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Dan Filcek Apr 2015
Electromagnetism and electrochemistry added to the expanse of erudition.
Central calculations comprised of charged consecration
Diamagnetism and also electrolysis
Took in little of the ritual pedagogy
Most influential of archaic scientists.

The base for the conceptualization of the dynamic sphere.
Introduced the physics of ensconced enthrallment
Affecting rays of light
To say nothing of the underlying relationships there
Two phenomena, both similarly discovered

Inventions: Electromagnetic induction, diamagnetism, and the laws of electrolysis.
the form of electromagnetic rotary devices
Foundation of electric motors
Truly technology was largely due to his effort
Electricity became practical for use

Scientific knowledge increased: investigating as an alchemist, discovered benzene.
Inventor of Clathrate hydrate of chlorine,
In its early form
the system of oxidation numbers, and the burner
Popularized terminology such as anode, cathode

Ultimately became the first and foremost, ultimate, and respected .
Chemistry Professor at the Institution
Position of a lifetime
He was an excellent experimentalist of conveyed ideas
Mathematical abilities in simple language  

His powers did also extend as far as trigonometry.
Took any but the simplest algebra
And worked around it
And also summarized it in sets of equations
The basis of modern theories
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_Faraday
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
saw:

the adoration of the daddy,
as his red haired babes
leaned into
either side of him,
courtiers to a king
on the way to school this AM,
transfusing his magical super~fatherly,
by inhaling his special powers through
their nostrils, direct from his
broad and powerful brave-heart chest,
for use later in the wild jungle
of second grade
•••
an elderly gent whose walker rattled
with every lift and kerplunk on
the street~steppes of a dangerous city
for the brittle of bone and the easily dentable,
and the crowd that gathered round walking
at precisely the same pace he required
to make it across the widest boulevard
which was thirty seconds more than the
Dept. of Transportation's asinine calculations
and a miracle from Lourdes occurred -
not one horn honked in ire as the court
escorted their Long Live the King
safely across the street, as if
idiocy was like rain, against the law,
until after sunset as in Camelot

•••
an elegant germanic man,
in homburg and velvet collared overcoat,
taking care of sales and distribution of
newspapers and candy at the corner paper "stand"
while the elderly owner, whose partner~wife of
fifty years had recently passed, now had no one
but someone's pop whose was out
walking our cocker spaniel,
to tend the place while said candyman
obeyed nature's callings

and all his fans and friends who passed
on their way to the adjacent subway station,
exclaimed Erwin, Erwin what are you doing?
his twinkled crinkled eyes replied,
enjoying their puzzlement, laughingly saying
"making spare change"
•••
where I lived these little miracles occurred so frequently,
was told a story that the ministering angels
could not keep up with their duties,
complaining to the On High, who resoundingly loudly
commanded their silence! by reminding them that
all these, his creatures, were his own precious,
the reason for creation and why they were needed,
and the sum of all these small acts gave them their own
existential purpose, now angry at himself for loss of temper,
soft spoke as a parent and told them better,
hush my children, we have much to do!
•••
so now you impatiently need to know
why this scripture
came to be known as
$$$$$
for I was witness to all of this,
all on that day,
that was twenty fours hours long
across many hard hearted Hiroshima decades,
that made me
temporarily

*the richest man in the world
a proud member of the collective of the false.
jonni inferno Apr 2018
'tis a sad sad
tale of woe
of which I sing
of gods and godesses
and their lessening

how forlorn
the goddess Ceres
once loved by all
and wooed by many

when unprovoked
and unforeseen
a war was wrought
'gainst fair queen

caught unawares
her throne assailed
her forces scattered
'twas all unfair

cast down she was
from lofty throne
no longer crowned
no more beloved

pierced thru
with many thorns
belittled
and besmirched
her reputation
and now her station
lost far beyond
re-incarnation

silently
she slips away
lost
and near forgotten
wounded
and rarely seen
her sullen thoughts
of malice reign

shamed and bleeding
plotting her revenge
till time and chance
provide the proper
circumstance

then all the thorns
that pierced her thru
she shook as many blades
and hurled
those bitter barbs as one
'gainst Hades' mighty gates

shaken he
from his dark slumber
his rallied forces
armed in numbers

their banners raised
on solar breezes
as trumpets blare
thru breathless reaches

voices shout
in protestation
slide rules locked
in astrometric
calculations

oh see how Ceres
scorned and mocked
has wrought
her rotting vengeance
on Pluto's frozen rocks


"Oh woe to thee
my Persephone
flee thee now
to thy father's house
for thy husband's hearth
hath been broken
and Hades' home
now just a token
My lofty edifice
a shattered wrack
an' all that's left
'tis a humble
wretched shack"



Pic Poem
https://www.pix-star.com/media/cache/download/9c3731c91f1a3d3519b4f05dc56562c3/JPlutoThouHastFallen-e52.jpg

.
just my spin on Ceres' and Pluto's planetary status - mixed in with a bit of Greco-Roman mythology - as Ceres and Pluto have been reduced to being merely "dwarf planets"...
SamanthaX Aug 18
2.7.

I see my dreams
are beginning to
line up
What begins
What ends
It’s the
beginning of a
never ending
end

That’s why
in my visions
I’ve been seeing
you again

Now my
number is
10:10
It’s been burning
behind blue
eyes in the sky

I calculated
and
calculated
Then
my calculations
ran away
I didn’t
maintain them
I forget my
equations

Slowly I slip
back into
my insanity
As I welcome
the
destruction
of the
black void
of my mind
I’ve began
the
countdown
It’s the
perfection
of time

So please excuse
me if I
seduced you
with
The Art
of the
Dark propaganda
I write

I got appealing
ways
to make you
question
every
question
you’ve asked
your whole
life

These intuitive
delusions
Confused
Lotus illusions
Queen of the
fallen rose petal
dreamers

Screaming
so loud
to
drown out
the sound
of
the realities
I’ve seen
through
the eyes
of
Dead seas
SamanthaX Jun 11
1.7.

Beauty
is a dangerous
thing
to obtain
Even the darkest
stars
warned me
It doesn’t like
to play
fair

It can lie
It can deceive
It can cheat
It even steals
you out of
your death

Shooting star
or the unworthy
dead
With my
breath
I give life
to the lost
consultations

My divine
calculations
made the
equations
That’s why
in my sleep
all three
realities
I see

I am your
fate

Waiting for you
at the flowered
gate
With spring rain
still in
my hair
Never has there
been
A woman so
fair

Scarlet begonias
Cuts and bruises
this is a
war
I don’t plan
on losing
Carabella Dec 2018
I shouldn’t have. As my spirit awakens and ascension begins; I now realise that this longing has less to do with “him” and more to do with myself. If not by chance we met; karmic calculations divine time and place. There is a method to this universal madness. As I sit here; the wind chimes providing dull noise to the otherwise peacefully quiet afternoon; a realisation weighs down, pressing on my throat and chest. Culpability for every transgression; every word uttered. There is a difference between wanting love and taking it. Giving love and receiving. For years I had wanted love, I wanted love so badly that I abused myself and others, allowed them to reflect their hate and insecurity through my eyes. The confidence he once promised (and delivered upon) has been slowly and systematically etched away leaving me once again to question my worth. It’s time that I walk away. I’ll pack my things, my thoughts, what identity that’s left; in search for peace and passion once again. For it is now apparent that the arms which held me tight were also chains that bound my soul. Let tears be temporary reminders that I still know how to feel. Let them cleanse and balance emotions; let them freely drain.
'Melia Jul 28
It’s a crisp cool morning.
The sun has broken through the constraints
of your blinds.

I wake up from a night of half-awake enveloping security,
pulling me from distance
to as close as our bodies can manage.
My eyes open and I see the lines
of the outside world
interrupting
the perfect canvas of your familiar features.

You wake up with jokes.
The best you;
smiling with teeth,
Teaching the morning sun what it really means
to bring light to a room.

We don’t say much cause there’s not much to say.
The air clear,
like my mind.
You come up from behind.
One arm, then the next.
Cloaking me
in serenity.

You hold me tight.
My eyes close and my lips curl up
like the hair at the nape of your neck
when you haven’t cut it in a while.

This is it.
The feeling of pure, easy, love.
The cessation of thoughts
of anything else but the importance of us
This -
My ideal.

Yours is the future,
Situational perfection,
A world where everything falls into place through a
convoluted combination of calculations and chance.
Where once we hit certain points
you can fully invest in me.

I want what we already had.
You’re future.
I’m memories.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2018
there are others like me I see. Lost as I was.
So
What could I do to ease their fretting,
would I be comforted?  No.
Back then,
no.
I refused the comforter
*** outchacom'fit zone
Oh, they be hell to pay,

-----
among the ideas that possess men,
there are tells,
among the men of both varieties possessed by or of
(as you shall see, it may be both) ideas ,
there are tells, twitches and ticks and unconscious daemons sorting
sayings
aphorisms, proverbs,
memes 'n' such.
Confusion sayin'
H.R. Puffin'stuff, that neveh me'nt a thang. Jes't aname anime annie mae, where's
annie mae moved to okinawa wa wa wa

Imps. Pulses of them flow through heare…
(those slips shall hereafter be known as di-sensical-utterences or dsu, in writing. i.e. here and hear, he-are, heare, here is heard hear and means something else, intensionally. We, augmented Adamkind of all kinds, can inject meaning at will.)

commonly on Sunday mornings,
though I doubt the impulses
have a calendar that might map to any ex- or im-
I'm never sure what goes properly with perience.
Prior to the trial, experience is so limited,
I'm going with perience, in and of itself,
perience is plenty. Ex-cepting,
you know, the lessons learned,
those have earned their proper
nomenclature.
Those are experience.
Lesson learned.
Twixt thee and me is no more mix-up,
idiot-syncrecy fused with two-mind
hate of knowing and unknown;
we know what experience really means to us.

We are bound in syncret oath sealed with shibboloths in unutterable names.
As it is written in the law of Moses,

"all this evil is come upon us:
yet made we not our prayer before YHWH our God,
that we might turn from our iniquities,
and understand thy truth. 
Therefore hath YHWH watched upon the evil,
and brought it upon us:
for YHWH our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth:
for we obeyed not his voice.

From <http://biblehub.com/kjv/daniel/9.htm>
Shame that such once breathed thoughts threading pearls and jade,
or was that chalcedony? - scatter when the thread breaks
. Shame, such thoughts, frail as smoke.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,

We think such thoughts. Fragile spokes.
Sanctity sanity sanctify sanity,
time and time again,
what I called holy in my darkness, is holy in my light.


Words that lose the sacred salt are calcereous
grains of time, dust memes in the sun,
launched by centuries of tramping feet.
'haps the highest parts of the dust of the earth ever.
Oh,
how the masters love mastery of mystery.
"The old man on the mountain, he knew if he lied."
You, the observer of it all,
know.

"you knew nothing of my work"
"have a think"
"never thirst, imagine standing under knowing that"
Voices, the walls heard, stones speak, historically speaking
happens all the time, a frequency lock prevents it bleeding into now, but that becomes tyranny, believe me.

The ideas that possess men and provoke good works
or big, power-consumptive,

tale-swallowing feats,
those ideas are servants.
lacking any knowledge of good and evil,
such ideas are everywhere,
men who know say so. None of this was done in secret.
Twisted minds twist servant to slave labor. Magi-minds,
high-minded, relative to the belly-crawlers and creeping things,
see servant as tool and teacher. Same idea.
The original ideas we have to deal with.
They were seen to be good, by God.
There are no bad ideas, there are bad actions caused by mad ideas locked to single mindless anger impulses so callused as to appear gigantic,
certainly so, when they are known to lurk under beds and in selfish old men.
"Dark sayings, dear reader, pro fess pro verbs, action words snip "No lie is of the truth" snip
the lie and loose listing truth to the wind.
Who told you that inheriting the wind was like inheriting nothing?
You. You troubled your own house and you inherited the wind.
You came not to bring peace, but a sword…

The good news. Inheriting the wind is inheriting everything that ever matters, all the power in heaven and in earth was how simpler minds imagined shaping the idea.
Idyll minds, the devil's workshop, eh?
Comfort thought.
Who told you desiring comfort was a ***** thing?
Same voice went real deep and whispered,
"What price glory? Eh, pilgrim?"
stop. think

Sweet, for instance,
sweet, as an idea, can **** the man who makes it the basis of his value calculations.
Shame, came to prevent such impinging on subroutines intent on manifesting destiny,
as the sweet little ones imagined forevers in their pioneer-daze plays.
Shame is not blamed for being known,
the lying spirit who spoke with forked tongue,
sweet
little people, please, believe my lie,
there is a reason why
I know

There. Message in a bottle.
If you know what you know.
Messenger is what angel means, right? right. Who asks? Who knows?
No. I know you know this is
purposefully useful for
helping
crazy ideas
come back to some sem-sym-balance beneath the branches of the tree of knowledge, nestled in the twisting roots,
golden eggs, oh, far,
far
beyond Faberge, I must say. These, you must see to believe.
Any feedback reflecting enjoyment or confusion, please. This is a chapter from my book "Judging Angels" a memoir. Would you read such a book?
Devon Brock Aug 8
"Fifteen miles as the crow flies"
So let's break this down.
You're telling me that a crow
cruising a straight line
at 30 miles per hour
will take a half hour
to reach the tree.
Well I'm cruising at about 70,
got a detour for construction on I-90,
some snail farmer in a combine
thinks now is the right time
to hit the county roads,
and I gotta drop down
to 20 because the paint
and the rise say passing
is no bueno, and he ain't
waving me by.
The crow,
on the otherhand,
is getting mobbed
by eastern kingbirds
not liking his shadow
on the nests.
And yes, that bloated
skunk is fine feast
for a crow flying
as a crow flies,
hopping to a fence
when the implements
pass tall and reptilian.
Given that and some quick
calculations based
on what I remember
from my high school
geometry class -
Pythagorean Theorem
and all that -
the crow and I
should arrive
at precisely the same time,
******* and hungry.
Cold-blooded, I am an ectotherm
Relying on the heat surrounding me
To survive the dropping temperatures
Of the desert plains I live in

Like Kal the bearded dragon
That makes his home by my bed
I am closer now to American
Alligator than the Sapien I was born

My eyes translate the world into
Landscapes of twisting reds and blues,
Showing me pathways invisible to
The untrained eye but there all I can see

My brain's limbic system shut down,
No need to fall trap to the emotional
Ups and downs of these mammals
That I share an appearance with

My reptillian brain overpowered
My neo-cortex sometime in two-thousand
Sixteen when I realized I wasn't
The same species as my fellow-kind

And if I wanted to outlive them
I needed to adapt to the new world
To survive on instincts and perpetual
Strategic, calculations ran by a lizard brain

Not even thinking in the same sense
I just act, moving when my body says
Move, my nervous system in control
I am thoughtless, cold-blooded now
My wife
Bought a bearded
Dragon
The changing of your calculations
Wheeling with my emotions
"Beware the barrenness of a busy life."-Socrates
Al Drood Jul 20
Summertime, and the livin' is easy . .

Hot sun beats down on hapless humanity.
"My God!" shrieks a red-faced female,
"The car's a freakin' oven!"

He smiles tiredly,
loading shopping into the back
of his unconvertible life.

Was it always going to be this way?
He notices sweat trickling down her neck
as she fastens her straining seat-belt.

Her shades are smeared with sun cream,
and, for better or for worse,
her polo-shirt sticks to flabby pink arms.

Never mind, he consoles himself,
one fine day the sun will explode
and put an end to all this.

If his calculations are correct,
that should be
a week next Tuesday.

So hush, little baby, an' don't you cry . .
Ken Pepiton Apr 1
the history and indoctrination of infantry

infant re
cruits

de rim u derimu, I count (old high irish)

gityeirishup, er shut yer leprechaun trap,

clap three times, spit wit the wind.

reason countable

you are trained to focus, aim,

miss, aim, miss, aim miss, come let's
cipher this thang out,
raison d'etre,
and all...
aims,
though misses all
count for nothing,
valenced by
one heartfelt hit t' knock the lie right.

old man re
crew recurrent reason to let this be re
al, always, already re
pulsing
pulsing
pulsing

aim, loose... spit wit'thwind...

---- war seen from after his jet died--
---- vicarious warriors can't match
---- the missing memories.

Prisoners enobled warriors endurent
indoctrined to prevail

"did I train well enough to do my job?"

Win the war. Right, that was your job,
all along.

What?...

no will to win a war without a reason
not willing to question
reason

authority doctrines in undated
rulebooks only lawyers
can read, that's a rule.

sacrifice and suffering un
common valor *** common
virtue

how do you win?

-- my guess, really

love my enemies. As good a way to die
as any I've tried.

-----
war stories on youtube. imagine that and
sure as hellen highwater was easy

I gotta call armchair-back o' the arm
bullshistory,
as I wipe a smeared memory

bullsss'it... RTOs don't walk point,
not back when you had
the radio, or said y'did,
nor did ye rereguard, when you
have the radio, Pr'ck 25
(like a cell phone
weighing 25 pounds, with a 5 mile range,
and no data. One to a team, as we

squellch squellch out) Nah, the guy's

lying, but it will hurt his kid's feelings,
if I say so,

or
he could believe his own hero myth,

I do.

---- nah, war stories are all we remember
ever after, happy as helen highwater was
to find you after fifty years
on facebook.
***
FTA, it don't mean nuthin'

it was so
silly, this is not the way it's supposed
to be, we

were the redcoats.
We were hanging Johnny Tremain Ngyuen,

wasting the last crawling,

man,

the first starlight scope flash
bright green white

FNG popped a flare.

--- when do we call ******* ---

For the price of a baseball cap, a fool
can claim honor other fools died for.

Silly little war. Eighteen thousand
eleven bravos of aver
age age
Twenty-two.

Ooh ooh, like Pappa Doc 22 voodoo
doopy doo doopy doo
Duvalier, Ton Ton M'coo

hey. okeh

we got you. You thought crazy,
now you can stop.

--- there was a war and nobody won.
--- safe. passed madness has passed on.
--- see what good you may imagine done.
--- work that out, without making enemies.

April Fool. Why has this day always been about me?
Ask yourself. There exist

degrees of foolishness, none fashionable beyond
twenty-two.

footnote: https://www.uswings.com/about-us-wings/vietnam-war-facts/
Who has a guess why facebook would refuse a link to this page. ***** about it.

Census Stats and “I Served in Vietnam” Wanabees
1,713,823 of those who served in Vietnam were still alive as of August, 1995 (census figures).
During that same Census count, the number of Americans falsely claiming to have served was: 9,492,958.
As of the current Census taken during August, 2000, the surviving U.S. Vietnam Veteran population estimate is: 1,002,511. This is hard to believe, losing nearly 711,000 between ’95 and ’00. That’s 390 per day. During this Census count, the number of Americans falsely claiming to have served in-country is: 13,853,027. By this census, FOUR OUT OF FIVE WHO CLAIM TO BE VIETNAM VETS ARE NOT. This makes calculations of those alive, even in 2017, difficult to maintain.
April 1, I found me listening to oral histories on Vietnam and ,,, got a bit ... ******
Harriet Cleve Apr 25
today, I hung a hangman

no hood around his garrulous head

his knees trembled

his voice shook in a shocked throat

'Have you measured the drop?'

No! I replied

'My weight! You have taken it into your calculations?'

No! I replied

'My height, for Christ's sake, you have allowed for it?'

No! I replied

'By whose authority do you carry out this heinous deed?'

'Let me see the Queens counsel! I am innocent! he screamed

'You have spoken your last! I said

His eyes screamed 'Wait! Wait!

In the plummet, in that murky depth he dropped

the rope uncoiled for an eternity

till it snapped taut

his body swung like a broken pendulum

hypnotically settling to a staggered still

his tongue, swollen purple, burst from his garrulous head

it wanted to speak

there was more to be said

more to be heard

an attentive audience it craved in it's final seconds

it was silenced now

that voice

which never again will speak

for I had hung the hangman
harmony crescent Aug 2018
fall back into the midnight grass
where are you?....... it doesn't matter
lie still as your luminescent irises reflect
glittering pinpoints in the night sky
graph them all in your gridded mind
a glorious correlation of novas and dark mist
calculations in the cold
PAIN as a star explodes spontaneously
light years away, undetectable
to most
but PAIN ONLY PAIN as your lungs…
they explode inside you
an unpredictable gone unmeasured.
your frozen head falls
90 degrees
shattered cochlea inches off of holy ground
it's 5:30am.
i'm sitting at the
dining room table
with my physics notes
in front of me. a cup of
tea sits to the right of it all.
mornings like these are more
common than i'd like to admit.
homework and notes sit in front
of me, waiting for the calculations
to be completed. it's odd. i can focus
at 5:30am better than i can focus at, say,
8:30pm. i think i actually like early physics
sushii Aug 2018
I wish...
I wish I could appreciate myself the way you do.

There are things
That I could maybe consider
That would make me believe
That I am the slightest bit interesting,
Or different.

But I feel like those things don’t compare,
When I cannot be competent enough to succeed in everything else.

I still fail to see
What you hold so dearly in me.

When I look to myself,
I do not feel like I am to be mixed up in the crowd,
Or to be like everyone else.

I see myself as standing out in that crowd.
But not to perform or exude confidence,
But rather to overtake the dazzling show someone else is putting on
Just by being themselves.

I jump in front of this amazing person,
Unable to control my actions.
I humiliate myself,
With every eye turned on me.

Maybe
I’m not jumping in front of this person.
Maybe
I’m just being myself.
But being myself is exactly what I hate.

I am once again the Reaper of Happiness.
Not from myself,
But from others.

I am not unfortunate enough to have nothing.
In fact, I have everything.
I have someone who loves me
And who I love back.
I have people who love me,
Even though I don’t say it back.
I have friends who care about me,
And always have my back.
And I have parents
Who feel the joy of raising me.

I have everything


Except myself.

I have stepped out of my eyes

And I’ve seen what it’s like to be an observer.

It is a strange feeling of weightlessness that only occurs when I’m tired.

And it is then,
Then when I realize,
That I am able to live from afar,
Live off calculations.

Smile when she smiles,
Laugh when he laughs.

I am the shrewd observer of myself,
Watching my every move.

I am the eye searching through my window,
Unable to see the full picture of me
Through the thin slits in the blinds.

I am the reflection in my mirror,
Looking away when I remove my clothes.

I am the persona I see of myself online,
Taking ten pictures
Until it looks just right.

Sometimes,
I am the fake facade
That actually likes what she sees.

I am the fake facade,
Who’s smile comes and leaves.

I will never be able to see
What you hold so dearly in me.

Appreciation I give myself comes in small fragments
Like light shining in through a glass pane on a ceiling.

So close, and so intimate
That I can feel the rays warming my skin,
Feel their energy.

But so far,
when I try to reach for the glass pane
In hope
It is far out of reach.
But from my perspective,
It is something so easy to achieve.
And thus,
Happiness becomes something I must  conceive.

I will never reach the point
In which I understand
why you want our hands to be joined.

I am below you,
And you are above me.
A twisted hierarchy
That I will never be unable to see.

So therefore you’d be better off




If you don’t pour all of your valuable self

Into me.
Lash Aug 8
with the help of inspiration,
divine revelation,
connections,
calculations
and
planetary configurations;
i will set down my principles in writing.
all of my functions and abilities
yield up hidden properties.
unveiling the prophecies,
they said its been written.
-
while i am in the presence of the power that brings three times:
the past,
the present,
and the future.
i hope these lines
are understood as divine,
i hope these lines reach the point,
beyond mind.
i hope these lines are a challenge,
i hope these lines inspire balance.
i hope these lines are re-read between lines.

— The End —