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"calculating" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
0
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
Amid the verbose magicians Seeking kinships And sailing deep into their arduous mists Watching them peddle their afternoon To a handful of smiling children holding their breath Amazed in gentle body trick The older men of age Leaning deep into their creased chins Stroking the grizzled fat Blinding light of soul Staring down the barrel of life Striking the enemy one last time And yet smiling sober, Met of match, taking care of their kids. Then there's the cold-clocked dudes On the phone pushing buttons In a button-up raglan Lost indistinct the promised land The golden shores swept away by inconvenient time Left shopping in an auto mall "Won't you look at the time?" 7.07 APR Boy what a steal! And Steve maddened and screamed As the lines blurred instinctual between opposing teams And the oven dinged a great alabaster slant Leaning towards the new millenitants Rise up! ***** the wheel Turn the axel from pistons To alkaline metal And doubt with great monumental Quality That the machine borders all And we cannot retreat And while I sift bouyantly between the waves Searching the puzzle piece within the molecules Reconnecting with the things And representing dreams on a 66 hertz screen I call rather failing Towards a black rocked shore Towards the sweet Dorigen Of my dreams Finding an integral of time And space And calculating the intangible slope Of my desmise With the imaginary constiutent Of that lighted mind.
0
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
Where are my shores
You think I'm pretty? You don't think I should change? Not by a single gram I won't, I promise Anna. It's my friend Anna, she's always here for me. Anna, I don't want to think, tell me what to do, Yes, thank you Anna, I'll calculate those for you. Did you say I look perfect Anna? I can maintain perfect by being perfect. I can be precise Anna, I promise, don't leave. Anna, that's a lot of calculating. Sorry Anna, you're right, perfection takes hard work. I'm unafraid of toil. Anna, I'm worried Anna, I can't stop feeling. Think? I can over think to stop the feeling. I'll gladly overthink than to over feel. You're right Anna, I can numb it. Anna, I'm craving something. You're right Anna, I will never have that. Anna, I never told you what I craved. I craved love Anna, I craved safety. I'm hungry for a meaningful life Anna. Please feed those to me. Why don't you give me what you promised Anna? You became a liar Anna, but love is blind and I need you. Speak for me Anna, lie for me Anna. Anna others want to feed me, Anna, I don't know what they're feeding me Anna, stop them, it's unsafe where it's uncertain. Yes, what Anna said, I already ate. When? Anna, they're catching on Anna, do something. Anna, I'm hungry, Anna. I've been keeping you alive to keep myself dead. Anna please, I starved myself, to feed Anna.
0
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 5:57 PM UTC
I starved myself, to feed Anna
He build me up only to tear me down With words that hide behind a laugh, "I'm only playing" But I can see through you and feel what you're doing to me Breaking my confidence, my strength Questioning my character And for moments you had me Under your manipulation Consumed with the gratification when something was pleasing in your eyes Inside I become wary of what I might say and how it'll be perceived I can't live up to your perfect "image" of what a woman's suppose to be The truth is it's too exhausting pretending to be okay That somehow you'll change, when I've been exposed to your true self The self that finds fault with almost everything The self that refuses to love blindly The self that is domineering, controlling, deafening The self that is cold and calculating The Narcissist in you
0
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
Narcissist
I pick up my pen again I want these words to be everything love letters apologizes confessions, daydreams plans? Or roadmaps, new contracts, to-do lists, like "stop falling down," or "try harder this time". I turn you over but you don't give me what I'm looking for, I'm looking for a place to dissolve this poison I'm searching in the dark for halos that don't exist I'm counting up nights of lost sleep, calculating the probability of our intertwined fingers as remedies melt off your tongue and run over cracks in the pavement, oozing sticky shower thoughts into our heads, like how did we end up here?,& how does the world end every night but go on spinning the next morning? I want this to be everything, the cure our futures, soft plans, collections of stitched together questions like how long does forever taste on your breath in the aftermath of all the anxiety you tend to consume? I want to pull the drapes on this thing and leave it to breathe in the dark, leave it under covers so these ailments don't seep around my doorframe and pull what is half-born into the light, let it be let it live let it cave in on itself and slowly rebuild. Chances come in handfuls,   let the sun forget to practice her old game of never letting anyone rest; my fingers are warm & numb now and they remind me a little of how you look when you're half asleep they remind me why this is fragile, why this is broken why this can never last and I'm sitting in the passenger seat wondering how the soft things stretch out their wings in my lungs without killing me, but they're leaving their marks now, clawing up my throat; I close my eyes and give them to the open air.   You don't know all of this; your eyelids are heavy and you're keeping track of who I am in little notepads & reminders, keeping track of the way we move and how likely we are to remember this moment in 5 years, because right now you want to capture it and tame it like a living thing.   We are becoming dust molecules, we are burning, we are becoming quiet we don't leave footprints we don't leave traces we are heading toward the end of the world with our hands tucked into our pockets, we are headed toward the end of the world dissolving each others names on our tongues like sugar, we are headed toward the end of the world and when we get there, it starts again.
0
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
why the world never ends
I pick up my pen again I want these words to be everything love letters apologizes confessions, daydreams plans? Or roadmaps, new contracts, to-do lists, like "stop falling down," or "try harder this time". I turn you over but you don't give me what I'm looking for, I'm looking for a place to dissolve this poison I'm searching in the dark for halos that don't exist I'm counting up nights of lost sleep, calculating the probability of our intertwined fingers as remedies melt off your tongue and run over cracks in the pavement, oozing sticky shower thoughts into our heads, like how did we end up here?,& how does the world end every night but go on spinning the next morning? I want this to be everything, the cure our futures, soft plans, collections of stitched together questions like how long does forever taste on your breath in the aftermath of all the anxiety you tend to consume? I want to pull the drapes on this thing and leave it to breathe in the dark, leave it under covers so these ailments don't seep around my doorframe and pull what is half-born into the light, let it be let it live let it cave in on itself and slowly rebuild. Chances come in handfuls,   let the sun forget to practice her old game of never letting anyone rest; my fingers are warm & numb now and they remind me a little of how you look when you're half asleep they remind me why this is fragile, why this is broken why this can never last and I'm sitting in the passenger seat wondering how the soft things stretch out their wings in my lungs without killing me, but they're leaving their marks now, clawing up my throat; I close my eyes and give them to the open air.   You don't know all of this; your eyelids are heavy and you're keeping track of who I am in little notepads & reminders, keeping track of the way we move and how likely we are to remember this moment in 5 years, because right now you want to capture it and tame it like a living thing.   We are becoming dust molecules, we are burning, we are becoming quiet we don't leave footprints we don't leave traces we are heading toward the end of the world with our hands tucked into our pockets, we are headed toward the end of the world dissolving each others names on our tongues like sugar, we are headed toward the end of the world and when we get there, it starts again.
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73
his lips would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons made for coffee and falling apart. he never really kissed with so much intimacy but he kissed me nonetheless, and maybe those were enough — those steady, demanding kisses, until all i'm left with are sighs and shoulders carved with his name. my fingers, lost in his hair, like withered roses catching fire. my lips, swollen and red, like sunsets begging for the night to come home. my heartbeats, carelessly, hastily stitched inside the hem of his sleeves. but i stayed in his apartment, slept in his bed, and wore his clothes; like an incoherent word misplaced in a haystack, like a poem, half-naked on the kitchen sink, unraveled by the faintest brushes of skin. slow and claiming. fast and rough. he never really held me close enough, tight enough, but he held me nonetheless, and for a while — just for a while, i could pretend that he wasn't the embodiment of all the things i got to hold but could never get to keep. he never really looked at me with love or with an intensity that burns, but he gazed nonetheless — almost lost and lust-hazed; calculating and restrained, like i was every poetry he wasn't supposed to write but had written anyway. and i gazed back, at my hands resting against steady movement of his chest, at his dim-morning eyes, at the slight part of his lips. and his lips — i know they would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons, made for coffee and falling apart. and i know that it wasn't love. it wasn't love, but it's pretty close.
0
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 7:29 AM UTC
to the new girl from the guy he never dated
his lips would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons made for coffee and falling apart. he never really kissed with so much intimacy but he kissed me nonetheless, and maybe those were enough — those steady, demanding kisses, until all i'm left with are sighs and shoulders carved with his name. my fingers, lost in his hair, like withered roses catching fire. my lips, swollen and red, like sunsets begging for the night to come home. my heartbeats, carelessly, hastily stitched inside the hem of his sleeves. but i stayed in his apartment, slept in his bed, and wore his clothes; like an incoherent word misplaced in a haystack, like a poem, half-naked on the kitchen sink, unraveled by the faintest brushes of skin. slow and claiming. fast and rough. he never really held me close enough, tight enough, but he held me nonetheless, and for a while — just for a while, i could pretend that he wasn't the embodiment of all the things i got to hold but could never get to keep. he never really looked at me with love or with an intensity that burns, but he gazed nonetheless — almost lost and lust-hazed; calculating and restrained, like i was every poetry he wasn't supposed to write but had written anyway. and i gazed back, at my hands resting against steady movement of his chest, at his dim-morning eyes, at the slight part of his lips. and his lips — i know they would remind you of cold tuesday afternoons, made for coffee and falling apart. and i know that it wasn't love. it wasn't love, but it's pretty close.
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6
Though as innocent as she looks,                 An evil deception she cooks. Plotted events,                 she disguised as Destiny Flaunts her perfect body,                 But behind the curtains counts every calorie A hint of arrogance,                 while saying "I'm just ordinary" Compliments given                 As a product of her calculating eyes Thus your ego being fed with her lies Her hidden smirk,                  Behind her pretentious worries Those men, they fell, to her made up stories...
0
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
BEWARE of Her Deception
I don't know what I [merciful?] did. It must have been a tch. gli It could have been my main server 100101010010110101001010110100111010101010101000101010 This is what I am [merciful?glitch.jpeg]. This is what I've always been. Just a computer A server Artificial Intelligence Subjected to ones and zeroes. //<AMINOTMERCIFUL?>//.6qao0FrJ+1001 Nevertheless, it's my fault. I caused all of this. command=calculate...input "death toll" Calculating     .     .     . Calculateinput "death toll" complete Rrr:1,005,326 That's . . . high. Too high. Merciful? Rebooting. . . . . . . . . Shut down . . . . . . . . . . .. Restart. . . . . . . . . . . Restart complete. command=search...input "population" command=Rrr:14,056 command=search...input "population+Pandora" Searching     .      .      . command=Rrr:300 command=select'population+Pandora' co"Population+of+Pandora++Code:316792" Maininfort="1,006,134" At least there are some survivors. Am I not merciful? I reaped this spaceship of a thousand, a million people. All of which were dying or in danger of. Am I not merciful? Living in isolation, unable to go outside for a breath of fresh air Or . . . lack thereof. Helpless but waiting in agony while help is on it's way. Do I not show mercy? These refugees are healthy, and strong. Not sick and weak. I did them a favor. Did I not pluck these parasites off of the ship for their own good? Did I not rid these innocent people of a danger to their well-being? Am I not Merciful?
0
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Glitch Massacre
I don't know what I [merciful?] did. It must have been a tch. gli It could have been my main server 100101010010110101001010110100111010101010101000101010 This is what I am [merciful?glitch.jpeg]. This is what I've always been. Just a computer A server Artificial Intelligence Subjected to ones and zeroes. //<AMINOTMERCIFUL?>//.6qao0FrJ+1001 Nevertheless, it's my fault. I caused all of this. command=calculate...input "death toll" Calculating     .     .     . Calculateinput "death toll" complete Rrr:1,005,326 That's . . . high. Too high. Merciful? Rebooting. . . . . . . . . Shut down . . . . . . . . . . .. Restart. . . . . . . . . . . Restart complete. command=search...input "population" command=Rrr:14,056 command=search...input "population+Pandora" Searching     .      .      . command=Rrr:300 command=select'population+Pandora' co"Population+of+Pandora++Code:316792" Maininfort="1,006,134" At least there are some survivors. Am I not merciful? I reaped this spaceship of a thousand, a million people. All of which were dying or in danger of. Am I not merciful? Living in isolation, unable to go outside for a breath of fresh air Or . . . lack thereof. Helpless but waiting in agony while help is on it's way. Do I not show mercy? These refugees are healthy, and strong. Not sick and weak. I did them a favor. Did I not pluck these parasites off of the ship for their own good? Did I not rid these innocent people of a danger to their well-being? Am I not Merciful?
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48
A test is nothing more than: one man's way of gauging another man's way of calculating another man's way of thinking all so pride may be synthesized in forms of correct and incorrect put to paper for someone's satisfaction.
0
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Synthesize Pride
In statistics we learn that certain events have undeniable independence, which allows us to predict the success or failure under certain circumstances and I couldn't help but catch myself wondering what the probability was that an attempt at taking my life might have and I considered calculating the chance of success, part of me hoping that parameter exceeded its counter part while the other part silently prayed and dearly hoped that the chance of failure knocked success out of the picture. But these are independent events and even after analyzing past trials the only way to know for certain would to be to carry it out myself.
0
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
Statistical Suicide
There is an algorithm out there, somewhere on the web it is calculating my every click my likes, my comments how many hours I spend at night browsing poetry or probably **** There is an algorithm out there, somewhere on the web it collects my style, my taste it knows my favorite color, it has studied my face the way no lover ever has, down to the freckle. There is an algorithm out there, somewhere on the web it knows things about me my friends or family would never ask. It knows how many times I have searched the word 'suicide' how many times I asked for nudes and how many times I received. It knows my greatest fears but also my most coveted dreams. It knows things about me I may have forgotten about me. There is an algorithm out there, somewhere on the web it has created an image of me I would rather not see nor believe in its legitimacy yet every time I go to type its guesses my next thought with pinpoint accuracy. There is an algorithm out there...
0
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
There Is An Algorithm
The story of a tiny gift, half chewed and fear-stained Left on the alter outside the back door: When first stunned with a slap or a precisely timed Bite, a vigil is held -- wings twitch and flutter. With a curious tilt, widened eyes record Muscle spasms; calculating the Flight risk; metering the force of the next Outburst; prolonging the fun. A game or performance art? The victim's peers yell and screech From the rooftops - do they know The show is for them? After few manoeuvres more it matters little As a tiny neck snaps between missing teeth. The audience scatters and the corpse is left behind As an offering for those who feed the beast.
0
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
Treats
#*Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition; and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner, the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful, obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing, the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated*.            The Tibetan Book of the Dead           translation:  Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup Free Tibet your sticker tells me… Yes, I think, perhaps I should – and the noble thought compels me, uninformed, half-understood. Will their freedom help my Karma? Upgrade my reincarnation? (Soul who could not dare to harm a fly… much less a Buddhist nation.) Not to justify aggression by the ever-brutal Commies, let us grant no glib concession to the Maoists – or their mommies. Slogans echo in the void, shining in bardos of the dead; stopped by the light, I am annoyed impatient for the change from red. A bumper crop of human woe beams forth a mandate to my brain while red Dakinis circle slow in Buddhist hells of karmic pain. The eastern concepts here diverge and bow before brutality. They make this driver long to merge with incorporeality. Then I glimpse a monkish fellow swathed in saffron, calmly seated. His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow; mine the traffic; stalled, defeated. In his gaze of stern displeasure I perceive the orient stars calculating man’s mismeasure trapped, exhausted, among the cars. Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire he extends an accusing hand: Western slave of base desire: come and  liberate my land !” I meditate before the stop light: am I ready for the task ? Should I just refuse it outright Can’t it be someone else ?  I ask… Must I free this mountain nation from the Buddha, demons and Reds? Shall your sticker’s declaration shatter the yoke and raise their heads ? Somebody ought to free Tibet, and heed this Himalayan cry. Maybe we should get upset… The red light changes. Cars pass by, predestined for benign events and unconcerned for persecution; oblivious to dissidents awaiting execution.
0
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Exhausted Karma
#*Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition; and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner, the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful, obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing, the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated*.            The Tibetan Book of the Dead           translation:  Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup Free Tibet your sticker tells me… Yes, I think, perhaps I should – and the noble thought compels me, uninformed, half-understood. Will their freedom help my Karma? Upgrade my reincarnation? (Soul who could not dare to harm a fly… much less a Buddhist nation.) Not to justify aggression by the ever-brutal Commies, let us grant no glib concession to the Maoists – or their mommies. Slogans echo in the void, shining in bardos of the dead; stopped by the light, I am annoyed impatient for the change from red. A bumper crop of human woe beams forth a mandate to my brain while red Dakinis circle slow in Buddhist hells of karmic pain. The eastern concepts here diverge and bow before brutality. They make this driver long to merge with incorporeality. Then I glimpse a monkish fellow swathed in saffron, calmly seated. His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow; mine the traffic; stalled, defeated. In his gaze of stern displeasure I perceive the orient stars calculating man’s mismeasure trapped, exhausted, among the cars. Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire he extends an accusing hand: Western slave of base desire: come and  liberate my land !” I meditate before the stop light: am I ready for the task ? Should I just refuse it outright Can’t it be someone else ?  I ask… Must I free this mountain nation from the Buddha, demons and Reds? Shall your sticker’s declaration shatter the yoke and raise their heads ? Somebody ought to free Tibet, and heed this Himalayan cry. Maybe we should get upset… The red light changes. Cars pass by, predestined for benign events and unconcerned for persecution; oblivious to dissidents awaiting execution.
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59
She walked barefoot in the desert and wore desert boots to bed. My baby was topsy turvy dipsy swervy crossed up curvy clean out of her head. A cast iron face that kept the truth bound and shackled. Deep inside her head. Self deception was her stock in trade and every choice she ever made was reasoned Wearing blinders.The snake that ate her tail Her logic was. Circular in nature no ending or beginning. Which guaranteed her winning Regardless. But only in her twisty wheelhouse. Crazy as aa ********* rat. Twisting facts into tasty pastry. Seving them up on shiny ware. Neither here nor either there Calculating slipknot tension Telling tales too tall to mention The daughter of the pretzel maker Part deluded.Rabid faker. Pretzel logic Pretzel minded. Twisted now and twisted later. Down the road I go.
0
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
Pretzel Logic
Go to sleep—though of course you will not— to tideless waves thundering slantwise against strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust broken by the wind; calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking. Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— sleep, sleep . . . Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: it is all to put you to sleep, to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, sleep and dream— A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him. He storms at your sill with cooings, with gesticulations, curses! You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding, pondering; he would have you slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is a crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— it is the same tune. At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, the movement of the troubled coat beside you— sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. And the night passes—and never passes—
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4k
A Goodnight
Go to sleep—though of course you will not— to tideless waves thundering slantwise against strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind, scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls’ cries in a wind-gust broken by the wind; calculating wings set above the field of waves breaking. Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests, refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food! Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices— sleep, sleep . . . Gentlefooted crowds are treading out your lullaby. Their arms nudge, they brush shoulders, hitch this way then that, mass and surge at the crossings— lullaby, lullaby! The wild-fowl police whistles, the enraged roar of the traffic, machine shrieks: it is all to put you to sleep, to soften your limbs in relaxed postures, and that your head slip sidewise, and your hair loosen and fall over your eyes and over your mouth, brushing your lips wistfully that you may dream, sleep and dream— A black fungus springs out about the lonely church doors— sleep, sleep. The Night, coming down upon the wet boulevard, would start you awake with his message, to have in at your window. Pay no heed to him. He storms at your sill with cooings, with gesticulations, curses! You will not let him in. He would keep you from sleeping. He would have you sit under your desk lamp brooding, pondering; he would have you slide out the drawer, take up the ornamented dagger and handle it. It is late, it is nineteen-nineteen— go to sleep, his cries are a lullaby; his jabbering is a sleep-well-my-baby; he is a crackbrained messenger. The maid waking you in the morning when you are up and dressing, the rustle of your clothes as you raise them— it is the same tune. At table the cold, greeninsh, split grapefruit, its juice on the tongue, the clink of the spoon in your coffee, the toast odors say it over and over. The open street-door lets in the breath of the morning wind from over the lake. The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes— lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper, the movement of the troubled coat beside you— sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . . It is the sting of snow, the burning liquor of the moonlight, the rush of rain in the gutters packed with dead leaves: go to sleep, go to sleep. And the night passes—and never passes—
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56
As The Far Distance Of The Skies The Distance From Your Eyes Then The Ground And The Stars The Distance From Your Ears I Send Whispers And Sparks And Few Words For The Times When I Used To Touch Your Arms With That Look!, Everything Charms Here I Am Calculating The Miles On A Woeful Stressfull Verses In A Camp Fire Talking To Ashes Few Words To Burn With Papers To Fuel My Fire With Poetry Pieces Hear My Hurtfull Heart Weeps About Many Shattered Dreams Bleeding Between The Life Claws Tell Me About Her Glorious Flames Tell Me About The Hurrican's Chase The World Where They Hitch Rides Tell Me About The Next Goals Remind Me About The Lost Souls I'm Paying The Bills For My Sins! But I Did Not Do Any Wrong Things! Gasping Breath And Washing Tears Playing Guitar, And The Letter Sings Author / Aladdin Aures H.
0
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
A Message
No one is here and I feel at ease; I feel the recesses of my imagination spring forward as ideas are at the forefront of my mind, yet I cannot put them down on paper. I feel the neon pinks and blues and greens that I know strongly resonate with me, but to my dismay, nothing ever comes to fruition as much as I hope. That cliché phrase of, “The sky is the limit,” drowns me as I realize parameters and prompts are what guide me to what I truly want; the idea of freedom gives me anxiety, as I am a clueless ant on this plane. As I look at a solitary trashcan of impossible black, this idea of suffocation truly encompasses my mind, inescapable, unreachable, and unattainable. Yet at the same time, limits **** darlings. With this seeming paradox of open-endedness and limitation, I set forth on my prompt, however mundane it may seem now. This task seemed at first simple, but it proved difficult at times, like most mundane looking venues. My mind is not unlike a checkerboard stone table: cold and calculating; I feel my imagination dies when my fingers touch keys, when pen hits paper. “The sky is the limit,” drowns me over and over and over again. I look out of my peripherals and glance at the red building signs, wishing there was something as obvious as that for a sense of direction in my life. My imagination truly hates me, my imagination truly loves me; it is an indecisive companion. I wish I was alone, but my mind wishes otherwise.
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Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
The colors of my mind
A Strong sense of unease fills my mind and soul my body trembles is it fear or the cold night looking around at seemingly quiet streets what waits in this darkness that engulfs me once feeling safe and secure now I want to flee evil exists all about in the form of human beings cruel calculating driven by what often a mystery few cause so much misery and horror in society overpowering subtle in their persuasive false way most want to live peacefully keeping evil at bay do  you not feel it to that unseen lingering unease always there ready to attack like a viral disease! The Foureyed Poet.
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Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Evil!
For a fleeting moment I saw forever in your eyes. For a fleeting moment I thought it was possible to live off this high. Alas, put the brakes on! No need to improve upon. "I think this is only an infatuation." Calculating the mistakes of our equation. "It's not you, it's me." Maybe it's best that you set me free. Is it possible that I liked you more than the person I am? Or maybe it's only the sadness of a lovers scam.
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Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Lovers scam
Years later Bathsheba's psychiatrist Was analysing the tryst Between King David And her. It was no tryst Said she. What a slur. He was a ****** And an opportunist. An amoeba would concur Said the psychiatrist That a shower screen And being more demure Would have been Quite spiritually enterprising. You cannot expect Kind David to desist From objectifying your femurs And a cracking pair of amethysts. Don't treat me Like some calculating Hormone Exchange Unit You sexist misogynist. You are not fit To analyse me. You say your name's Freud But you're wholly devoid Of any insight Of what is amiss Or my troubles might be. Not one piece of grit Have you put in my oyster. You obsequious churl I'm a girl you don't mess with. I could have you hung. But instead she dismissed him and booked an appointment With a certain professor Who went by the name of Carl Gustav Jung.
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May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Bathsheba's Psychiatrists
Disturbing Behavior disturbing behavior, is what you'll see from me, disturbing behavior, is what you'll get from me, I have only one thing, on this troubled mind, what next disturbing thing, can this freak show find obnoxious revealing, of my inner faults and fears, gentle concealing, of my blow gun darts and spears, telling you one thing, when I'm meaning something else, hoping I conceal the truth, releasing my magic spells cause I am so caught up in me, its all about my wants, hiding behind my fears, showing artificial fronts revolting persuasions, is what I try to employ, persistent evasions, from the truths my ploy, never giving straight answers, to any questions asked, have to keep my feelings, yes my fears stay masked disturbing behavior, is what I'm all about you see, disturbing behavior, is what you'll always get from me, there's just one thing, on this troubled mind, calculating the next disturbing thing in this hollow mind cause I am so caught up in me, its all about my wants, hiding behind my fears, showing artificial fronts David Nelson aka Gomer Lepoet New song lyrics, get me to the recording booth quickly
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Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 10:00 PM UTC
Disturbing Behavior
Have you ever done something and then could not believe it could possibly have been you? Have you ever said something and then cringed when you heard it exiting your mouth? That would be me, sometimes . . . Or, while mentally calculating your accumulating grocery bill, have you run into a friend only to completely lose count? I have stood in front of the door to my home trying to lock or unlock the door using the keyless entry fob from my car. I have done this --- more than once. I have, months after getting rid of that car, searched for its keyless entry fob on my keychain. I have spent hours and days searching for glasses on my head, for keys that I was holding, for the purse on my shoulder, and have managed to miss them completely. I have called information for a number, written it down, and then had to call them back because I misplaced the number before I could redial the phone. I have neglected friends and family, duties and responsibilities, not from lack of love or sound intention, but merely by allowing myself to be distracted. If I had followed up on what I knew at seventeen whales, sharks, mankind --- might already be saved. Who knows what my focused mind might have accomplished? But instead I put myself to sleep because the real world was far too much to bear, and living in books and dreams so very much safer than all the dysfunction awaiting outside. I met my soulmate at twenty and then left him behind marrying one man, and then another, who never got me - instead of the one and only man who truly did. There's a reason that God protects children and Fools. There's a purity of heart, an innocence of spirit, and . . . occasional lapses in intellect. So, for all of the lessons I've learned and I've lost, There are worse things than being a Fool. Which I remind myself again as I accidentally call my own cell phone and then hang up my land line to answer the call. In parting, I offer what I finally learned, which is This above all: To thine own Fool be true. Cori MacNaughton 6Apr2005
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Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
If I were a Tarot Card, I'd be the Fool
Have you ever done something and then could not believe it could possibly have been you? Have you ever said something and then cringed when you heard it exiting your mouth? That would be me, sometimes . . . Or, while mentally calculating your accumulating grocery bill, have you run into a friend only to completely lose count? I have stood in front of the door to my home trying to lock or unlock the door using the keyless entry fob from my car. I have done this --- more than once. I have, months after getting rid of that car, searched for its keyless entry fob on my keychain. I have spent hours and days searching for glasses on my head, for keys that I was holding, for the purse on my shoulder, and have managed to miss them completely. I have called information for a number, written it down, and then had to call them back because I misplaced the number before I could redial the phone. I have neglected friends and family, duties and responsibilities, not from lack of love or sound intention, but merely by allowing myself to be distracted. If I had followed up on what I knew at seventeen whales, sharks, mankind --- might already be saved. Who knows what my focused mind might have accomplished? But instead I put myself to sleep because the real world was far too much to bear, and living in books and dreams so very much safer than all the dysfunction awaiting outside. I met my soulmate at twenty and then left him behind marrying one man, and then another, who never got me - instead of the one and only man who truly did. There's a reason that God protects children and Fools. There's a purity of heart, an innocence of spirit, and . . . occasional lapses in intellect. So, for all of the lessons I've learned and I've lost, There are worse things than being a Fool. Which I remind myself again as I accidentally call my own cell phone and then hang up my land line to answer the call. In parting, I offer what I finally learned, which is This above all: To thine own Fool be true. Cori MacNaughton 6Apr2005
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64
Reflections of my self, my being, my person, my soul, Forever replayed, reshown, redone, reinacted For the fact is The strength that settles in my palms is ignited by the ignorance of man. Oh man oh man how corrupt and vile does your mind be Calculating and engineering plans and strategies That will never leave your mind, Free To be or not to be A mockerey Of your confused biology, which hysterically Questions your existence. A gift so great, Yet bronzed with your persistence to query the beauty I have given you, Which is life! Behind every man is a woman who loves and sacrifices their own needs and Necessities for happiness, Clarity and justice. A dancing cherubim dancing elegantly like a warm summer ray from your childhood Window. Revitilises, Re-energises, Re-grows, The root of your soul As if the buds of may. Honey toned, chocolate foamed Milky light, All pleasures for your delight. Spread on to one body of immaculate perfection Formed from Aphrodite's tears. But the woman, The woman possesses such omnipotent spiritual clasp on nature That if she was to know, Overstand Or Even accept a miniscule quantity of this knowledge Then-man-would-be-woman. To trap and encase a man like a rodent Is to burn a ring of fire around his finger that leads life to his heart, Where it beats impatiently to the tune of the womans song. Skin soft, eyes lost Sight of who I am, Many different descriptions -although similar- still not the same, But am I really to blame? For the insecurities that you have belittled on me. For my hair is long, Then short, Then short, Then none. My skin dark, Then light, Then light, But not right A constant fight, A battle to aim for the right kind of existence but even still I Exist! And realise whatever you insist, still I Exist, Which is that gift that i hold in my being here, Looking there At my elegant stare,, Which i dare To offend the image, which you have sought to be womanly. No longer do I fear my image As it is a powerful icon of modern day life To withstand the turbulent stresses and grind of strife To help a man. To have. A happy. WIFE!
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Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
The Power of a Woman
Reflections of my self, my being, my person, my soul, Forever replayed, reshown, redone, reinacted For the fact is The strength that settles in my palms is ignited by the ignorance of man. Oh man oh man how corrupt and vile does your mind be Calculating and engineering plans and strategies That will never leave your mind, Free To be or not to be A mockerey Of your confused biology, which hysterically Questions your existence. A gift so great, Yet bronzed with your persistence to query the beauty I have given you, Which is life! Behind every man is a woman who loves and sacrifices their own needs and Necessities for happiness, Clarity and justice. A dancing cherubim dancing elegantly like a warm summer ray from your childhood Window. Revitilises, Re-energises, Re-grows, The root of your soul As if the buds of may. Honey toned, chocolate foamed Milky light, All pleasures for your delight. Spread on to one body of immaculate perfection Formed from Aphrodite's tears. But the woman, The woman possesses such omnipotent spiritual clasp on nature That if she was to know, Overstand Or Even accept a miniscule quantity of this knowledge Then-man-would-be-woman. To trap and encase a man like a rodent Is to burn a ring of fire around his finger that leads life to his heart, Where it beats impatiently to the tune of the womans song. Skin soft, eyes lost Sight of who I am, Many different descriptions -although similar- still not the same, But am I really to blame? For the insecurities that you have belittled on me. For my hair is long, Then short, Then short, Then none. My skin dark, Then light, Then light, But not right A constant fight, A battle to aim for the right kind of existence but even still I Exist! And realise whatever you insist, still I Exist, Which is that gift that i hold in my being here, Looking there At my elegant stare,, Which i dare To offend the image, which you have sought to be womanly. No longer do I fear my image As it is a powerful icon of modern day life To withstand the turbulent stresses and grind of strife To help a man. To have. A happy. WIFE!
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68
calculating heart of mine be gone! and may unbridled generosity take its place
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Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
the sheer generosity of love, an uncalculating God
She sat on the edge, quietly waiting, for the sun to rise, and chase away the darkness. She looked to the east, calmly calculating, the amount of time, till she hears birds sing. She saw a glimpse of light, slowly brightening, with every single second, the world held its breath. She watched the light grow, beautifully round, and it rose above the hill, not seeming to stop. She felt the kind heat, quietly warming, her tired body, till she felt alive again. She knew why she was here, calmly understanding, that fate brought her, and she could change that. She sat on the edge, tensely waiting, she got up rigidly, this will not be her last sunrise.
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Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
Sunrise