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Andrew Rueter Mar 2018
I was raised in the wild
With all the defiled
So my mood was mild
While bodies were piled

I was a lonely coyote
The other creatures didn't know me
Because I slinked in the shade
To avoid their detection
Loneliness is what I had to trade
To pass their inspection

Other animals couldn't brave the weather
Or their fragile arteries were severed
They laid there dead
I wondered if they ever lived
It went to my head
What this world can give
I saw the buzzards
Ring their buzzers
Then the maggots fed on their brain
While not understanding their pain
These images did me no good
While I was stuck in the woods
And I couldn't see the forest through the trees
I was lost
If I didn't find a home by winter I would freeze
In the frost

I tried to find a home in hollowed trees
But I was chased out by a bunch of bees
And the darkened caves
Seemed like shallow graves
When that's where bats play
But peaceful open meadows
Left me susceptible to attack
Everything seemed mellow
So I had to watch my back

Winter was approaching
And I saw no solutions
The cold air encroaching
Like frigid pollution
But my shady luck shifted
Once I was graciously gifted
A powerful and majestic horse
That put me on a better course
I ride the steed with a leather saddle
Made of skin stripped off simple cattle

It took the strength of an ox
To hold down this fox
Yet my domestication
Calls for celebration
Because now I live in a house
Without having to hide like a mouse
I can strut like a peacock
With a bird of my flock

It's a form of animal husbandry
Because you're in love with me
I'm the insistent critter
From a different litter
That saw life wither
From damage inner
I was a raccoon digging through the trash
Now I'm a phoenix rising from the ash

You're an agricultural guy
So vultures circle the sky
Looking to harvest your bountiful crop
They must smell death underneath it
Their presence makes my heart drop
And all I want to do is defeat it
But even as they get near
You remain here
We stand together as scarecrows
In a defensively unified paired row

This is the delightful day
You end all my wild ways
And eliminate my suffering
With your animal husbandry
Can be found in my self published poetry book “Icy”.
https://www.amazon.com/Icy-Andrew-Rueter-ebook/dp/B07VDLZT9Y/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Icy+Andrew+Rueter&qid=1572980151&sr=8-1
Striving for the fortuity that can never be achieved
and wishing for aristocracy,
they called for open fire upon me
and I see the bullets in every mirror reflecting me.

And with some, I share the care of a creator
who spends all the time they have balancing on a cable
unable to understand how anyone can be frugal as me;
and I ask myself, "Do I need to appreciate all of this?"

They won't let me drown while I'm new and shiny.
They won't let me be a statue in a brochure.
They won't let me sleep in the fog.
They won't let me reclaim my beauty.

I only think about today, not the future.
I only think about the key to the door leading to within my cartilage
that is unable to clench us together.
And so I surrender myself to the promenade.

Everything is a contest.
Everything is a ballad for the Z's.
Everything is a fire bolt.
telling me not to absorb the covers.

I'm not agile anymore
because I just deliver them what they yearn for,
without yearning for anything myself anymore.
But I don't want them to rest absently.

The better bodies walk alone.
The better bodies are lying dead in each other's company.
The better bodies are deteriorating
and heading for the better days.

I used to have faith in something,
but now I live in blasphemy,
repeating "hey," and "yeah" and "sure,"
while never acting honorable.

He only cries for me while he's soaring above me,
shedding tears and calling for bloodshed.
But this isn't war because he's not shedding his own blood,
because he knows how to brand me and string me along.

I signal my phantom friends to join my army,
but they're only a clan of desperate nomads like me.
They're my ghost friends that convulse with me,
giving them strength to drain the vital fluid from my enemies.

I am audacious, I know,
because I am arousing every transmission.
These are the my days extinguished.
Let me show you the couple of claws I have left.

And it's no secret that I have a busted soul.
And it's no secret that I want an acceptable acquaintance.
And it's no secret that I would complete the proper process to be a monarch
if I knew how to drain my body of juice and replace it with a wealthier blood type.  

So move a little closer to me
so I can show you all the days that are deceased.
And I know you think buzzers are bulky and awkward
but time is up and I'm leaving soon.

I wish you could see that we are familiar cats
rather than beardless lumps of charcoal,
and that if we ran this 5, 280 feet it will be a phenomenon.
So drink from this molded mug and forget about it all.

And I'm gripping to growth by the throat, but damaging nothing
because it's made of caramel candy and doesn't know what saltiness is.
Let me take you to the courtyard where the action takes place
and if action takes place, then we'll let the growth be sweet.

I'm seeing framework from my lonely bench made for two,
and I'm throwing timber into a mountain, ready to light a match.
So come to my party and we'll set the place ablaze
and be a beautiful cremation, burning all the better bodies.

I never wanted it all to burn, I just wanted to drive onward with company in the passenger seat,
but this state of the art exhibit will be killer, I promise, even if everyone is dead.
It'll be the first and last stride.
It'll be better than codeine.

But this city is booming and I can't watch the architecture shrivel.
I'm her hostage and though she cares for me through methods of torture,
I can't help but anticipate her friendship in the afterlife
when we're both lonely without another half, because her twin is leaving her soon.

I miss what this country used to be, with it's jewelry on display in Tiffany windows.
I'm not saying I miss the bloodshed, but I miss the sparkle.
I miss the clubs and the parties and the company.
The bustle is gone, and all there is is the hustle of a crowded desolate boulevard.

All that's left behind is the shame
of hanging around someone else.
I wish I was somewhere else…
I wish I was in Stockholm walking uptown on a crowded desolate boulevard.

I wish I didn't live in a cyclone
with arduous people attempting some sort of hawkish raw coolness
asking me about my mood that they don't care about.
I can tell you my mood is not graceful or charming, but I won't.

And if I described my mood in colors it would be a combination of purple, yellow, red, and blue.
A murky brown seeking rehabilitation.
It won't be long until it rehabilitates, just extract all the light from it little by little until it's blind.
Ain't the way it should be?

This is a darling's rebellion.
This is the siren sounding the start of battle.
C S Cizek Nov 2014
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.

Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your ******'d *****.
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****

could have been more.
Judy Ponceby Oct 2010
Watching the colors go round, and round.
The bright yellow towels making a halo,
in the dryer window, time trudging slowly.

Facing west, watching the sun set,
Washers and dryers humming in my ears,
Always feeling awkward sitting here alone.

Waiting for the buzzers to split the loud silence,
So I can finish my laundry, folding, hanging, packing,
And getting the heck outta Dodge!

I hate doing laundry.
Yet another "Can you Spare a Word or 5?" submission.
awkward, laundry, west, halo, split
The meaning of the trustees and the ablution of the signs respectively were based on the word ficare "in the proportion of providing signs and building", as a complement to the concept, in the case of Zefian's Virola, it is given to the ring that rotates in its elliptical as a virtual particle, similar to the Muon. But always in a semantic ring or circle look. Linguistics will attribute both the Virola and the Fero; in this case "leading or leading" The dissociation here is the semantics in the object not entrenched to be used as a common kind of language, but rather as "Virolifero", it is understood that this word will forge the Zefian Arrow into the amalgamation of the ring that leads, to abduct all energies towards a Central Whole. The product of all this energy will be called channeling of the mental representations of the "sign" of signifying, evoking independence in each terminology by itself and represented, rather in the theological physical elementality, associated with the Virolifera plane.

As the treatise of this codex suggests, a term between terms, to assign mnemonic and etymological chaining of meaning most of the appropriation of terminologies attached to a properly vernacular word. The horizon that is stipulated is of a Vernathian nature, where the average life-turning receptacle is of enormous proportions in its multi dynamics, especially in the moral, ethical and theological, especially in matters of emotional articulation associated with a significant meaning. Vernarthian dreams are of Speed of Quantum Physics, therefore they are pure metaphysical and meta-biological, appending to restricted spaces of stimulus and impulse speed, hiding in the residual mass of the unknown, to attribute to them chromatics that is settled in the Corpus Callosum of both hemispheres. Neuroscience yes, but that deposits physical values in the concentration of rest and active energy in areas of the cerebellum, to unleash a choice of names or anthroponyms. Where all the names with a certain alacrity of reason, meaning is attached according to their toponymy, in this case, Virolifero, could be a factor of canceling choices and adaptation of higher energies, on the universe, as a patronage of the Universe "called Rings of Zefian ”endowed with electron elliptical Muon particles.

The signifier of Virolifero will be its phoneme, perhaps more associated with the subject being the ring, associated with its mental representation. This force of Vernarthian thought indicates semantics and phonetics of speculative endowment, for becoming of building rings associated with an eco-physical and eco-environmental scheme. The entire philosophical Vernarthian range has a Sacred Geometry in its verbal and numeral composition, either in the connotation of concepts-ideas and of signs that represent the mental cultural heritage.  Literality will advocate the chronology of gap and verbal-linguistic space, contributing figurative, Greco-Latin barbarisms, such as Virolifero's verbal vigor if we place it in the reference of a building ring, being able to be figurative as a ring that makes or leads according to its practical verbal use dialectical. And in context, it would appear as something sacred in what will be referred to in this Codex of Nuraga Complexes, where each fold of lithosphere will be of the geological relationship between Stonehenge or Nuraga in Sardinia, each one appropriating age in what could be more or less an archaeological conflict of origins, or of comparative aspects of the referenced union, for the end of times, nations, civilizations, political states, and generations of socio-economic persistence. Making an archaeological contextual fact as in these terms, of such references of reception or political exile, but also cultural, adding the terminology of the intracultural contribution of the region. In the argument of Pythagoras and his self-exile in Italy, it is said that he had been condemned to exile from Samos because of his aversion to the tyranny of Polycrates. Around 530 BC settled in Crotona, a Greek colony in southern Italy, where he founded a movement with religious, political, and philosophical purposes, known as Pythagoreanism, and which generated duplicity of context in his sacred mathematical pilgrimage, towards a process of exercise contrary to his own Pythagorean School, expropriating a persona non grata in internal conflicts with personalities from Crotona itself, where he had to flee later. Here ipso facto the verbal exercise exemplifies his transliteration by an unfailing fact, in favor of what emerges from a coercive task, abandoning the same in what placidly sheltered him, and virtually ostracized as an immigrant from Samos.

Hosted the Pythagoreans in Sardinia, Italy.  Being in the colorimetry of the 6th century BC. He was peering into a universe that wasted infusion, clinging to the unknown roots themselves, with undulating harmonies in what we inhabit as an ethical and religious wave and vibrational entity. The prefix Vilori will indicate sacred mathematics, adapting to the numeral and algorithmic harmony of three plus three + 1, which would be the suffix, Fero. The external exaltation of numerical sensations will lie in human sensations already pre-established as a socio-environmental existential order, towards a divine-human being. What is strictly formative is a sacred legacy, since its equivalence is composed of mathematical formulas and figures that all point to the creation of an ambivalent whole, upward and downward proportionate. Focusing on originality of thought and work, embodying the prose, prophecies,  and intensely solid parables.

Vernarth and Etréstles began the attached Rituals in these megalithic complexes. On each Solstice, they arranged sectarians related to this phenomenology, in such a way as to incorporate them into this millenary civilization. They always attacked the archaeological area of Orroli, which is in the center of the soft plateau of Pran'e muru, in a strategic position to control the territory along the middle course of the Flumendosa River. Normally here they performed twilight liturgies similar to those perpetually held in La Mandragora, Sudpichi, Horcondising Region - Chile. Vernarth, always got all the provisions and utensils off the sailboat. Pyramid Torches, Oil Fuels, Sacred Drums, Proved Firewood, Stonework for Obsidian Workshops. Mapuche  wind instruments such as Trutruca, Cultrún and trompe. Buzzers to repel zoomorphic beings of the Bestiary, Alchemy, and Esotericism. Etréstles, coordinated content and other related duties by illuminating all the souls who once lived here. To which Vernarth masterfully adhered, filing them with impressive themes of the prehistoric world. To consider more than five volumes by concept before departure, to then break into the sacred space and meaning, limpid and originating from the session of totem animals and trance with Navajo drums. Each oar looked like a Karibu daunting a maple or a conifer that wanted to change its bark skin for those of the goring of the Karibu or the Moose him. While the eagle with its claws dropped crashing down on the Rehue line to Gnegechen, on the Cultrun, whose plural palpitations of the mandrake wanted to seem to be more than a hallucinogenic thrilling herb.

Describes Vernarth in Regression of him: Theater and Aeschylus, Dance and Athena, gifts from Stonehenge and Borrehaugene in Norway on Viking ships. They walked over the suspicious stones of the Nuragas.  In each ritual in these sets, they concelebrated next to the gorges, through which said river ran, being globally submerged in two artificial lakes until today. A territory deeply marked by man since prehistory, confirming the extraordinary concentration of remains found; from the Neolithic to the Bronze and Iron Ages, Roman times, and the Middle Ages. The Arrubiu was the main bastion, around it, satellite Nuragas gravitated, dominating strategic points and access roads. Near the complex is the tomb of Giants from the Sword, here they would consecrate their dynamics of the Xiphos Hoplite sword, to develop the bronze rites,  as a heritage from the linear insertion of Sardinia with Patmos,  to which they will go after the Solstice from the Nuraga complex. In his prehistoric speeches, he always had to stand out and go back to years prior to 1000 BC. Today it has become the symbol of Sardinia and its distinctive culture. The typical Nuraga is located in a panoramic place and has the shape of a tower with a geometric shape of a truncated cone or divided in half, some higher, others very low, reminiscent of a Tholos (Ancient Greek circular construction). Right here Vernarth, they poured milk and Pranayama, to delineate the points of the Sun to align them with the whims of Brahma and Xifos; swords that are gleaming over the eyes of a stingray. Vernarth, as post-frontal poetry, in treachery that decorated such a hendecasyllable, undertook to rescue the largest real estate fire, from where his own subsistence will hang. In the main protocol, in a drumming trance, he pierced the brains of all those present. Fragments remained everywhere ever imagined, on the timeless Nuragha ruins under the treetops and their Templum. Misleading beings that attacked the underworld of Persephone, and the Nuragic Gods who were elemented, by prevailing in this ceremony that they did not know if it was their own, not knowing that they were included.

Isaías sings (bis): “The presence in the corresponding versed folio makes it relative to the prophecy of the Immanuel born of a ******, which is associated with a similar Virgilian prophecy of Cumana, justifying its prophetic symbolism. Here is the warning that blackens the skies where the light retracts, thousands of attendants in the Nuragas are chained during the announcement of a thousandth that climbs abysses like the fateful Strigoi, and only tribulated pasture will have to transplant rebellions, which lie asleep for the wind of the ideal of incipient spiritual ******* dressed in execration. Has the conflagration of the heart that resists death and agonizes several times in the Templum ritual been unleashed ... The conditions await for the apostates when they refuse the water that does not make them optimal, and makes the radius of obedience of the Vernarthian heart elliptical, full of granules of lumpy Physconia, whose frequency will become embedded in bodies of treacherous, kingdoms and fungal lineages. The reign of the saints will judge diversity on the thrones with devastation in the fatuous beatifications in Pergamum, already admonished by me also in Sardinia”
Codex XIX -  Ultramundis  Nuragas
Mel Holmes Dec 2013
I zip up my astronaut suit,
plop the cubed veil onto my head.

In my hat, I am the observer
Living behind the netted television.

Dressed for pain avoidance.  No tears.
(Perhaps I should wear this out on dates)

A tall metal teapot with its accordion attachment rests,
on guard, in my yellow stained gloves.

Together, we enter the boxed colony
The teapot’s steam spurts clusters of buzzers into the air—

I grab coarse honeycombs, drain the
visions of nectar.

When the day is over, I gather the jars,
amber sucrose, the ***-colored concoctions, to head inside.

In the kitchen, the timer aches to sing as the clouds
From the pumpkin loaves clog the room.

I hold my honey and I store my bread.
Paula Swanson Oct 2010
Roses from his garden,
grace the bedside table.
Resting there just in case,
her situation becomes stable.
He holds her hand, gently speaks,
of things he's done that day.
A tear drop slips down his wrinkled cheek,
afraid she'll stay this way.

A petal drops from a bloom,
as her breathing alters.
Buzzers sound, nurses rush,
her situation alters.
He stands aside, as they work,
the roses in his arms.
Suddenly there is too much silence,
as a nurse turns off the alarms.

Roses from his own garden,
sit in a green plastic vase.
Above the marker that bears her name,
as sunsets on his face.
He's told her that his work is done,
and soon he would be coming home.
As daylight wanes he shuffles off,
to die at home alone.

A petal drops from a bloom,
as he turns to leave.
He bends down to pick it up,
and tumbles to his knees.
He reaches out to the roses,
his heart, it stops a moment too soon.
Before he can pick her out a rose,
as a petal drops from a bloom.
JT-TJ Oct 2010
Every spring I clean my house, always hoping for a certain guest to arrive. I throw away all the junk I can find, then I think about all the good and bad times. I scrub the floors, shampoo the carpets, then give lots of good stuff to a charity. I wash the windows, mow the lawn, then pull the weeds around the apple trees. When I finish my cleaning, I sit in a chair. Then I open the good book, and meditate on the words that are there. I do this every year hoping he will come, of course he is welcome through out the year. But no matter how hard I look, he never comes. As the years went by, I became old. Time had taken it's toll on my body. I've started getting sick more and the weather worn my skin. As I'm laying in a hospital bed, waiting to die, a Chaplin walks into my room and I begin to cry. I tell him all about my life, and ask what I did wrong? He didn't say a word, but instead sat quietly next to my bed.

Before my death had finally come, I opened up my eyes. And the man I thought was a Chaplin, was Jesus in disguise. He thanked me for giving him such a good home. But as he said this, I began to get mad. "How can you say I gave you such a good home, when you never bothered to come over and say hi? I cleaned my house every spring and praised your holy name. Now you show up in my life, right before I die". "You will never know the joy I felt, watching your entire life, weather you know it or not, I've always been there. I've seen you clean your house and mow your lawn, and I've seen you read your Bible, always with such care". "Why didn't you show yourself, so I knew that you were there? I always waited patiently, for the love you like to share". "My brother, if I showed myself to you, then you would stop, you would stop cleaning and your house would be a mess. You would stop mowing your lawn, and your weeds would take control, my brother, this is the truth, and the truth you must confess". "What did I do wrong my Lord, so I couldn't see your truth?" "O' yee of little faith, no human is perfect, you were just so wrapped up with the material world, that you couldn't see the spiritual one. You wanted a man to live with you, your entire life. You waited and waited for him to show up, and he never did. Early in your life the holy spirit found a home inside your house. My brother, you did nothing wrong, you loved me and looked for me just like the father looked for his prodigal son or how the Shepard looked for his lost sheep. But my brother, It's not your responsibility to be the father or the Shepard, it is mine. You did nothing wrong my brother, you lived a good life and now it's time my brother goes home and my lost sheep returns to the herd". As Jesus spoke those words my old age had settled in. After I told him I loved him dearly, I closed my eyes and died.

The beepers and buzzers had began to off and the nurses and doctors had all come running in. They covered the old mans face with a sheet and a nurse asked the Chaplin if he died peacefully? The Chaplin looked at the nurse and thought for a minute before he said... "I don't know..." The nurse was shocked and said to the Chaplin. "What do you mean you don't know?" The Chaplin who was still quite puzzled commented. "He died without pain, but I believe he was also quite delusional. He was caring on a conversation with me but it wasn't me he was talking too. I sat here and held his hand so he knew I was here but something odd happened and I could not control my body. I was sitting here watching the old man die and the conversation he was having, was with someone else. Someone or something took control of my body and returned his conversation. I could not hear the conversation I only watched it happen. So either the old man was delusional or something spiritual just happened here." The nurse thought for a moment and said very bluntly. "Chaplin I know your a man of God, but I really think you should see a shrink!" Then the nurse turned and left the room leaving the Chaplin to stare at the old mans corpse. The Chaplin did go and see a religious counselor. A year later he believed he was the one having delusions, probably from working so hard.
Everyone spends there lives waiting for Jesus to come, but how many people realize it when he does?
DieingEmbers Feb 2012
The Slobber Mouth lives deep down south,
hunting the Ner' do wells.
with candy canes and wooden trains,
with buzzers and with bells.

With fur of green, that's never clean,
and eyes so big and red.
Four filthy paws with unclipped claws,
he fills the woods with dread.

Spiked tail and horns and teeth like thorns,
fixed in a scarey smile.
A ******* nose and ragged clothes,
make up his unique style.

Baiting his traps with midday naps,
false promises and lies.
with wasted hours and April showers,
and soft spoke lullabyes.

Dust bunnies hop but never stop,
and never are they caught.
For they are wise to slobbers lies,
and all the gifts he's brought.
 
The Mites and Motes in winter coats,
so quickly scurry by.
for they too know never to go,
where Slobbers presents lie.

The feather bed floats over head,
the carpet thick with fluff.
He stamps his feet knowing he's beat
and screams enoughs enough.

He packs his sock and checks the clock,
so soon the house will rise.
Stomping away to sleep all day,
and hide from prying eyes.

Beneath your bed this sleepy head,
sits down to scheme and plan.
Tomorrow night if all goes right,
I'll catch the Bogeyman.

On tippy toes in bedtime clothes,
his teddy in his hand.
He waves goodnight to all in sight,
and leaves for faery lands.
sparX Kuijper Sep 2015
Many daze in the rippsy tav the Nates will hiber by their Glit
'N sometime prea with the gigaslav and there zellgreth betwit.

Now once there was a Tilly Stoet who'd paineram in the dippserill
Nifty Nates would knowet and greal it's very Tips-a-Prill

A day or more had passed in tyme till one day the gigaslav broke
Now Tilly Stoets speak of brine 'n the merryjaunah they'd smoke.

Oh they'd **** there poppers 'n slop their drippers
'Till one day the pole greasemen came.

The Tilly Stoets acted like poets and that was really O.K.
But the buzzers were fuzzers and wouldn't ya knowet

They took all there pots away.
From . ' The HodgePodge Assumptions '.
by sparX Kuijper © 1983
Inspired by The Jabberwocky. From 'Mischmasch' Lewis Carroll 1855.
Traveler Aug 2015
From the take-off
I was instructed well
T-minus nine and counting
Check those buzzers and bells

An adrenaline high as I reached the sky
With such ease I was learning to fly...

But no one prepared me
For the inevitable crash
Into a land of cheaters
And love that never last

Like a fool I cried
Those mourning dove tears
Was it merely a lesson
Or perhaps a cure

'Cuz now I fly
A bit closer to the ground
I refuse to let emotional chemistry
Ever bring me down...
Nat Lipstadt Sep 29
a companion to “why do men cry in the bathroom? (1)
<>
even harder to understand, for it’s almost
unnatural, alone, unshaven, first glance, a small smile creeps ever so slow from
ocean to ocean, cheek to cheek, while the
lines on the face join in, quiet applause,
a satisfaction acknowledgement of mini~
minor proportions, a quick stock taking, a putting aside of the futures worries and the
currency of ever present daily woes,
a small pat on the back

<self administered,
(minimal) self admonishment>

we made it this far, while
juggling
so many acting parts
that we/he learned on the fly,
good luck and good instincts
for this exercise in adapting, becoming
an on the cuff, father, wise-man, little league
coach, protector+defender no matterwhat,
a font of knowledge who gets ignored,
cept
for delayed hugs that slowly dawn and get
inserted when never expected,
shoulders for carrying two at a time,
a reassurer when the world is spinning crashing and
the watch alerts stop this blurting
and get
the their act together again for the
curtain going up when the individualized
symphony of alarms, buzzers and rock ‘n roll anthems pronounce the blessings of morning and
another opportunity to get it wrong,
but make it right,
saying no with loving reassurance
that someday the yeses will be for real,
delivered with that same smile when the unexpected delights and in the eye corner
he observers a version of happy love in an unreservedly small  format that has value above everything else

and even with all the deep day saturations
and self salutations
he cuts himself carelessly
shaving and the focus of wskeup calls and
tender shaking, comes back like a slap to the
fresh bleeding face, and all of the above took
maybe
10 seconds
ten great,
and!
all of  ‘em
firsts ~
no seconds here
Olivia Kent Sep 2015
Stood on the corner of an avenue.
The fifth one I believe.
Watching city folk dashing by.
Buying what, I can't conceive.
Wallets are bulging.
Lucky sods.
Eyes of children open wide.
What to buy, they can't decide.

Sidewalk crammed with swarms of buzzers.
Voices echo through the streets.
Parents, children, A.n.others.
Sirens on cars.
Broads outside bars.
Outstanding lookers.
Really just hookers.
Catching eyes.
Put your tongue away.
Looks like you're snaring flies.

Meanwhile in blankets and boxes.
They sit in the rain.
Top of the subway.
Starts over again.
The rich scurry by.
All in a dash.
Avoiding the homeless.
A bit like a rash, I perceive.
Poor sods.
***** blankets.
Soggy sleeves.
On a hiding to nowhere.
Waiting for beating.

The ways of the world.
Happy Mondays,
Tragic Tuesdays,
Wonderful Wednesdays.
Thawing Thursdays.
And the rest of the week.
They're sleeping in gutters.
Labelled as nutters.
Have no bread and buttercups.
All dandelions'.
Shoppers all troll by.

They're just taking the ****.
Laughing at street folk.
Forgetting they're rich.
Not necessarily in ways of wealth.
They have health and happiness.
True love and laughter.
They have sons and daughters.
Lucky shoppers.
(c)Livvi
betterdays Apr 2014
now is the time
when ....it all winds.....
down....
            the lights are ......
dimmed.......
    and the world....
                          settles
the world settles.....
        .....and the breathing
of the room becomes
                         ...regulated
syncopated.......... smooth...
.........broken..only by...
the whimpers of.....
medicated ....sleep sodden pain.......
...as you shift ..... as they shift....
...  the broken...bruised ..and..
battered anatomy... on slabs
of latex ...concreted.... beds..
but.... even that.... has become
a ...descant.... that..
                harmonizes.....
with the..... murmuring lyric gossip...
... of the nurses station...
.... and the brass buzzers .
...seeking....seeking...
..........relief........
answered.....­ by squeaky.....sqeeeeky
... shod percussionary..... nurses
giving ....aid....care....pills
               i lie on.... the razors... edge...
...of pain..... ....in the half light
concentrating.... on this...
assonic symphony  ....willing for it ..
......to lull me.... into a... fitfull... sleep..
but .....   . tonight it seems the ....throbbing ...robbing...
roaring.....pain  ................
....in my damaged limb...
........... and ....torn ...........flesh
...............is playing.. playing
.. a counterpoint ..to sleep...
............... havoc........
........is this night's song.....
           .......for me....
at least ...until...
the meds.... sing .......
.in my veins....and then....
.... all is........ a lullaby.....lulla .....bbye
from when i was recently in hospital having
slipped and badly broken my leg..
Olivia Kent Sep 2015
Stood on the corner of an avenue.
The fifth one I believe.
Watching city folk dashing by.
Buying what, I can't conceive.
Wallets are bulging.
Lucky sods.
Eyes of children open wide.
What to buy, they can't decide.
Sidewalk crammed with swarms of buzzers.
Voices echo through the streets.
Parents, children, A.n.others.
Sirens on cars.
Broads outside  bars.
Outstanding lookers.
Really just hookers.
Catching eyes.

Meanwhile in blankets and boxes, they sit in the rain.
Top of the subway.
Starts over again.
The rich scurry by.
All in a dash.
Avoiding the homeless.
A bit like a rash, I perceive.
Poor sods.
***** blankets.
Soggy sleeves.
On a hiding to nowhere.
Waiting for beating.
The ways of the world.
Happy Mondays,
Tragic Tuesdays,
Wonderful Wednesdays.
Thawing Thursdays.
And the rest of the week.
They're sleeping in gutters.
All labeled as nutters.
Have no bread and buttercups.
All dandelions'.
Shoppers all troll by.
They're just taking the ****.
Laughing at street folk.
Forgetting they're rich.
Not necessarily in wealth.
They have health and happiness.
They have love and laughter.
They have sons and daughters.
Lucky shoppers.
(c)Livvi
Spicy Digits Jul 2020
Swollen eyes,
These headaches
Tell me to stay present
Do not fear
We're one and the same
The pulse of each vein.
This noise
These sounds
Are not like the others.
Sweet syrup,
And warm embrace
Drown out the buzzers.
This music,
The sky,
Breathe in the filtered light
Just breathe.
Ema Aug 2020
Green tentacles, palm up,
Audibly ******* in sun rays
Round corners, not a single edge in sight
These eye-less beings have more than one shade
Algae-like, in hot nitrogen
Welcoming and rich in chlorophyll
Chloroform, intoxicated
In the face of these blemished beings
They’re flanked by lavender stems
Faces, yes, veiny and real
Upset vine leaves, corroded by rusty attacks
Translucent at the edge, reaching reaching
And in that negative space,
Quiet bees and buzzers, also *******
Here is life, not so still
Lawrence Hall Jan 2019
Dixitque Deus: Fiat lux. Et facta est lux.

-Genesis 1:3

We call this hour pre-dawn; but it is not;
Just as we do not call this hour post-night
It is not pre-anything; it is itself
With not-yet-light that is given in peace

The creatures of the night have gone to bed
The creatures of the day are not yet up
And so there is mist and silence and you
As prayers of beingness offered at dawn

As prayers on the morning of Creation -
Before the alarms alarm and the buzzers buzz
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.


Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Janet Aitch Aug 2019
Little striped buzzers
keep interrupting
when I'm trying
to concentrate
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
as that commonly known phrase goes:
the terrible has already happened...
and it has...
my cycling through the night towards
Stratford from Romford
for some: "love-you-long-time"
at... the 2nd most visible brothel
through the East End: starting from
that one jacuzzi / sauna / massage
parlour at Goodmayes...
the terrible has already happened...
i bought a bottle of J & B ms. amber's whiskers
just off Leytonstone
and peddle to Lilly's... Libby's Sauna...
a fox laughed at me perusing the nightly
traffic of flimsy leftover pedestrians...
one... shady character tried to approach me
while i was utilising a bike-lock...
i stood over a rough-sleeper
seemingly content with:
who wouldn't be... such a June night...
but i'd  be more joy having a welcome
of a meadow...
i just stood over him so well cushioned...
as i entered the "sauna" i asked...
no entry fee...
£160 for an hour... a single room...
£180 for a double room...
i forgot to ask the ethnicity
of the girls...
but given the front door was occupied
by a woman...
it's a lot different...
i pretended to not have enough
money...
i peddled to Goodmayes...
lo and behold... yesterday? closed...
today... magically open...
up the stairs via to buzzers...
there used to be this plump woman at the door...
now... some Ottoman ****...
£10 entry fee... £120 afterwards...
the girls will discuss the details...
see if they'll charge you less... more...
oddly enough...
when a woman has the vantage point
of your entry...
it feels so much... less of what men do to men
in societies that focus on harems...
on polygamy...
man O man: never the... but sometimes the rare
focus of the imitation of swans...
the terrible has already happened...
i've been here before...
perhaps i'd be some dough shy of feeling
good about some savings... petty as they are...
but...
given my newly acquired physical labouring
under the ying of the bicycle...
the coolness of the night...
what more can i be given from
a mere: *******?
          what can't fiddling with my own beard...
caressing a cat...
would i really require myself
to blunt the sensation in the tips of my fingers
on some bricks (imitating sandpaper)
to subsequently concentrate the sensation
performed on a woman's body?
i'm hardly a ******* performer...
no... i'm not a ******* performer...
3 years without and i can just imagine
how comical it would look...
who's expectations, met: mine, hers'?
              it's a good thing that i haven't eaten anything
for the past 2... coming to 3 days...
just enough beer and whiskey fuel to
aid me peddling the odd marathon
through the night...
how certain of no egoistic-libido needing
to be satiated when... you're...
impregnated with a deeper hunger:
an actual hunger...
when... biting your nails makes you
realise how: well... even if i used a clipper...
no chance...
and while drinking beer on an empty
stomach starts to be a metaphor for
drinking molten butter...
this litter adventure of mine seeking out
body... **** **** **** and ol' Jezebel...
sigma... in her wholeness...
     it's good to do so while fasting...
after all... thirst, hunger come prior...
to all that *****-nilly get your secondary limp
part wet in...
i could finally get my spare parts
together... i'll wait...
it's not like i have some: ulterior avenues of
stalling libido antics...
stamp-collecting... butterflies...
i'll just make sure that... if my libido comes
knocking... hungry for angry...
i'll not be prompted by a maine **** she...
she with her ******* **** up in the air
while i cut her nails and comb her fur...
i'll make sure i've eaten something decent...
no...
i'll come round to this desert goddess of
unimaginable thirst some other way...
not like this...
concentrated on actual hunger...
because: fasting... does just that...
- only for the little quippets of tenderness...
perhaps that's a misnomer....
but why couldn't a touch also me...
an amusing remark?
- there might be a dog without a need
to employ a muzzle or a leash: too!
the terrible has already happened...
chances are... it probably might happen again...
i'll be roughing up the night with
bogus arguments...
for there's no need for shelter...
for there's no need for sustenance...
only this carnal slurp-up
of half-edible body parts...
  bite to tease... bite to linger with
a flaming tongue and itchy teeth
and... blistered lips...
and... fingertips craving sandpaper prior
to... the details of grooves in the elbow vicinity...
the knee... all that's thighs...
and esp. the collar-bone...
the enigma of knuckles... the scent of...
freshly washed hair... curdling my sight
to all that's raven, Bulgarian... even Turkic...
i almost want to forget the mythological blonde
on her altar of... her preferences...
looks like i have mine too...
                   akin to the fantasy of...
somewhere between Tuba Büyüküstün and
Ava Lauren...
mein gott: short-hair on a woman...
done precisely as can be done
outside the realm of mad-pixie-girl stereotype...
i'll wait some more...
a lackey of quest that begins with never-ending
inhibitions...
i most certainly want as little of what's
to tease me, tempt me...
i don't follow promises...
Aric Wheeler Oct 2014
The walk home is different every time. It starts with a curt revaluation of my life and as I am piecing my stupidity together, I see a stuffed Burt and Ernie reminding me what I did. Then comes the trip across the hall to the elevator and then down the elevator and then the fight with the first door and when I open that door a guy is there asking about the building and the residents and I don't understand why in the world he would think I live here, or why I would be leaving my apartment in gogo shorts, boots, a t shirt and a raincoat. Then again, maybe the Spanish are less presumptuous. From there I fight to find the second buzzer to let me out of the second door and hope that I turn the right way because I took a cab here and how in the world am I supposed to remember where we turned? Then the real trek home begins because if by some miracle I have conquered Bert, Ernie, the buzzers, the man asking about the building and still managed not to throw myself onto a knife, I have successfully qualified for the pole position. Time to put it in first gear and walk through the streets filled with children eating gelato and their parents and their grandparents all wholesome and fresh faced. Lining cobble stone sidewalks that they manage to wash every night are the hoards of sour orange trees, still green in late October. These are the oranges that all the stupid Americans think would be so delicious and spoiler alert they aren't. As I cross the street I see the river, and I want so badly to jump in, to pull a Virginia Woolf and put myself out of my misery. Crossing the bridge makes it even worse because by this time I have put on my sunglasses and started smoking a cigarette which I hope makes me look more Spanish because everyone smokes and maybe if I am smoking I won't stick out for the guilt all over my face. Now I am close, now is the moment when I start praying that the elevator will be waiting for me on the bottom floor because my knee hurts from slipping in the street the week before. Slipping the key into the keyhole I twist the cogs and open the door to my flat where there are a number of people sitting around eating brunch. Buenos dias, because if I don't say that they will think I am rude which is really the last thing I need. From there, I go into my shared room and lay down, realizing I forgot to ask:
Does this coke come in diet?
IrishDraughtGirl Oct 2013
Buzzers, alarms, calls for help,
Reach for parachute,
G's too strong to move.
Falling,

Falling,

Falling,

Tell my family I love them.
But they won't know.

Falling,

Falling,

Falling,

I can't regain control.
I've lost my last hopes.
Death awaits.

Falling,

Spinning,

Burning,

It started with one bad decision
And ended up here.
Why did I fight the war?  

Falling,

Falling,

Starving,

Laying in a mental unit,
Feeding tube,
No family to be there.
Did I bring this on myself?

— The End —