Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Neville Johnson Jan 2019
Sue Venir loved Hugh Biquitous, but he was unreliable, so she confided this to her friend, Di Namic who confirmed he’d been seen with Penny Farthing and Miss Chevous. Then she ran into Ken Tucky, who’d just broken up with Jen Erator, and was known to hang with Mel N. Choly. Together, they and Dan Ube went to a party thrown by Perry Winkle at the house of Dana Point.

Con Valescence introduced Sue to Marine Layer who asked Mr. Tucky to join the conversation, and they’ve been conversing ever since. Lou Kemia couldn’t make the party as he was ill. This was confirmed by Nick Knack who’d been informed by Conrad Alert.

Penny Saver left early, heading over to the home of I. Stan Bul, who was throwing a celebration in honor of Hazel Nuts and Grant N. Aid, who were to be married by Will Power, though Miss Givings, his former girlfriend, did not approve. Celebrants included Buzz Saw, Ma Larkey, Ben E. Diction, ***** Pack and of course Ann I. Versary, who deemed it worthy of being remembered. Tom Foolery was always good for a laugh, which was appreciated by Art I. Face, Dee Vice and Tess Osterone.

Some chose to dine alfresco, notably Flora Fauna, Heidi **, and Ed U. Cate. Barb Ituate was a downer, though Ma Larkey tried to cheer her up, watched by Cliff Hanger who wanted to see what happened, until a dispute arose between Ana Conda and Ann Ticipation, who’d both been vying for the attention of Billy Goat.

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Terry Dactyl was in a dispute with Billy Club over Lilly White because of something Miss Conception had reported after hearing from that duo, Caesar Salad and Reuben Sandwich.

Junior Mints tried to mollify the situation with sugary statements, but was interrupted by Yuri Nal, who said he had to go, and then left with Jay Walking and they were off to congregate with Diane Tomeetya.

At the next table General Jive held court in a warlike mood,  that Cary Cature tried to lighten.  With them were Tex Arcana, whose accent was amusing to Bill Collector, Al Gorythm, Tim Buktu and Marv E. Lous, who always had a great time wherever he went.

By then, Bobby Pin, the luscious seamstress, had given up on Peter D. Out, after seeing him clowning around with Butch Wax and Slim N. None, all of them malcontents and disrupters.

In walked Daisy Chain, newly arrived  from the Southern Hemisphere, along with Sydney Australia. Klaus Trophobic had initially agreed to travel with the two of them, but said he had to stay at home. Frank O’Phile overhead this and confided to Phil O’Sophically that there is sometimes merit to such position.

The restaurant was owned by Ty ****, managed by Chuck Wagon, with the food delivered by waiters Clay *** and Terry Aki , assisted by busboyTara Misou.

The next morning, everyone gathered at the home of Dawn Patrol, who was there with her new husband, Earnest Money, after divorcing Perry Mutual. Deb Enture was her maid of honor.  Nick O’Time was nearly late to the party, driving in with Stu Debaker, via a shaky Uber driver named Manuel Shifting.

Al Acrity was his usual sunny self, but not when Den O’Thieves interrupted his conversation, which was shut down by Kay O.

Sherman Oaks and Van Nuys were late, having gotten mixed up on the location. Cliff Hanger was worried about the falling stock market, and as a result was getting drunk with Jack Daniels. Stan Dup was his usually assertive self, but was overshadowed by the always munificent Cy Pres.

Claude Hopper was dressed in yesterdays’ styles, but that didn’t matter to Dov Tail who  was going into business with Matt Chabox, known for his incendiary personality. They had two other partners to round the group out, **** Ular and Ben E. Fit.

Gar Gantuan loomed large, and was unstable when paired with Mo Mentum, who said in such situations, they needed to involve Otto Matic.

Terry Cloth was wrapped around Jan U. Ary, ogled by Barbie Queue and Coleman Lantern.
Blair Griffith May 2012
I

A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus!
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us

Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways

S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.

II

Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest,
Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men,
By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices,
Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs.
By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose,
Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat.

Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy
But that of the tide
Being self-effacing, masochistic,
Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of
Both, Playing as ******* and as subservient

III

Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing
Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ******
Calmed by the liquid of our ***** *****
Charging forth as we
Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter
Callously, for you, our gilded monarch
Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they
Cannot comprehend or fathom what they
Cannot see.

IV

Ceaseless now the charges
Come further upon the front
Crashing 'gainst the openings of each
Clangor and madness
Coalesce to form death

Dripping anew with sanguine libations
Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country
Dionysian warriors return,
Desire forming their mental undulations

Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes
Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the
Entirety of their selves.

V

From carnal conquest they rejoice,
Flaunting the destruction they wrought
Flinging husks of women about the room,
Foisting these shells on other patriarchs

Given no choice, they return to fields of battle
Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted
Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh.

VI

Hellish, infernal is their presence
Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither
Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows
Hastened to madness by infinity
Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators
How proud they are, the Old Gods,
Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the
Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture.

VII

Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.

Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.

Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.

VIII

Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle,
Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue
Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices
Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue.

Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife,
Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the
Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture.

IX

Now broken with regret and shame they collapse
Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth,
Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them.
Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave
Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs,
Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective.

X

Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound
Oafish sockets containing them like marbles
Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by
Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while
Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains

Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant,
Pacified only by the removal of sentience.
Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers
Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit.

Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum
Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale,
Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them.

XI

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies,
Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which
Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity
Repressed by its own intent

Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies
Strung up like scattered marionettes
Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

XII

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath
Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to
Transgress the mortal plane
Torturous paradox!
Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more
Traducer of the human condition
Tragedy is loosed at thy whim
Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

XIII

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms

Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.

Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

XIV

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these
Xoana, false representations of humanity.
Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves
Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery.

Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins
Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the
Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

XV

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,

Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:
Abbie hailed a yellow top cabbie

Brenda had a sister in-law named Glenda

Cate ran late on her first date

Delly ate seven bowls of lemon jelly

Edwina drove to the town of Catalina

Fran burnt her finger on the very hot frying pan

Gwen had a strong yen to go and see her aunty Jen

Hope bought her husband a towing rope

Isobel fell under the magician's spell

Joann took her mother on a holiday in a caravan

Kylie went to the dentist with her brother Wylie

Lesley liked listening to Elvis Presley

Marcia enjoyed eating a freshly baked focaccia

Nell saw a turtle coming out of his shell

Olga lived at the top end of the river Volga

Primrose had a Pinocchio nose

Queenie knitted a multicolored beanie

Ruth could never tell the whole truth

Stacey loved playing dress ups with her friend Tracey

Tilly behavior was always rather silly

Una bought a house in the suburb of Yagonna

Verity wanted to be a well known celebrity

Winifred never stopped taking about Alfred

Xena was presented with a court subpoena

Yale told her teacher a tall tale

Zealand ventured out into the bushland
jeremy maxwell Apr 2012
‘Puts Me to Work’ echoes through the house,
Cate Le Bon’s voice bouncing off the walls.
I can almost see it, storming down the hallway,
Barging out of the bathroom.

This floor is ******* freezing.

I can see my reflection in the shiny wood;
A circle of condensation that grows and shrinks
As I breathe in and out.

‘But I know that you’re there,
‘cause you’re making it hurt.’

Entire galaxies are swirling in the shaft of setting sunlight
Streaming through the broken blinds
At right angles, sharp and sudden.
Solar systems shift and spiral,
Exploding every
Time I take a breath.

A lake is forming by my chin.
I wonder if it is clear and wet
Like swimming,
Or white with froth and paste
Like winter.

I stop wondering when the shivering becomes me.

‘It puts me to work . . . puts me to work.
It puts me to work . . . it puts me to work.’

The song has been repeating for an hour now.
I used to really like the end.
Something like forty-five-minutes-ago.

I wonder if the battery will die soon.

I wonder not if I will die soon.
Preoccupied with galaxies and spirals and the little spot of condensation
Forming and unforming as I breathe.
With the frozen lake I feel cold enough to be skating across
In these baggy shorts and this tattered t-shirt
From a Nirvana show last century.  

The battery doesn’t die, and Cate Le Bon comes racing around the house again.

I close my eyes and sigh.
Andrew Monroe Sep 2013
Let me tell you what I want….

I want to read Somerset Maugham and Aldous Huxley and Leonard Cohen and Mary Oliver
I want to hike bits of the Appalachian Trail and take long walks in the hills around Snowdonia
I want to ride about in the DC Metro and the London Underground
I want to explore small towns and big cities
I want to eat lunch in quaint little bistros and have dinner at the table in my yard
I want to browse through antique stores and fancy boutiques
I want to play with dogs and rub their bellies
I want to take long drives without a destination in mind
I want to waste an entire Sunday at home talking about everything and doing nothing
I want to build a fire and watch a movie
I want to sit on the couch and sip tea

Most of all, I want to do these things with you

Don't let your addiction take this away
With all the bits of my heart….
Poets with whom I learned my trade.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be passion
That has more life in it than death,
And though at bottling of your wine
Old wholesome Goban had no say;
The moral's yours because it's mine.
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban 'd hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on somc still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Now from that juice that made them wise
All those had lifted up the dim
Imaginations of their eyes,
For one that was like woman made
Before their sleepy eyelids ran
And trembling with her passion said,
"Come out and dig for a dead man,
Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground
And mock him to his face and then
Hollo him on with horse and hound,
For he is the worst of all dead men.'
We should be dazed and terror-struck,
If we but saw in dreams that room,
Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck
That empticd all our days to come.
I knew a woman none could please,
Because she dreamed when but a child
Of men and women made like these;
And after, when her blood ran wild,
Had ravelled her own story out,
And said, "In two or in three years
I needs must marry some poor lout,'
And having said it, burst in tears.
Since, tavern comrades, you have died,
Maybe your images have stood,
Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,
Before that roomful or as good.
You had to face your ends when young --
'Twas wine or women, or some curse --
But never made a poorer song
That you might have a heavier purse,
Nor gave loud service to a cause
That you might have a troop of friends,
You kept the Muses' sterner laws,
And unrepenting faced your ends,
And therefore earned the right -- and yet
Dowson and Johnson most I praise --
To troop with those the world's forgot,
And copy their proud steady gaze.
"The Danish troop was driven out
Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;
"Although the event was long in doubt.
Although the King of Ireland's dead
And half the kings, before sundown
All was accomplished.
"When this day
Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,
Foot after foot was giving way,
He and his best troops back to back
Had perished there, but the Danes ran,
Stricken with panic from the attack,
The shouting of an unseen man;
And being thankful Murrough found,
Led by a footsole dipped in blood
That had made prints upon the ground,
Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;
And though when he gazed here and there,
He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,
"Who is the friend that seems but air
And yet could give so fine a stroke?"
Thereon a young man met his eye,
Who said, "Because she held me in
Her love, and would not have me die,
Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,
And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;
But there it's gone; I will not take
The fortune that had been my shame
Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have.  --
'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came
He had betrayed me to his grave,
For he and the King's son were dead.
I'd promised him two hundred years,
And when for all I'd done or said --
And these immortal eyes shed tears --
He claimed his country's need was most,
I'd saved his life, yet for the sake
Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.
What does he cate if my heart break?
I call for ***** and horse and hound
That we may harry him.' Thereon
She cast herself upon the ground
And rent her clothes and made her moan:
"Why are they faithless when their might
Is from the holy shades that rove
The grey rock and the windy light?
Why should the faithfullest heart most love
The bitter sweetness of false faces?
Why must the lasting love what passes,
Why are the gods by men betrayed?'
But thereon every god stood up
With a slow smile and without sound,
And Stretching forth his arm and cup
To where she moaned upon the ground,
Suddenly drenched her to the skin;
And she with Goban's wine adrip,
No more remembering what had been.
Stared at the gods with laughing lip.
I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,
To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,
And thc world's altered since you died,
And I am in no good repute
With the loud host before the sea,
That think sword-strokes were better meant
Than lover's music -- let that be,
So that the wandering foot's content.
Rebecca Apr 2021
All the expectations
All the preparations
Each year that comes
It could have been
Happy daydreams
Reality, I cope
I still long for you
Knowing you as no other
I bring you flowers
My sweet Cate
Three were born.
Two remain.
Born Aug 2018
Ring ring
Hello, Linda

Hello cate, you've hit my attention
I hope you got love and *****
Some pills for the oozing heart
Some illusion for the nostalgic memories

"Linda was diagnosed with broken heart syndrome
She rarely breathed
her heart was dragging her through most days
it was giving up
She  couldn't feel it at times"


Noo, today I've got cards
Maybe we can play tricks on your heart
Remind it how it feels to be alive  

.........
What would you tell Linda

Write a poem

#talktolinda
Irate Watcher Jul 2014
sails like blankets
thrown awry,
float with
idle paseé.

wind whips wrinkles
for pioneers,
chaos and crinkles
make our worst fears.

wakes speed time
like a blitzed motor,
whils't the sun burns
blackened otters.

sunsets brush the
beauty away,
highlights fade
and darken grey.

birds fish
the waters va-
cate your hovel
and meet us for café.
Just some wordplay.
krissindica Mar 2014
Three in the morning, I know you're *****
On schedule beggin me to forni-
Cate, fellatiate, make a grown man *******
I guess I should elaborate...

But first aren't you a little to old
to be so uncontrol-
Able
I'm too smart for this ****
But happily your little *****

And I know
That you
Never mean a word you say
Knowing I eat your ******* up any day
Anyway...
I've pulled up in your driveway...

Waiting for you to
Break my heart, turn me into a ****-
sapian, reptilian, nymphomanian  
A ****** up, stockholm syndrome alien  
Tonight I think I'm stayin
Over

Pull my hair to and fro
Play me like a puppet show
The amount of pain I undergo
I guess I kinda like it though...
But that was a long time ago
But it really wasn't that long ago
Our monthly reunion you know?
Goin on three and a half years or so

What a shame
That I continue to rinse, repeat
A let it happen all over again

And It's okay to be scared
Unprepared
When
You let it
Happen all over again

Every now and then
Rinse, repeat and let it happen all over again
Written by twenty year old me...
Blair Griffith May 2012
I
A genesis, the exodus, the exodus,
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abbatoir of our souls, it entrenches us

Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthiginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways

S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.
Angel Enriquez Mar 2013
is certain to make you feel.

This touch-
with a simple, yet graceful,
small but significant,
c omplex and intricate
feel.

Oh- this touch
takes shape and form
in various ways-
-
her eyes
-
to and from-
she'd get a hit marker here and there
h  e  a  d  s  h  o  t
and still had time to take out the handgun
for some overkill-

no mercy
-YET-

while he on the other hand patiently
waits.  .  .
She hid towards the sideline

wave once more-

Gripped hands as I wrapped my vocal chords
to reach every inch of everyone of her sensory nerve endings
-then suddenly reacts to'
"Hey! might just be  me- but why do you keep tucking yourself away?"
"Reaching-for-something"
- she says . .
(corny hand quotation gesture)
-
for this touch was dawning-
yet it had already claimed its place
without any physical* force'Mmore like grace -

streams* by
-
with a side stroke of a shoulder-
all it took was leaning to one side
-
and i'm reminded
I am certain
I could feel.
Ophelia Jan 2018
catherine is in blue
and bandages her finger with grass and a feather
her mother is sure she took on grace whilst in the womb
who is first and and yet an afterthought?
catherine is bleached
between girls breathing rococo and the washing machine that doesn’t distinguish the separation of her name or fabric
ever maid
where does she go and you begin?
that brother has the ocean compressed in his eyes
and it’s the ships that go by in the night
that make her as penitent as the Magdalene
catherine is moving
and if she takes on the sun it’s best to leave some in Catalonia
if she carves herself in flesh
she should do so herself
Ken Pepiton Feb 2023
You can say that again, later, it is -time
lace up the daily bag and pass it
for all private interpretation
removal, from the rumen, to the next
- gaseous we, Huxley called us, 1957

No, this ain't show business, this
is living, made in a made up mind,
being finished doing, just
living.

Making up reasons to dispute liars.

Maybe not a good living, but it's free.
Or paid for, any way.
Bought with a price
my grands won't be forced to pay.
- divided attention makes
- ads obliviate into the mercantile
- classification, in attention econ 101
It's free - this living
in the way well fed children do,
in America, outside the cities;

Joy pursued and grabbed in happy
fistfuls that fill laughing memory bubbles
to store for when these become
the olden days.

No, this ain't show business,
its sacred duty,
work of a thing,
made from a boy who looks
into flies eyes, gazing up
from the bottom of the cup,
a little glazed, perhaps,

owing the fly an easy escape, look away

Tricae,
tricae
"perplexities, hindrances, toys, tricks,"

The collections of thoughts,
the access to held thoughts, knotted
messages
to you
private moments,
time alone, as a mortal human being,
humus built, auto-repairing thing being

being, eh?
One-like, only, or
on-like, only going on and on and on,

becoming fruitful
becoming useful
becoming less and less useful, but
becoming more and more curious
becoming full enough to become superfluous.

Lay preachers can create cushions
for lazy wishers wishing to be comforted,
but the weighing of the worth of comfort,

lay preachers seldom do, to my knowledge.

Terminus gnosis, all I know, my bubble of knowns;
this is it…
a thousand stacks of sensible lines, atop precepts,

strewn beside the trail.
Heavy
heuristic heretical how-to do as I dones,
published by faith in the thousands, litter
the little hills the psalmist asked,
why they writhed and twisted,
as in a dance of anger wishing,

clear channel, me and the truth, today,
just/instance, this/ now.

Free am I, by the faith in me, but you
already
knew that,

don't you?
Don't you know, there is a musing mind,
we wear to bed, some nights,
we lay on memory foam, some nights.

Thinking sorted thoughts, untying lying links,
links to educated guesses fed you as new reasons

to be ever vigilant, ever ready to defend the faith,
the laughing faith of a child, leaping
into the sky

- my grandson, I just learned,
- asked for more math.

No class common man, that is what I am,
on the cusp of next, looking back,
at the mess I left, like a cyclone,
randomly distributing seeds of kindness, specs
by which an idle word can activate troves
of ancient autoresponders, each guessing
what if, what if not,
what if, what if not,
what if, what
if
not now, when. Pop.
Bubbles of been, leave go, go on, think it

through, and passed through, into
the now
where we formed, letters, letting words wait,
sit still, ready
for the reader, ready
to steady the quivering fearful thing,
lost in thought,
stuck in stacks of holy orders, hearer only,
only ordainded doers do the trick,
intricate, folding to make not a paper swan,

too, easy. Make a protein. With no model,
just the idea in the word applied to science,
proper pose, super knowing, proto-life-ish thing,
that is digestible using an infantile nourishing node.

What tricks do you know?, the magi aske Moshe.
Snake from a staff.

From the crozier of goatherd, sure,
we can all do that. What else?
---
Allusions to ever knowing, knowing as old
as knowledge given girls at their flowering,
as old a mystery as any orphaned mother may tell
her great grand daughters,
nobody told me any thing,

but I took it as normal,

As the patient potency prefecting
effectual
fervent
prayer, dramatized, made big as all
art
any
bubbled artifice holding essences,

essential bits of the daily grind to gloss
the leading intellect's reason for being
so shiny,
Klimt golden, as that one kiss I recall,

yes, a facsimile, a memory evocation,

a kiss, golden in that moment, infected
with a feeling
dramatized to be offered to all who see,
intricacies,
khipu twists and loops and bundles and beads,

accounting for dues,
instructing kaballah, pass it on

Excuse me, are you in the right realm,
we feel pluralized,
but you don't fit,
we are uniform,
uninformed,

excathedra, listen up, all eight billion now living, are destined
for certain death,
it is a matter of time, dying once,
can happen anytime,

and if there is a second death, so far,
I never saw any body do it twice,
once truth makes what I am free,
we stay free,
amen,
reception accepted kaballah, et al,
take that greasy grace, feel it,
as the oil ran down Aaron's beard,

and there were no poor denied
starship rations,
until the comet hit and all
but a single mind
blew, into this
a complete fiction,
or another compleat guide to fishing

Imagine the magic of the sailor's accounting book,
envision the magic of levers, and pulleys and cogged
wheels feeling the weight

ping
2023 Gravity driven or gravity powered, is it
one
or the other, when it come be to inspire
first fears
to frame wisdom pools,
at depths we learn
to believe,
prove each participant,
worthy of keeping,
the secret.
Salt of the earth, deep down dehr dat
Caribbean Sea,
shore line fracture,
follow the riverwise road,
any thing you think you must bear,
don't blame,
sometimes it pays, to bend.
Grasshopper Locust practice, for the mind
of an ant.

Wisdom harnessed the fear of God,
put it down,
in other words,
when there was nothing
but E, mass and time being assent
esse, sentient, in sentient and ex
insentience, sapient over lay,
- honeycomb tripe pattern, say
- why not ruminate enclosed
- in a beauteous inner digestive
- recluse-exclusive-sub-science con
ified, tied ligously, fi,
to witty means, and ways we prove
gravity is our friend, driven power for all life,
strong as earth itself, but, we are

in the burning phase,
let me bring you down,
cause being accused, does that
to a stranger
being
entertained, or entertaining, on an aitia
let me
reason,

have you come for more, or do we have
too much
of too many things
to make too much
sense
of any particular reader/writer ifery algorithm,
if then,
else is this, current, slow, nodding, flux,
capacitance
loading axially,
if each mind thinks right once,
today, we have enough,
let's save the world.
- that easy, eh?
global restoration, Christ, yes,
that is the plan.
As the planet was.
Prior to Peleg's days.
Intended to have a single
dry land mass,
Wisdom pushed
for plates meeting
and using ice
at the top
of the world, as seen polaris up,
spinning
in a slow wobble
through four
seasonal positional hot-cool-cold-warm
gyre drivers, saline liquid epicycles, sisters
of the four winds
as a flywheel effect
in the telling times… a little imbalence leaning helps
with the wobble,
in the event,
slim to none,
the odds, but,
Don't Look Up. It could
reoccur, and shall, if
Nietzsche's epicycle

has wheels. Graham Hancock, on clocks…cosmic

Mindspacetime, the elite flight,
secretshitistic, it is, most certain, it is
fantasmic imagining
E not equal any thing, mere words
-jello-timingoooisht
between me and thee,
no point, not one, between the we
we become,
in the final analysis, if you wish,

might
you wish,
long, lazy river readers, re-mind
their lost selves, how innocense felt.

The worth of an unsold story, given
as a gift, as a poor artist might
attempt
a portrait
of their daughter's children

- "that little thing"
Done. As best he could, he believed,
at the time,
as it is
with
everything being as is when we arrive,
we adapt
or become the insane opposition,
to anything,
just
be the counter weight on the pendulum,

keep things swingin'

feel time slide
into the real deal,
at the crossroads
in the wayback seat,
sayin' honey, you ain't here
after what I'm here after,
y'gonna be there, after I'm gone, as  asong
that was
once a joke ended you gonnabe here
after I'm gone, but

seemsayin' eye
squint, see,
way back
when,
we were otherwise involved, affirming
sacred oathes, we swore as children learn
IT being life, whatever,
it don't mean
nothin'
is not a joke, it's ahint, to readers, ready
writing is key to reading,
vertical eyed
qwerty keying is learned,
phone wide,
natural, feels familiar
style adaptation
as cuneiform once was,
years of hearing the same words,
said and resaid, story after story stacked
in
time, measured by stargazers, called, by god,
eyes like eagles, these minds expand, and see
the order of the cosmos,
and the chaos of the collective sub-science

locked by a generational curse on oathes
under the God those kids had in mind,
September, 1954, first day of school,
all across the Wyatt Earp of Nations,
each child not religiously exempted,
stood, right
hand on heart and repeated, as a national
student body, K through 12, a pledge,
local time 9 a.m. nationwide,
not unlike
a true Tenant's pledge of fealty,
as recorded in
The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
- buzz nod what instance… seven seconds
Sorry, Under God, was added to the pledge
that year, that affectionizes those exposed,
we meander under god, think it not strange.
It’s a legendary trait, we'll all be remembered a bit.
- default modemod is always beguiling temptation
- for temptation sake, win a game, get the rush.
of chasing hares
to where the conies hide,
feeble folk, but they live among big rocks,
reason enough,
use what you know is right,
hide from things that eat you,
that evolves
in nations
with no elders, constant defence mode
peace makers seem
feeble folk,
who knew,
and fell away, impossible to renew,

whoah, zeke play me that riddle,
'bout scrublands being humbly blissed
so long- wayback, anchoring the authority
17
that's me, I
fiddled around
and blew the clearwater revival
to kingdom come, Muddy Waters, aight
and there was hippies, ever whar, swanee,
so I do, I swan no no no no mo
lie like the devil for the sake of church heritage,
holy warrior sworn, heart torn, tears shed, tongues
spoken.
You know, when gravity is taken
in, your weight, sunk
into the reasoning
swung wide
in progress, no aim, past the cloud,
for crying out loud, this is louder than ever,
listen, no
silence
all that
noise, is natural
to persons genitivally, ok, cross
shadowed animus anima imitation,
in your cultural genes, cowgirl
seeing the world a yingyang thang,
with gravity and the E-magnetic shields
allowing systems to com-uni-cate locally,

scarey
indeed

too much,
the scope
of any thing one might think
or ask,
as in what was that rule
of LAW once?
I read
Compleat Fisherman's Guide U recall led
to , yes, The Compleat English Copyholder:
Common and Statute LAW of
England, relating to Manors
and Lords of Manors Et c.
is on Google books, masterfully typeset

Feel free to learn all you will, 'tis all in the Common.

as, by now is much that may have been, otherwise,
in needier times,
less riches, more sorrow,
less sorrows, more riches, peace.

Made that my after all battlefield task,
no mas win or lose.

My side, on the scalar models is gravity empowered,
heavyweight, ancient concept,
gradient slopes
with long lazy loops
on the downhill side,
listening
to kids make all the noise they wish,
two chalk walls away,
in the bubble we all breathe.

To this day, whatever it took, it worked.
Life gets as good as you can make up a mind

to accept, as
this is it,
this is my bit. My close up. To the exact point
where I breathed that bubblierised wedom-opinion

opinion opinion opinion okeh, settle years ago, okay
we all say okeh here, holy ground,
entire collection of recollection on that victory alone.

Okeh, is still the proto voice model, ok.
If you like it, I'd love if you shared it in whole or in part, it is a whole chapter in a novel form of literature, native to the internet age,
type set for vertical receivers
BLACK CAT

What does a black cat look like
In the light of an ancient moon,
Which can address his finest ways
While he catwalks the lands in gaze,
Paris is the place he craves to be
This any other cate would see,

Why the old cat walks around?
His eyes possessed the town
Until the light of the velvet moon
Helps him feel at easy where he could
Find a place to sleep,

This ancient cat knows what is best
While he lays his little head for rest
Where he could get up to do his best
On gentle grass in a social life
grace is always on his side,

Oh, how he dreamed about alleys where
food is in the cans of garbage bags
where kitties are play around
doing what they know in a world that is
evil and cold.

Poetic Judy Emery © 2017
The Queen of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
The Queen Of Darken Dreams
wren cole May 2016
.RED.
Passion, obsession shooting through me, consuming me when I didn't see it coming,
Please be patient while I can't shut up for the next week about the music I listened to or the book that I read.
.WHITE.
You see my eyes go blank as I'm chirping to you and then it's
Quiet, too quiet in this small, dark room.
Cold novacaine floods my veins in a single heartbeat,
Novacaine fills my brain in a single heartbeat so I am
Teetering, tottering on the edge of die or live
Because if I can't feel, can't love, can't give
Then what's the point of it?
.BLUE.
It usually comes after and it always hits me faster than my mind,
Don't have the time to straighten out my thoughts and make things right before I'm
DROWNing
SUFFOcate
NO TIME to DELIBERATE
If this is really worth this feeling, I hit the ceiling, I'm reeling
SHUT IT DOWN
.BLACK.
Now it's darker than the night
No red left in me tonight, I've given up the fight
I'm so tired I can't see
I know we'll play this track again tomorrow but now all I have energy for is sleep.
a cycle I go through most nights + practice with head rhythm
Jami Samson Jun 2013
Time doesn't crawl,
No, you can't make it stall;
Even if you pay with any toll.
So make as much brawl,
And quit calligraphy and try to scrawl.
So in the end, you'd have something to recall.

Time doesn't walk,
Don't try to balk.
Everybody knows it flies faster than a hawk.
So be sure to listen when I talk,
Because someday I'd be gone and you'd surely gawk.
And by then, you can never again stalk.

Time doesn't wait,
So drown all your hate.
Don't be the rod; instead be the bait.
Don't wait for the fish to become cate;
Catch it before it's too late.
For you never know when's the expiry date.

Time doesn't hang out,
That's what it's all about.
So don't fill your head with doubt;
Laugh while you can still spout.
Because no matter what you do, time will rout.
And there's no use of trying to pout.

Time doesn't pause.
You're not the boss,
You don't need to know the cause.
So don't wait for any loss,
Or for the growth of moss.
For one day there might be no coin left to toss.

Time doesn't stand by,
And it's not a lie.
The sky's too high,
But you'll reach it when you die.
Life's a sweet apple pie,
So don't waste it on a sigh.
#11, 2011
Ken Pepiton Jul 2020
2020 - day 193 part 2

Sunday, July 12, 2020
2:54 PM

We all have won, more than once. We know
the waay it feels soo right.
Dare and do, theyoostasay,
Jah, today, I ask
what gives,

what takes away the fear of death the young ones hold,
as their, from your authorized sen' ones, human right,
right by
righteous statements, SOP
standard op procedures,
like war on TV, in the sixties.
Survived
to face
five fold ministers, now all prophecying doom to me,
the heresy shaping up,

for war with the hated haters of him who hates

iniquity, hates
a false balance, hates
a false witness; and it stands to reason, here is safe.

Here is no condemnation, by virtue of you being here.
Were there condemnation here,
could you imagine Jesus's will, in you, being done

out there,
in the open, no walls, no closets, no phobias, no neurosis
not psychosis

okeh. This day, this far, we agree, we are alive, we are finding
meanings common all our lives,
meanings we knew were lies being left to test our will to

use the freaking force, LUKEOUT!

Lookout-
Never works, nor do light sabers,… words work
light sabers never better than lightning,
except in weapons that may be imagined, if any thing is possible,
you know it is, '' before you believe it is.

This is war. This tuning in to feel the fear of death shackling children,
with the same old stories,

amplified by more than one could think or ask,
once upon a time.

Wish to catch the magic fish,
lust to find Allasdenof readers who knew Mohammed
never learned
to read,

they say, I wouldn't know. If there were no history.

There are still stories tucked just so into stories,
everybody knows.

The experience, we being, being the crowd for crying out loud,

we got it. life is good. we feel… we feel… wrong
we know
ever is never like now… somehow we
think we do, inky do say
listen
the story is the story you tell, you know.
push and shove, twist and pull

patty cake, paddy cake, baker man, putemintheovenfasasucan

the religious thought was linked to truth, eu means joy ye ken?

eudaemonia, as a state, is governed a we, a we we may see as ours

- go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways and be likewise

Take y'given tangled web, 'twas gifted to our fathers,
by others who did not know
the blessing in giving more, taking less. The spirits
in the gin,
then in the ***, then whiskey, rye whisky in little
brown jugs,
I wuvoo
I do, little blue legal chick in 1970, just before
biome me mem meme fall

all ye outs back in. We got a session with the judge, it seems
there is an accuser, after all…

this maybe so sayer say Jesus is a liar, like untrue to you
if yo u never swore to never be foresaken, left
alone
to witness the workings of chaos in order effectually see-ing
all things
all
all thing functioning as was this one day, today, in my future,
yur jes' now

just so, 2020 tech can do this trick. Watch

misty? as the angel was heard to say, with a stutter, re
read {could be latinate, its no code, just words
be-a-ing being as human as humanly possible,

while standinderundersogreatacloudof witnesses linked

to this one idea. Truth is free.
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
ሴ ሴ ... _ .


Never ending quest, is that thought a curse?

Your answer changes next.

These are words redeemed after my 69th year breakdown…
weaponized,

we won. That is the good news. False witnesses project reasons
for war;

we remain the evidence of things unseen, ignite a spark,
ignor it only by lying to the bit of you

that has the knack to imagine striking a spark,
in the darkest dark ever described,
fitted to fear receptors liganded to legendary necessary lies.

There was a war where there was no blood to shed.
The war for the power to make history,

History of leaders followed for goodness sake, goods to take,
stories to modify,

Balzac claims tres bon, 1, 2, 3, 4… ave maria oh, weahhh

out in the fictionized foam of all the stories ever known

being Kevin Bacon linked, 6 to 1, the magnificent seven

so 3 plus 7, 10 to 1, better odds, take 3 chances 4 times.

If any thing can fall it falls.
any thing that can shake, shall; and so on, amen.

Magic words spoken with no sense of any power having

master and commander authority to utter an actual amen, and

see this is as we say, what we got. Many idle amens, it’s a mess.

---
2020 the great controversy creeps up - I refused to catch
the magic fish bait,
I am open to any temptation

I say, with all the awshucks authoity awoud fuds

The grace of goodness itself--perse the real deal, does not fade away.
ሴ ሴ ... _ .

Three is the ready, steady, go,

steady accumulation of attending to take
the granted

virtue to effect trans formation
chaos to order algorithms

rhyminwhyman, whykill… whykry radio
man
five by five still alive

four point solid-ity it-ness

stack the stones, edify edu cate, straight
as model in the pat from first point
second, to third to you
through the wall that never was there

point, game set.
Any triggered hate, fires the alarm.

The idea that is the accuser side of
aitia ai ai ai loops,

is as the thing the ancients name the
accuser of the saints.

The "you ain't nothin'"
Then come the bots in legions of oughts
overcome ing one
spark
oh
you had to have seen it
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
ሴ ሴ ... _ .
Wonderful day, start to now... hope you know the feling
me Aug 2018
Cate turned 41 three days into the (most recent) millenium.
A lot of people thought the world was going to end
              (something about computers or calendars)
It didn't.

She celebrated over a sparkling wine brunch
with friends she rarely
saw.  

They giggled relentlessly over the old jokes and
gracelessly     stumbled
over the o l d       jealousies.

                                                That­ time at the Chinese restaurant at
                                                midnight,
                                                              Wh­o saw him first?
                                                      Wasn­'t it Jane?
                                                           ­    Jane!
                                                Where has she gone, had anyone heard?

No one had but it didn't matter
(so long ago she had stood, placed the thick cloth napkin on the table beside her plate and excused herself to another universe)

Her alarm rang early the next morning:
jarring an artificial start to the day.
Cate wondered where she was for the
moment (before remembering)
Jenny Gordon Sep 4
Prolly wouldn't have gone off half as well.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMDCLXXIV)


Whilst steam wafts up in dainty tendrils' sense
Of romance, brie with del'cate mould's detail
Upon my tongue, where Peter's on the trail
Of Tigger and she's dancing oer mice, whence?
The squirrel comes by to look, and they from hence
Are keen on him, or whom? Chill winds' exhale
Sifts through like solace, where calm seems t'avail
Despite their wild play cuz I'm home fr'intents.
Debate what I shall serve for breakfast, poor
As such sheer wastes of time, and brunch will do,
I guess. Swiss cheese and scallions mixt in tour
With scrambled eggs, Canad'an bacon too,
And porridge, noshed on whilst they sleep. Bestir
Fresh air with gratitude. LORD, I thank You.

25Aug25a
Here's a teaser if readers are interested, that was a catnip mouse. Now I'm finally posting this, they netted a real mouse, cold and bloodied by 8am when I was finally home.
Mohd Arshad Jul 2014
Zoo
once we visited the zoo.
that was a grand tableau of life
in our cages of strong iron.

on the camera,
we froze the beauty of a small fawn,
the toy for children.

others in other directions,
played with their fingers,
and they reciprocated.

in a corner,
a small kid looked
at a white big cate and

slowly wrote something
on the muddy wall,
zoo is sweeter for our senses
than the suffocation of their dreams.
Rebecca Jul 2021
Still sorely missed.
Daydreams about what might have been.
Pain is distant and so close.
A shard of glass pierces as my mind reviews
The glass is hidden in the years which dull.
The pain of the shard is new as first.
Sweet girl what should have been.  
Already you see my father.
My mother is watching for you with tired eyes.
Sweet Cate, treat them well.
You are old enough to care for my parents
With loving heart.
My years add for us to meet.
I will look for you when I join, but
Don't expect too soon.
I've my chores here to do.
Love you, Sweet Cate.
TreadingWater Aug 2016
fun//ny how
hazel
made. me. forget.
i HaTe Vegas
just like; auburn
canmakeme
visit _ the _ mall
&thos;; sliver limbs
&dim;;° waist°
}my} hands} fit
perfectly'round
can >make >it >all
make. sense.
all | those | things | i
#neverwanted
&presssedagainstherhip;
just >for>get >a>bout
anything i. thought.
might; matter.
&wh;; cares¿
[let'sbehonest]
what's-so-great
about~wants~anyway¿
& 'when 'she ''trace'''s
the veins >in >my >arms
with her del _i _cate
fingers
just 》go 》ahead
ask. the. cream.
¿if she cares for honey¿
Lawrence Hall Dec 2024
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com


                                           For Cate and Jack

                                           Or Jack and Cate?

                                                On Christmas


Certain joys about Christmas are always true
For among the season’s constant blessings
                        Are you!
Jenny Gordon Apr 2019
Smile, or?



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXX)


White.  Snow.  Sae del'cate that we feel it hence
Within our souls:  that hallowed silence they'll
Assure ye is what Sunday's due.  T'inhale
Is what we do, half stifled, til I thence
Am lo, some heathen, breaking in fr'intents
And shattring that fine calm as I exhale
My raptures with sheer glee words maught avail
Aught else, Dad chiding me like's sans defense.
So I pass through to breakfast:  late.  Yes, stir
Him 'spite all that to later say it too,
Whenas the dainty white is heavy--we're
Agreed tis verra wet, and will melt to
Effect ere we're aware, nor linger.  Pure
Sweet silence calls unto my soul as't woo.

14Apr19b
The "him" in L10 is my dad.

— The End —