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Jake Feb 2015
I often get knocked off course.
Stuck in places where I don't want to be.
And no matter how many times this happens I never seem to catch on.
Because these are the places where I tend to find the people who end up meaning so much to me.

I'm glad you got stuck with me.
Elijah Bowen Apr 2019
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if  
our well-televised  
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts  
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.

Here in America,
we’ve learned that  
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.  
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”  
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies  
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...

Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and  
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming  
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,  
they are missing
far too many things  
to gather.
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
     Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
     The nose is holy! The tongue and **** and hand
     and ******* holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
     holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
     angel!
The ***'s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
     holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
     holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
     Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
     sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
     beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the *****
     of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
     apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
     hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
     the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
     mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
     middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
     ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
     Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
     Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
     clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
     the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
     locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
     tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
     abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
     bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
     kindness of the soul!

                                   Berkeley 1955
Maria Imran Apr 2015
Some people are indecisive,
some are just too indecisive.
From the choice of pen to
oh wait, pencils are better
a question about where really
are you going to write---because if you
use your new diary, you might come up with
a better idea for it later so just maybe scribble it online--
whatever you want to, that is
just, type it.
And shopping? That's the worst thing.
Cafeterias? Don't ask!
A fresh apple juice or a strawberry shake or soda or
oh wait, ice-cream? What do you want?
Um, I need time.
Blue dress, green dress, no dress? You need a dress?
Happy with your course? Life, where
are you going*?!
Cat Fiske May 2015
this whole year I have talked to girls in my school,
girls
who wouldn't do things together,
even come together or even talk,

but now were talking,
we've talked,

because the school has lied to us about all these little boy's ****,
and how the boys are allowed to bruise our body's,
steel our souls like it's a game,

why was he allowed?
to get away with it,

because the school and policemen played this game like ****** fools,
and they too encouraged the assault and abuse,
to girls in the hall, or walking to school up the street,

even to girls in cafeterias,
afterschool,

were perfumes of pretty girls were stolen by high school boys,
as they laid on cafeteria floors,
the only scent left was the old lunchroom food stench,

and the high school boy's,
***** *** sweat,

but you belived closeing the doors to the lunchroom,
afterhours,
will stop future harm,

but closeing a door,
wont give a **** victim closer,

espesally when the game continues,
and the odds are stacked up against the women,
where to walk from class to class,

becomes a danger,
and a threat,

because girls who I go to school with have stopped wearing,
that **** red dress,
or tub tops, cutshirts, short shorts,

anything that,
could get you hurt,

because the girls who I go to school with have to wear,
there daddys sweatshirt and sweatpants,
covering
their whole body's while trying to say,

"Im not ****,"
"Don't pick me,"


they are screaming their hopes,
of "Don't Pick Me's" because of the game,
the game of slapping *****,

in the man packs of fives,
to the one girl trying to get to her next class by herself,

the school grounds are no longer a place that's safe,
where you have to know every corner that has a missing camera,
or one turned off,

or if the man pack pull you into the bathroom,
and take off your top,

you're going to be the one,
who gets the book thrown at them,
because the five boys,

pulled the one of you,
into the boys bathroom,

and it doesn't matter why,
or how you got there,
cause school doesn't care,

tells you that you are wrong,
and it's all your fault,

and the five to pull you in,
walk around the school all day,
getting talked up,

like they rolled snake eyes on a pair of six's,
as your stuck like a prisoner in the office trying almost begging,

for some sort of justice,
and every time you talk,
there replys make you feel like a ****,

but you just want to call your mom,
and they wont let you,

so you have to sit and wait, and,
you don't remember if they took your picture & got it with your face,
but you can remember each and everyone of there faces,

like there the only faces a blind person will ever see,
as if there horrible image can't get away from you,

you try,
because you should only see beauty,
though blind eyes,

and your eyes have been scorned,
because five boys tore one girls shirt,

and these boys play the game,
the game of ****, and let me take her picture without her consent,
but that's not even all their rules,

because if they don't do that to you,
they publicly shame you,

they come up to you,
slap your *** so hard,
you instantly see a bruise,

and you have to tell your mother when you get home,
and she has to take pictures of it,

take you to the police station,
where they tell you,
the school should of just handled it,

and in a town so ******* worried about pills,
and drugs,

maybe they should worry about the game they taught their sons,
because the girls may pop pills and drink underanged,
but does that give a man an excuse,

to commit a ****?
and I know it's not just the girls who suffer the most,

I feel though it all,
the guys who have gotten the worse treatment,
kept what happened hidden,

because girls are smart,
and we know all the men got away with it,

so if one or two girls wanna **** a dude,
you think our police or school will do **** for the dudes too?
if anything they'd get publicly shamed,

and what high school boy wants that,
when they were taught to play a game,

and someone,
played the same ****,
**on them.
a bunch of girls keep getting harassed like this. all of this is true sadly this is based on true stuff, none happened to me like this, but I had my phone stolen and the school handled it the same way, and I've been *****, so I'm a support person for people at school, and I try to help them get though it, and make sure they get a police report filed even though they tell them and there parents they don't need too. and try to give them my best support emotionally. Its tough, but we can all get though things, but other things need to change, and yeah I have talked to guys who have been *****, but they didn't do anything.
J T Gaut May 2012
“A relationship with knowledge”
It was said in preschool classrooms,
Childish cafeterias and forgotten
Blissfully, on the monkey bars and jungle gyms

It was said to raging delinquents
Preached to a stuffy, shy girl
Busy pushing her glasses too close to her nose
Fidgeting around the corners of the library

It made its way towards teachers
And  raucous PTA meetings
Each lobbyist far too  adamant;
Ears drooped and beleaguered

A relationship with knowledge
Well
Who is this knowledge?
Does he play nice?

I think I met him, once
He smiled at me, dirtied- on the street
But I can’t really be sure
He seems to be awfully elusive

How silly, to make a relationship
With someone who never seems to show up
But maybe its not his fault
maybe we’ve ruined his fun

Watching us now, elbows dug into text
Bracing like bulls staring down cobbled streets
It seems an awfully aggressive stance
To take with company

It looks as if our teachers lied
We are trying to capture knowledge
Or I wouldn’t be the only one
To sit by the train tracks
Waiting for my friend to come along
Paula Swanson Jun 2010
They ask, "What's the sweetest thing that's happened to you"?
I would have to reply, "It started when I was two".
That is when I, Mother, sister and brother,
went to live with our Grandpa and Grandmother.

They both sacrificed, from that day forward,
working long, hard hours, always undeterred.
To give us a home and happy memories.
It couldn't have been better, for Mom and us three.

Mom worked evenings at the Sears and RoeBuck store.
Grandpa at the publishers, working on the printing floor.
Grandma changed jobs to the school cafeterias,
so when we were home from school, she could be near us.

Grandpa was our dad, in our hearts and minds.
Growing up with two Moms was a terrific time.
Yes, living with our Grandparents was a special world.
I grew up to be a very thankful girl.

What's the sweetest thing that has ever happened?
It started when I was two, and has never slackened.
katewinslet Oct 2015
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liz Oct 2012
What was likely apple jacks
that resembled arroz con leche
was the primary factor in
an eleven
year
anxiety
attack

the frozen inability to enter
muraled cafeterias
clement j zablocki
you hold torture chambers

"call my mom I am sick"
distract me from my nausea
my mental nausea

I am not ready for this confrontation
I began to write this, but stopped abruptly because I feel as though it is just not time for me to talk about it.  I am not ready.
Lappel du vide Feb 2014
i get letters from home,
and girls tell me about the boys with the trench coats
who used to smack my *** and give me free brownies and smoke with me in the forest,
when snow was icily hugging the sleeping earth.
how he acquired a green thumb
and landed his ******, joking *** in jail
by painting "revolution" and "anarchy" on the walls of the
stone white highschool,
sprayed the word "pig" on a cop car.

i was proud,
remembering the time i told him i wanted him to help me
paint Pink Floyd lyrics in front of the library,
below the hill
on the big white canvas
to remind all of the dry-eyed, cardboard-mouthed kids that they're
just another brick in the wall.

i read it and my face glowed
with the fact that
they were revolting,
that the little town i left behind is still on fire
rife and ripe with the deep streaks
of maroon rebellion.

i hear about how
the only boy i've ever truly slept with;
fell asleep with our legs intertwined,
and woke with his soft breath on my neck in the morning,
naked skin growing goosebumps
in our bareness,
how he drew in my darling girl
of sweet chai and small teeth and big eyes and warm heart
like a soft, cozy cup of spicy tea,
how she became lost in his green eyes
and dripping confidence,
overflowing, superfluous
from the bursting vaults he holds inside
his chest, sprouting out along
with trees of light brown hair.

i got angry
i don't want stupid men to touch her,
to taint her
with small lies,
slipping from soft lips,
just enough poison to enchant her.
i'd bite their fingers off
one by one,
and chew their lips out with my
raging teeth
before i let that happen.

sometimes i feel like i need to protect her,
even though i'm the one who
corrupted her in the first place.

i'm the one who taught her that
chain smoking cigarettes in a ditch
during P.E. isn't so bad,
(and it's not, i just dont want her to do it)
who told her that kissing boys half naked in
fall leaves behind apartment complexes,
and letting them take off my clothes in the bushes
getting thorns stuck in my hair,
letting my underwear and skirt scatter forgotten at my feet,
along with his softly murmured "i love you,"
i told her that's normal;
(i want her to kiss who she pleases
but
****
i just dont want them to touch her with their ***** hands.)
who ranted to her that commitment was for people
who didn't want to experience everything they possibly could in life,
for boring ones,
who weren't worthwhile.

i showed her that
self destructive tendencies,
messy, unbrushed hair,
and purple leather jackets,
tie dye skirts
smelling like an ashtray
from smoking Marlboros in the school garden house
with a yellow sun a top it just before class
was just a part of growing into a woman.
(i guess we all have different paths,
but i wont forget her eyes when she looked at me,
i was torn and she was
stitching me up with string made from her
own skin.)
and then i realized what an absolutely
horrible friend i am,
how wretched i had been to you,
when you called me so long ago
and told me in a dry, vacant voice,
you were sad,
you had thought about hurting yourself.
i should have realized what i'd done
i hadn't protected you enough from the
desirous, screaming demon inside me
always craving, aching for more,
never, ever satisfied.

then,
you tell me in a letter
that you understood why i did the things i did,
and that you're learning
its okay to let go and do them too.

and i had to let that sink in.
if that's what i always wanted, then why did panic suddenly take me, light my body on fire?

when i'm away from you, its so simple
to become overprotective,
lashing out my broken jaws and
roaring voice at anything that
dares try to hurt you
erase the truth,
purity,
that you hold so deeply inside you.

i don't want you to kiss manipulative boys,
with dark hair
and let them touch you in a sneaking drunk dreariness
within a winter cave of night,
and i don't want you to touch them back,
and find broken brandy bottles
and their shattered glass
slowly sinking their bodies into your delicate fingers.
i don't want you to be numb, hollowed out,
walking around halls
and open lockers of close-minded
highschools
with bloodshot eyes and unstable hands, shaking and jittering,
high off some good bud after third period,
and adderall just before sixth.
i don't want you to let boys finger
you so
hard
that you practically popped your cherry,
so you sit, hips cramping, and
hurt,
soreness sinking into you,
as he begs you to kiss him
and you refusing,
insisting that he ought to know by now
"you're just another boy
i have too many
to risk kissing you in public."
i cant believe he stayed.

i don't want you to realize,
when you're drunk and stumbling on black asphalt
in the early morning
that you always feel
so ******* empty,
and off-kilter,
like somethings missing,
but whatever you try to fill it with;
gentle *** in plaid sheets,
(or were they plaid boxers?),
burning *****
(was it whiskey?).
broken ashtrays
(i said sorry, but still didn't feel forgiven)
cigarette after cigarette
("you always try to drown yourself in perfume,
but i can always smell it.")
until you get a headache and a groggy voice,
hash smoked out of apple pipes from
cafeterias,
("i'll bury it here, whenever you want to ****, just dig it up.")
visits to the school therapist
("you're bright, you know that."
how many kids have you not told that to?)
hits from your mother
("i don't regret it, like you probably don't regret the cigarettes."
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST ******* EAT THEM IF YOU WANT
THAT POISON INSIDE YOU SO MUCH."),
call slips from the attendance office
(i pinned up all my detention slips on my walls,
white flags flying
far from surrender)
same record playing,
(Vincent, Don McLean)
blood dripping down to the brown
towel you set out
to catch your slipping fears,
as they bled out of you in crimson rivers
and made a savage battleground below you;
feeling like you will never fill that empty,
tar-like black
hole
burnt inside you.

i don't want it to happen.

i want to protect you fiercely like
a mother lion,
and keep you in the safe haven of my echoing
den,

but then i think of what i'd do if you were next me
laying on your silk sheets,
looking out the glassy windows
reflecting the sky,
i know without a ******* ******* doubt in my mind,
i'd light my eyes up with a mischievous grin,
glance at your paintings
(they always inspired me)
and march to your parents bar.
(why did they keep it downstairs when they knew you had friends like me?)
i'd insist we'd have to drink at least a little,
swerve our vision till the music
caresses us,
and then i'd take a bit of everything and i'd watch you
as the liquid slid down your throat,
then i'd say i was proud of you.

but really, i want you to know that
you'll grow up when your ready,
you're so precious, but so strong
and i just need you to remember who you really are.
you're inspiration,
paintings made out of dots,
you take care of me when i'm falling apart
and horrible
and yelling.
there cant be two of us
drunken,
screaming for cupcakes in the middle
of a brightly lit grocery store,
please don't change just because
other people are doing it.
you're so strong,
be strong.

god i'm so ******* contradictory.

i just love you so much.
i don't want you to hurt
i don't want you to lose things
like i have,
to greedy boys fingers,
i don't want you bearing the pain,
(it'll be gone by the second time anyways)
i'd do anything to stop it.

but if you really want it,

some things are just so inescapable.
to Anabella Funk.
Andrew T Jun 2016
Kanye West made me think polos were cool. I thought playing rap music while wearing polos would make me into a rapper. And then I turned into a tennis player. Tennis got me out of the hood. Let it be known. I could have went to court, and instead I chose the Tennis Court.

Tennis is fun. Before it was ratchet. Now it is tennis racket. Rapping was fun. Bernie Sanders liked rap. He liked Killer Mike, and he was a phenomenal rapper. Hilary listened to me. So I don’t know what that means. I should have been a rapper, but when I saw a videotape of Arthur Ashe playing tennis for Wimbledon, I felt a yearning grow inside of my gut, and it grew until I raised my hand to my mouth to smother the scream of nostalgia that I was feeling.

I wanted people to like me so I started rapping at cafeterias and bleacher stands. People drank cola and munched on popcorn as I talked about growing up in the hood of Burke. Real **** went down in the Burke. Like **** you wouldn’t believe. And that’s real.

I hung out on a rooftop overlooking the city drowned in sunshine that was sad as the girl who left me. Kanye West saved me from becoming a *******. And even if he’s an ******* now, everyone knows he was the greatest with 808’s and Heartbreak. Robocop used to play from the car speakers, as we rolled spliffs in the front seat, the wind pouring into the windows.
Dearest Little Snot
While you are a dinosaur princess reigning supreme over the sandbox with your iron fist perfectly chipped glittery pink fingernails
I want to tell you a few things before you saunter off into adulthood…
the day you were born there was the most beautiful messy thunderstorm
the world cried tears of joy upon your arrival
that’s how I know
God does exist
dangling in the innocent sparkles of a child’s glance
speaking
to you
with each beat of your pumping heart
FYI
when life’s pain makes you want to retreat into the arm of the sofa with a lifetime movie and processed frozen sugar
throw that ***** arrows instead of tantrums
and never forget that you can indeed stop celestial bodies from obscuring your view of the sun
never forget that his world ultimately revolves around your shapely hips
don’t forget to taste the world with your heart open
and chew with your mouth shut
and taste everything and I mean everything
and if it tastes bad
try it again later
keep your dreams close to your heart in an ammunition belt strapped across your chest and be a warrior for your sunshine
but don’t worry about it when the sun don’t shine
because your sunshine will illuminate your dreams
and its okay
if
high school sweethearts don’t stay together forever
or
get back together after forever
to rekindle romances conceived in cafeterias or gym school dances when even a chaperone or Daddy can’t tear them apart
and sometimes the spiral notebook dreams of forever lovers and eternal BFFs never quite unfold from the tight origami wide ruled universes they were conceived at
Believe that
and fancy this you little snot
I’m always going to be bigger than you and smarter than you and win at punchbuggynopunchback
But you are greater than the power that created you
so don’t forget that.
Jason Cirkovic May 2015
My hands can't make a fist
Like yours.
They tremble
Shaking off the stone
That the colossi painted
Over their slumber parties as kids
The cracks that divide my hands
From freedom.
My dry hands
Are dehydrated
From the lack of love
No moisture
My tears could only be used
To break through
The thoughts of hell
I cannot spare
To shed another.

Don't dare you touch my hands
Look closely
Those blue veins
Are memories
I avoid at school cafeterias
They hide
Under my callous hands
Which work to no goal
Only to dreams
Scattered on the ***** floor

Oh?
Your smile
Seemed to wake up my pores
And prove me wrong
By telling me

It’s going to be okay

Yes Yes
I can make a fist like that
But only if I'm holding your hand
will May 2019
Some places always are full
yet still feel like kenopsia
Like hospital cafeterias
always hushed full of dull sounds

Everything feels like its ending
and sickness fills the air
With an uncomfortable quiet
in a place normally considered loud
eh, poorly written
Court Jul 2014
I see you all the time.
I see you in crowded cafeterias and I remember you getting up to get sweet tea
I see you in open fields and I remember memories made at that little camp
I see you on empty concrete curbs like where we sat when we talked that Wednesday night.
I see you when I look at empty beds and I remember how you used to lay on your stomach and glance and smile at me.
I see you in full pews and empty alters and I remember how you were too nervous to walk to the alter.
I see you post pictures alone (without me) and I wonder if they look as empty to you as they make me feel
It's been 159 hours since I last saw you and all I can say is I miss you more than anything.
Its been 91 hours since I have last slept because all I see are those pictures without me, and dreaming about us just seems to be a slap in the face.
Grace Jan 2019
oh expired chicken
you never tasted right
to begin with
shredded and unseasoned
marred by hints of skin
and cartilage
you were too embarrassing to share
and too expensive to discard

oh expired chicken
the aftermath of underestimating how much
is in each pound
and overestimating how much I eat
a shopping mistake made
after being a parasite to school cafeterias
and my mother's cooking
for eight months

oh expired chicken
throwing you away was harder
than cutting off an ex-lover
my heart yearns for what you could have been
(tasty food in my stomach)
even though you were never enough
you would make an indomitable enemy
an atrocious friend
and the worst boyfriend ever
we would have a toxic and trying relationship
but that is for another poem
Don't worry guys! I threw the expired chicken away before it was too late, so my stomach feels fine.
This poem was inspired by the slam poem "Ode to Whataburger" by Amir Safi. Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WKQimdJsoc.
Sk Abdul Aziz Jan 2016
She hated being all alone
She searched for true love all over the city
Sometimes in college..
..where she would always find a way to sit next to the handsome guy and she'd dream of a life with him
Sometimes at work..
..where in between her meetings she'd glance at the cute guy and hope that someone like that would come in her life
Sometimes at the train station..
..where she would wait for the train to arrive and hope that one day love too would arrive in her life
Sometimes in parks..
..where she'd witness the magic of nature and hope for a magic in her life
Sometimes in cafeterias..
..where in between sips of coffee she'd write poems about love and hope that some character from her poem would come alive and sweep her off her feet
Sometimes in bars..
..where she'd drink to her loneliness and hope that some prince would come into her life and cure her lonely nights
And yet little did she know..
..that her soulmate was in front of her the entire time..
..he was living next door to her
..they'd meet and talk everyday
..he had a receding hairline
..wore thick glasses
..would stammer in his speech
But he was the nicest person she had ever met
He was always very encouraging and supportive
He understood her like no one else ever did
And whenever she was feeling a bit low
He would always find a way to cheer her up
And so after having tried to find her true love all around
She finally realized that there was one place she hadn't looked
The one place which was truly worth looking
She went up to the guy living next door,gathered some courage and expressed her feelings for him
He had tears in his eyes
He could barely speak
He had always liked her
But was scared to express his feelings
For he was flawed in so many ways
He never ever thought that he'd find someone who would want to be with him
And yet here was the most amazing girl he had ever met..
...who was standing in front of him with her heart in her hand
They sealed their love with a kiss
The birds sang a happy tune
And the heavens rejoiced
Many a times our true love is right in front of us..and we fail to recognise it or it takes us a while to recognize it...love is strange..it can be found in the most unexpected of places..sometimes we just try too hard..one just needs to be watchful and patient.
Lev Rosario Aug 2021
Blood goes round and round
Inside my heart there's a great sound

I am a flower quickly fading
Constantly lost, constantly aching

What does God want from me?
I exist like a stone, a failure to be

Falling from heaven to the ground
With no real thoughts, a devil's playground

I eat alone in cafeterias forgotten
Wearing old clothes, loose cotton

What's left of me is dull pain
A rotting cancer of the brain

I try to walk and exist in truth
And drink pharmaceuticals to sooth

The burning feeling in my body
While I waste away my money

What will tomorrow bring?
Will the birds once again sing?

Will I be able to lift myself?
And find a place in the world's shelf?

Do not enter. Leave this place
And please do not remember my face
Now Mostly Purged

Decades removed when body electric
felt tortured reverberated, and quaked
with MegaDeath repercussions tattooing,
piercing, foisting, ensnaring, drubbing

drum beat indelibly 'pon psyche NON
MEMORABLE years gone bye felled
psyche with incorporation, viz alphabet
chromed facebook, poetry soup of physio

logical symptoms i.e. clammy palms,
heart palpitation, irritable bowel
syndrome, nausea, vertigo, et cetera (aside
from above, I felt great) erupted bitta bing,
bitta band tore rent cleaving, coping and

crimping Matthew Scott Harris asunder
forcefully endearing themselves like Dasher,
Dancer, Prancer, *****, Comet, Cupid,
Dinner broke repast and Blitzen) hopscotching

(hither and yon, to and fro) from one
University to another well nigh, particularly
when paying a visit to college cafeterias,
(an unpleasant effect explaining termination

umpteen post high school institutions, I
matriculated), especially when hungry hordes
(like angry birds, long fostered century21
apes, or madding crowds of students rushing

to lunch line, swelling sea of Muslims, or
Christian crusades of yore - NO INTENT
TO INSULT belief, credo, dogma, et cetera)
practically stampeding their way en route

to the Hajj) clamored to be fed sustenance,
or spiritual succor respectively, but no sooner
did this then rather bony gluteus maximus
became situated at table (often whereby quick

exit could be made in predictable panic stricken
outcome pierced and hammered me with gut
wrenching agony), the medley of organic
constriction of throat re: named asphyxiation,

furiously pounding ma poor heart, churning
out hormonal adrenaline secretion, sans flight
or fight, strong sensation, qua regurgitation
(despite likelihood my bowels recently purged,

per diarrhea courtesy of irritable gastrointestinal
stress), disallowed even one morsel to appease
thine palette, essentially salad days, whereat
never did this liberal minded scrivener get

trampled underfoot, but he experienced
physical manifestations entailing great
discomfort probably on par with devout
pilgrimage to holy shrine of Mecca whar wren

twittering within labyrinth of this mortal
being i.e. christened Matthew Scott Harris,
hid unseen live, googly-eyed, earth-linked,
mailer daemons resounded with flickr, Go

Daddy, hulu, instagramming, joyous, kick
starter, pinterest ting, shutterfly ying, snap
chatting, tinder quiet riot chorus of their
unheard whatsapp penning yahoo kindling

the trip wire of ****** perspiration, laceration
(stinging tips of metallic caw, pelting whipping,
and zinging reflexively upon me body electric
weighed down with glow ball chain) induced

hallucination prodding sphincter muscle to go
into overdrive vis a vis via defecation, (irritable
bowel ran dire re:yah rampant) creating one
wasted wreck of a human abomination kept

in check sum i.e. sigma notation from unsuspecting
observer, herewith ends general figurative broad-
brush stroke pertaining to collective soul asylum
wrenching episodes does injustice to panic attacks.
Jeffrey Robin Jul 2016
'


And the little liberals
And the tiny conservatives

Shall crawl out of their  holes  

Babbling the innaniies
That

Rule the world

•••


Normal
People

Don't seem to

Exist anymore

( just a few hot babes writing poetry )

""

All the white folk are dying out

Because they are too neurotic
To
**** and breed




Civilization is doomed

Thank god for that !

( just a few hot babes writing poetry remain )

Strewn corpses

Bullet ridden

In high school cafeterias

Unable to see the new
STAR TREK movie !

This is tragic

••

We have failed to follow god's will

We claim to be EXEPTIONAL !

///

I haven't ****** a white girl in years

They are just cardboard imitations

Of bodies

With no brains and cold hearts


""""

The US FLEET

Enters the
SOUTH CHINA SEAS

)(

DONALD TRUMP
will
Be

President



We will all be eaten by zombies

:::

None on you so called lovers

Will marry and have children

And find happiness

//

We are being replaced by robots

We are too numb (or dumb ? )

To care

;(

Morning comes

I come forth to

Do something

\"""\

I sit in meditation for a while


X
Triggered to skyhigh elevated state
when I received communiqué
courtesy management warden
christened and otherwise
known as Jackie Geiger
dated March 9, 2022.

She averred fruit fly infestation
constituted lease violation,
which could spell eviction
since said issue involving
Drosophila melanogaster
necessitated costly
exterminator intervention
subsequently delivered resultant
severe savage psychological strafing

regular panic attacks (analogous
to EF5 tornadoes
the highest category
on Enhanced Fujita Scale)
unleashed with punishing
alimentary canal winds
i.e. lower gastrointestinal expulsions,
which prescription medication
ineffective to subdue.

Suddenly relatively short lived respite
abruptly ended moderate freedom
feeling diabolically tortured
returned with a vengeance
measuring reprieve in months
and years removed
when body electric
felt tortured reverberated, and quaked
with repercussions...tattooing, piercing,
ensnaring... drubbing drum beat indelibly

'pon psyche NON MEMORABLE years
gone bye felled psyche with incorporation,
viz alphabet facebook, poetrysoup of
physiological symptoms i.e. clammy
palms, heart palpitation, irritable bowel
syndrome, nausea, vertigo,
et cetera (aside
from above, I felt great)
erupted bitta bing,
bitta band tore rent cleaving, coping and

crimping Master scribe
harnesses words as
Zeus employs thunder
forcefully endearing themselves like Dasher,
Dancer, Prancer, *****, Comet, Cupid,
Donner and Blitzen) hopscotching
(hither and yon,
to and fro) from one
University to another
well nigh, particularly
when paying a visit
to college cafeterias,
(an unpleasant effect

explaining abrupt termination
umpteen post
high school institutions,
I matriculated), especially
when hungry hordes
(like angry twittering birds,
long fostered century21
apes, or madding crowds
of students rushing
to lunch line for their seconds

analogous to swelling sea of
crusaders of yore - practically
stampeding their way
clamoring to be fed sustenance
or spiritual succor respectively,
but no sooner did this then
rather bony gluteus maximus
became situated at table
(often whereby quick
exit could be made

in predictable panic stricken
outcome pierced and
hammered me with gut
wrenching mental agony),
the medley of organic
constriction of throat
re: named asphyxiation,
furiously pounding
ma poor heart, churning
out hormonal adrenaline.

— The End —