in Balclutha. We are going to try and make you a medic. Stick to John and some other surname. Perhaps your Mothers last name. we don’t want you killed by protesters back home. And we are giving you a chance to come back here clean as a whistle.

So that was it. He did volunteer and he managed to pass the muster. And then at the ripe old age of twenty one John Kedzlie stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhut Air Base after completing twenty-two months of intensive SAS and combat medical training. Then It was on to SAS Hill at Nui Dat.

John’s platoon spent as little time as possible dug in at SAS Hill. However, that’s another story.

Medical skills were needed badly and as the Kiwis had a large medical contingent  in Vietnam at the time, they were the last to leave.

And yes Bevan did come back alive, barely. Eventually he took up a Cadetship at the local Power Board as a Survey Assistant /draftsman where he roamed the hills and mountains at the bottom of New Zealand with his boss, looking for power line routes. Then it was back to the office to put it down on paper and assist the Linesmen.

This set Bevan off on a journey to first become a detail draftsman, then a designer, site supervisor and finally an electrical engineer where he tried to find the roughest mining or construction site to work on in Australia and SE Asia.

Eventually at the age of fifty Bevan studied nursing and worked as a general nurse for a few years.

And when PTSD finally hit him, he couldn’t work any longer as a nurse so he did CAD or computer aided drafting a FIFO out of Western Australia (fly in fly out mining sites.)

Bevan married an Australian girl and had two Australian children. He has four grandchildren. Bevan was divorced in 2009.

Now in his late sixties with a mind much younger than his actual age, he became a recluse and then finally he tried to drink himself to death.

Bevan words:
“I’m as cynical as all hell and I don’t trust anyone. What the **** do I do now?
Any suggestions?”
Hate to be dramatic but I’m presently in hospital after contacting a serious infection. I guess I’m writing about myself in case the worst happens to me, which is highly unlikely.
Bo Tansky Dec 2018
It was the coldest day of the year.
We welcomed the return of cooler weather,
Fellow followers of the southern sun.
Winter had almost begun.
Delicious cool breezes uplifted our spirits.
Inspired these awesome(?) lyrics
There was a luminescence to the light.
It sparkled with the dearest delight.
The days were shorter.
The nights' longer.
The seasons were changing.
Change was in the air..
Change was everywhere.

Southern change is slow and steady.
Unlike the north where one must always be ready
The mass migration from the north was still underway.
Hordes and hordes of high blood pressure,
Scoliosis afflicted octogenarians invaded our state.
We who bore the brunt of the brutal summers,
Felt like we belonged to a sunny exclusive club.
Entitled to space, the roads, the sunshine.  
Now we must share with the worst drivers of vehicular crime
Accidents galore.
Everywhere you go.
Someone overran the barricade,
Cars totaled
Cars mangled
Twisted and tangled
Cars flipped & chipped  
A road detours
In the land of the aged & mature
Mature, I say, only in age
Otherwise, it would be an absolute outrage.
And it is.

People meeting people in the most unfortunate way.
I tell you it tests your mettle,
It tests your patience,
It tests your good nature,
Not to mention the nomenclature
of your exclusivity.  
Better rethink civility.
Better rethink senility.
Better rethink livability
In the south
In the wintertime
  
Missing you had become a pastime of mine...
Seeing you and Robert in the coffee shop that day-
Delighted me.  
So that I completely forgot to order tea.
I knew I would see you soon,
As fate would have it.
Not being in the habit
Of that particular time
That particular coffee shop
That day,
Anyway
Unplanned as this was.
That is to say
Not planned in the usual way.
Did the afternoon gods align?
Should I take it as a sign
Or is it pure coincidence
I know you agree with the ladder
It doesn’t much matter
Coincidence and me don’t agree
Nothing is accidental
No, I’m not mental
If you agree with me.
I admit it’s a hard nut to swallow,
Unless you’re in the habit of swallowing hard nuts,
Which most, I think, are not
Although I’ve never actually inquired
For the usual reasons
Excuse the nut reference
If you have a hard nut allergy
In which case you should stay away  
It’s not a bad thing,
More hard nuts for the rascal squirrels,
No hard nuts for the hard nut adverse.
How nutty is this verse?

I digress
As you can see
My thoughts always take me back to thee
Thought I’d get a little fancy.
Back to the Day in question
Referenced by me in this digression
If I thought something interesting was about to unfold
Oh no, oh no
It was the same old, same old
After the polite amount of time
You picked up your phone
It was a sign
Business as usual
Or is it you hiding behind
Some kind of some kind  
I don’t know what
I such a nut
Stale coffee sits in the microwave
It pings its readiness
Forget my forgetfulness
One more round
The coffee’s cold
Like you
Still
I take it out
Drink it anyway
While I wait
Still
The coffee’s cold
And so are you
That’s all I have to say
And that’s why
Without thinking
I grabbed the phone that day
While you were busy texting
Hey, I wasn’t getting in the boxing ring
You knew that

Robert was rather overreactive
It was only me being me
I’ll meet your cold
And up the ante
Are you all in
Do I win
I was only playing, all along
That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t write me a love song
Two for her
One for me
I think you’ll agree
It’s quite unfair
And you want to be fair
Don’t you
This isn't optional
Even rational
Or actionable
*******
My phantom love
I get it.
Still
I’m missing you.
Do you miss me too?
Madison Aug 2018
Forever ago
I looked you in the eye
And made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.

You smiled at me --
Crooked, imperfect
Utterly charming --
And asked me to lend you a light.
A lighter passed between our hands
Before a tiny flame illuminated our faces in the dark
A silent 'I do.'

From that night on
I've had things that other girls
Only possess in their wildest dreams
And, even then
Wouldn't dare say they desired.

I ride shotgun by default
In a ******* car
Much too fancy to legally be yours.
Gifts come in the form
Of beat-up leather articles
That you once wore
Though the lingering shadow of smoke
Is hardly enough
To mask the hint of drugstore perfume.
Sometimes
If you're feeling especially charitable
These offerings are accompanied by the more traditional heart shaped box --
Filled with bullets, of course--
Or a single deep red rose.
For some reason
Every flower you pick
Seems to have many more thorns
Than most of the ones I've known before.

What you seem to consider the best gift of all, however
Is your presence.
I suppose you think it works both ways
When you parade around town
Arm slung around my shoulders or waist
Smiling like I'm some pricey badge
Your signature accessory.
Your performance draws attention, of course --
Awe-stricken once-overs
Envious double takes
Lingering looks that make overzealous Average Joes
Trip over their own feet.
As far as my own feelings go
The envious rush I used to get from the lust-filled eyes of other women
Has long since faded
But the crawling feeling of some depraved pervert's eyes flitting from you to me
And your proud smile, devoid of any visible love
Continue to make my stomach twist itself into painful knots.

What all those adventure-hungry good girls don't know
Is that I haven't felt as powerful as they do in their dreams
In a very long time.
What those green-eyed Plain Janes won't understand
Is that I am little more than arm candy
Your passenger-seat second-in-command
Posed like some special edition, leather-donning Barbie doll
Instructed to sit still
Hold the gun
Look pretty.
They don't realize
That the ache that comes with loving you
Feels absolutely nothing like the feeling described
In the lovelorn writings they post to their blogs.
There's nothing beautiful about it
No reward for staying up all night
Chest aching
Sobbing into a limp pillow in some random hotel room
Trying my best to keep you from hearing it.
As much as I hate to admit it
Nothing you do for me
Makes it worth it.

They all seem to forget
That it was Bonnie
Running from one man who didn't love her
Falling into the arms of another
Already broken
Hoping he might be able to mend a piece or two.
They don't realize
That it was Bonnie
Who **** near got her leg burned off
Because Clyde flipped the car.
The fault was completely his
And yet
She was the one who took the brunt of the damage
Being reduced to having Clyde carry her around
For the rest of their numbered days.
They don't stop to think that this is anything other than 'romantic'
How unfair it is that the world allowed him to ruin her
That maybe --
Just maybe --
She didn't want to be a weapon for him to carry
But a self-firing rifle.
Something intimidating
Unpredictable
Never dependent
On some hotshot
That everybody believes that she was in love with.
The idea never occurs to them
That maybe
When the two of them went down in that infamous hail of bullets
Maybe she wasn't enveloped in warm thoughts of going out in a blaze of glory
But anger
That she didn't get away with it this time
And never would again.


I understand now
That
For all intent and purposes
Bonnie and Clyde are a concept that should have been left behind
Way back in the 30s.
There is no passion
In dying --
On the inside or the outside --
Next to someone everyone thinks that you love.
There is no love
In your arm around me
Squeezing the humanity out of me
Like a man-shaped boa constrictor.
There is no glamour
In sitting loyally by your side
Gripping my seat until my knuckles are white
As you drive your own getaway car
Laughing to yourself
Without ever chancing a glance at me.
There is no beauty
In being wrapped in a jacket
That smells like another woman
No satisfaction
In mechanically handing you a brand new lighter
So you can light another cigarette
To prematurely age your beautiful, James Dean number one-million-and-one face.
I feel no affection now
Watching you smoke up like the nicotine glutton burnout that you are
And I will feel only contempt if --
Heaven forbid --
I ever die by your side.
You exhale
And turn to look at me with sleepy, empty eyes
Letting the remains of your cigarette flicker out
Just like the novelty of having you around did.

Why I resent those girls now --
The ones with those eyes, so hungry and green with envy --
Is that, when we first met
I was just another one of them.
So pampered
So inanely bored
Such a 'hopeless romantic'
That I promptly decided to follow you the ends of the Earth
To every grimy hotel
Even to our demise in the desert, if you wanted me to.
It took me forever to realize I deserved better
And, by then
It was all too late.

While I despise those girls who stare at us now
Swooning, like they're so jealous of the position I'm in
My heart also aches for them --
A bit like the way you make it ache.
Though there's passion in this ache
That being the fact
That my heart is screaming
Telling them to run
Run while they still can
Run before someone like you
Finds them.

For all intent and purposes
There absolutely should not be
A 21st century Bonnie and Clyde.
These should be the days
Of girls spitting their own fire
And boys fighting their own battles.
This should be a generation
Of people learning to find solace in themselves
And reliance taking an unceremonious dive
Off a very steep cliff.
There should be no more green-eyed girls
And James Dean boys
Making each other miserable
And calling it beautiful.
This is the point where we should let Bonnie and Clyde rest in peace
Along with Romeo and Juliet
Annabel Lee
Homer Barron
And every other tragic antihero
Who died at the hands of love.

Forever ago
I made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.
Now
What seems like centuries later
I close my eyes
And try to fly somewhere else
In my dreams.
My last thought
Before I drift off
Is that --
Maybe someday --
They'll write poems about us.
Someone's got it, the glancing star is at bliss
You stuck around and it showed in your dancing in the petrichor of sudden starved preaching and feeling
Thy say I shorting my way in the life for winners of the immunity pin
The reality showed me peace, the passersby were eerily in the indolent about immolating themselves in burning risqueness
In your treats with cotton candy and the pulses of the pleasure drops
And the rapacious circus rang the bell of the repeated ensemble
Of raucous laughter, everything has to be political when you make bellicose blondes in the visions of curtains in your room
Clowned in the foolish day, the sun still how to reach me in disease
Pretention is the greatest presentable symptom of miscommunication with self was winding up for a start
I fly like bilingual, and prying into the side of the lull of the power of the fool in the tangled feud, I need a girl for loving my laugh
Pleasantly, certainly yours and of course, I used a little too much force and I resigning fighting my way through this crowd
You probably understand that I embued some love for the faltering remorse
Looking for someone lost in a crowd
Poe said you're black as the cat
Crossing the street
This is no regret
Plausible deniability and the billing is so clear, and the reading is so pompous and overrated and the laces of childish shoes
Get the milk from the next door south
I went with the bullish look in the *****
And the rage in her countenance full of misery
The spilled milk meant that it was a news boom
Went in pilfering all the newspapers under a lone streetlamp for movement of moving tears
Your people are suffering, but, still don't know how to preach
You reap the education of the sold out, and the mending ways and weltering of the piped hot iron
The compost was full of iron and gun powder
The seed germinated slightly tasteless on my mind
And the singing windy signs took away the cotton cotyledon in the breeze
The success is for other people leaving you in the worst of your times
For the next vacation, you can have a good life without my memories
Tumbled by boiling blood
The flesh and blood, stuck to the bones to the lord
The feet of the lotus, and the getting in the mud
I live my life with never thinking about the most eloquent book of poems
Although, I live in the belligerent era of poems of resolve and truly jaded and delinquently dusted and kept on reconciliatory idiot's shelf
You're left on the frescoed streets of wandering like a nomad selling the storm its gain and living in his stride and rabble and babbling in the fall of the era
Of a fallen human, and a fan no more, and the grimace of the stoic solidarity rang in his soul
Hell, felt alive
Better to arrive lost
That's freewill
The blows and I still did not die
In life often of honesty, there are some cutting you
And sometime's a place of a tainted phlegmatic nature
Cashing out his oblong church clergy, and the existential philosophy might be breaking down the altruism of Buddhist and Christians in a bar together
Too bad, none of them drink, but, they grew closer over the agreement that alcohol was meaningless
Unless you hadn't observed the entire human race intoxicated by the beauty of the thirteenth-century poetry brought you in this dust of more words
Then have a lack of people to oppose it at the very last, filibustering the argument of the blowing wind in the gestalt of this
Words are barren, as the winds that blow in dusty forests
Likewise, the specs of time fall through these lifeless particles of mankind
Hindering and calling someone an idiot, and the perfidy of all the hellish doubt
The talk went down on the south of the majority bringing forth talk of real changes
And the predeliction of prepossessing promises of probable chaotic causality,  circumstances are for indemnity from the prisoner's dilemma
We will never have that pelican of possible doubt
Petulant about the food all around
Picking up on those signals
As a simple man, I saw the ligature of the sculpted eyes
Of the niggardly picking up the leniency through the signed autograph
Head in the cloud left my limousine, stepped on the gasoline
And the peach diesels are all across the streetlamps customized for the stolid heaven of riding the roads which are meant for a moniker taking the molly out of your ecstatic pockets
Your drugs are under your eyes, and let's not talk about the brunt psychedelia of this crimson red Andalusian theology that makes half our rain in Spain, like the linguistics of pronounced verbs
We are lacking the grammatical error of our ways
And writing in the wrong notebooks
That cause suicide
Studying is like a debt to society
Penury by the following of snipers looking at you with the simple complicit exchange between a warrior and underdog soldier
Is the perfect affair wasn't it, heavy breathing in life as a boy
We cry when we're born, and the laughter comes when the breath is gone
I ain't talking about dying, it's just freeing your passions
The perishing pretentious old presiding rhyme of reasonable doubt, these are the words of fire (pleasant devotion)
While I heed my time and the poetry you wrote for your own lazy humor and nervous curiosity.
That's why they rhyme, and the possibility, for your time is an era
The zeal was everywhere furthermore
For, the present time I like to stick to meters and I'm imprisoned at my loss for words, and the ice of life lit by contrite tridents of doctrines for this life to full of the determined profession of love, and it just becomes indeterminate of how we are really
That's how we usually described literary Zeitgeist, pockets of crumpets falling
In the presence of mind to have ideas better for other poets with a brimming a half-empty cup of tea
With the ponderers had sipped without looking at it, it's good times for the winning ride, what if you don't take one other with you, really?
On the tray, the road had the natural and peace of the streetlights of the modus operandi of the chanting of "Nyum Myo Hum Renge Kyo"
There was some truth in the protest march that woke me up
But, I realized that person's need and spent my religion on the
for righteous life with kindred spirits here in the preferable deposit of penned writing
The darkness on fighting it with darkness in the dingy library of human knowledge in metal brother with ubiquitous knowledge
The hopeful the epiphany is healed by knee-deep kneidel, and the bread we shared with our mothers was the love is to share
Hopeful, the benediction creates some dream, I like the long poems, and I feel for the science that touches
The flow of the person next to you with the same DNA, and manipulates information like you
That keeps me interested, and the verses come from the person inside and precocious teenager in you was a bit of a cry-baby
That likes talking, that's why like haikus as they speak about the Edo-era Japan, you determined people read about the island beyond the land of doubt and the exploration, and the free-flowing verse is linked seamless thought of philosophy
And the 1600s of the Restoration period had some simplicity in lovely complexes
Antediluvian powerful lord in the wide trees in thee hillside, singing the song for the life time
The vital spontaneity has because is in the underweighted children in the valley
A song for the sowing and germinating lackadaisical surmise
The thing that I must ask of you, is how much you like philosophy and life, and you fall to a poem for my fellow writer, how much respect wondering about your coveted convivial feelings I could gather from a pack of sisterhood pacts
Existentially, I am in a place that is metaphorically alive
The life and the religion and the spotlight breaks when a spoken word has shadows of God's metaphorical musical called ballad, poetry is just an essay on song
Don't write it twice, you're sad and done
It's alright, I'm on the darkness on the side of the road
A painting is complete when it has the shadows of God.
I wish I would have held you longer
used a softer voice when I spoke to you
I wish I would have guided you
to nicer people on smoother paths
I wish I could have held your eyes shut
so you never had to see the evil around you
I wish I would’ve stopped you from seeking
comfort in all the wrong places
and convinced you to
seek peace in me instead
forgive me for cowering away in the past
forcing you to take the brunt of it all
I don’t blame you for the ways you chose
to cope and alleviate your pain
I promise to be here with you until the end
no matter how long you choose to stay or however you choose to go.
I’m tired
Andrew Feb 25
I guess I'm weaker than I thought
I see that now when I think of the ember of your lips

Cinder by cinder you were all brunt up

When I held you closer you turned to ashes in my arms

And I tired to forget you and
I tried to replace you
But I guess I'm weaker than I thought

Oh when our fires were bright
We danced to the nights
But once dulled to ashes

You ran with the winds
As I try to keep you aflame

Little did I know your wick had burnt out

And now my embers are weak like yours so now it's dark.
Julian Mar 31
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

— The End —