"categorised" poems
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
Imagine a warehouse of apples with their individual conciousness.
They are labelled and categorised.
They are segregated.
The apples are gathered and put into boxes marked
by what they want to be known by,
their commonality/mentality.
If a bushel of apples are a stigma, they are put into boxes marked by what the other apples tag them by.
In a self-marked box, by the name of “surat zayifa” an apple lays at the juncture of the pyramid of analogous red,
maggots eating away at it’s heart.
The apple turned crimson hued to an evangelist blood maroon. Smouldering; festering like an open wound.
A stinging aura besieged it,
suffocating the air like sharpnel stuck in the throat.
The apple, consumed by a dark resurgence and a devilish resolve,
spoke in tongues of the serpent and supplanted seeds of pestilence in the hearts of the apples who joined his brooding virtue.
A collective conciousness was supplanted among the fruit,
imprinted with the face of death.
The world of apples, thrive on each other and face the forebodings of life together in spite of their marked differences in a state of throbbing dependancy.
The apples feed on the apples.
Another self-marked box, by the name of “khalas” were set to consume the apples from “surat zayifa” to continue finity,
unwary of their poisoned souls.
The apples fed on the apples and almost every other apple rotted and perished.
The apples that survived were the ones who consumed the apples unblemished in spirit.
All the others apples from all the other boxes blamed “surat zayifa” as a whole.
Even the apples purest, were tainted by the sins of the other apples,
the ones to take the blame for the misdeed of their creed.
The box was now marked in disgrace, a vehemence, a scourge.
The last remaining poisoned apple that was set to perish from “khalas” did something morally unhinging before it’s spirit departed;
the apple smeared it’s tan blood with words on the cardboard and dropped dead.
The singular light bulb flickered, the pulse strained.
Everything fell silent.
The words read “ We are ourselves. We **** ourselves.”
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
False memories and track marks pave your arms
Sudden revolt of youth pressurised to fail
Painkillers doubled and stacked for a head to slumber
Soft heads and dead leg spasm attack pillow piddles in *****
Fictitious tesla coil blue breath mortifys mortality
And your goggles won't fog out the underwater current miscellaneous
Digital tectonic pushing ideas you brainstorm
Shadowed reluctance to consume the musk of infrared roses
This romance is one that was jealous of itself
Pre-divorced in its own certainty on incompatibility
Basin top full too top heavy to predict precarious
Living in a shaded sense of erased memory lapses continuing truth
Toward magnificent still life categorised by perdition
Forward thinking ruby gold phong shaded hatred quantum conversate Unthinkable
Nebula of gas
Face first head in hands
Euthanasia between my thighs crush my head
Choked neck
Throat
Strangle me and give me breath
I roll and the conductor pulls apart my mouth
Diseased by euphoria lips separate and teeth show
Pupils land home and iris jumps ship
Perfume gum dry bitter butterfly kiss
Head held back in place tongue falls back into the razor-front of the mouth
Caution held simultaneous irrelevant body load carries my smile
Jump knee deep into the silence of my own lungs
It's been a while
I breath vindictively in time with the respiration of the country
Somewhere out in the hexagon sun I burn candles and whisp
Hold in smoke
Die
Twitch forward in palliative peace motionless and still
Cuspids and lochs
Spread across the grass the harmony touches yours and mine
A hole and whole dream
Conscious and dead
Content
Voices rattle in unified mono-chromidity
Sadness
Carrion
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
The streets are tattooed with potholes and the sidewalks are covered in broken glasses.
Our bodies are demolished and stripped off from all integrity and decency.
The road to having crisp air, diluted wars and unpolluted humanity is foggy. It fights off all good fortune like a new born baby counting his seconds on earth.
We belong to the categorised society, the one that's heart beats with sorrow and skin is impregnated with melanin.
The nation is an equation, divided, torn apart like an old cloth with stains of dried up blood.
It's ******* are dry , wrinkly and contaminated .The painful strokes on our backs are escalating. They walk towards our chests ,ooze in blood and opens themselves up to beg for mercy.
Mothers with squirming innocence on their backs. Their home is built of threats and poverty . It holds on for dear life during the winter and breathes relief during the summer.
The children's appearances are misleading. They are all bony. Their eyes are tucked in deep into their skulls like the home of a porcupine. Turning nothing but a blind eye to the inequality and pain that they hAve to endure.
Fathers partake on a journey to seek for the daily bread. They embark on the beast of Hope. He breathes steam and his skin is coated with the color of the sun set. His feet are inclined to the railway.
It bends and runs to a place of hope. A place where the only purpose a male child lives for in our country.
The tools are weeping and begging for a taste of water.
Their skins are suffocating. And howl for a glimpse of fresh air.
But rest is a luxury that the tools rarely taste.
A luxury men wish for day and night.. under the red acres of the sun and when the skies weeps sympathy for it's fellow brothers.
We are entitled to the misfortune and great grief. Poverty is our clan name. It walks with us daily , under our feet that's embroidered with blisters and broken heels. Cuts as deep as the Kimberly hole .
We are the black endangered mammals with nothing but equality to fight for.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
i found two things bewildering,
alzheimer's attacks the pronoun
category, and other forms of it too,
but modern psychiatry
having abolished asylums for
a humane revision of its practice
has become a branch of medicine
that over-prescribes nouns,
and by such over-prescription
invents noun jargon,
it cut open an ancient greek word,
used the prefix (overly) and added a suffix (sufficiently)
to make no sense whatsoever,
it prescribes neonouns like it prescribes
pills that don't work... or if working
then in a negative way... anti-psychotics
can make you **** yourself in your bed
when sleeping, i've been drinking for some
time, and my bladder is arnold schwarzenegger,
when i used to be on anti-psychotics for
no adequate reason (living in a post-colonial
society does that to you, you can come from
lithuania or poland and be treated like a
would-be coloniser to extract the fastest
sprinters for a new country, without the "doctors"
treating you adequately),
so as i said: alzheimer's attacks the pronouns,
the iron core of the earth that's an individual
thus dislodging all the adequate orientations
of categorisations of words... like psychiatry
abuses the noun category: schizoid, schizo-affective,
plain dumb schizophrenic... bi-polar, uni-polar,
plain dumb depressed... psychiatry has long
established a monopoly on nouns...
i just use their terminology to excavate a new
grammatical categorisation of words,
from poetry, among nouns adjectives pronouns
and conjunctions... you'll find psychiatry nicely suited
and booted as a word categorisation: metaphor:
all psychiatric diagnostics should be categorised as
metaphorical... 'cos they name it... but have no idea
as to how to behave behind it: it's not like they
say cancer and you're expected to die...
you're expected to live in their terminology
of treating you for a ******* pay-cheque:
you won't even commit a crime, but they'll
treat you like a criminal... so long suckers...
i mean western europeans, i rather live in (as the
americans say) i-raq... and shoot a bunch of you
protected by what i see as the final solution
you thought was once church v. state...
how about segregating democracy (the church)
from bureaucracy (the state)... but of course
the two are mutually dependent.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
C'MON! GIVE ME SOMETHING!
YOU CAN'T BE A MOZART KINDRED
PRODIGY IN POETRY...
POETS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE
TRAINED MONKEYS!
SURE YOU CAN TRAIN AN ORANGUTAN
TO YODEL THE NATIONAL ANTHEM
OF CHILE... BUT TO WRITE
POETRY YOU GOTTA LIVE! LIVE!
THIS LANGUAGE OF YOURS
IS GOOD ENOUGH TO BE
CATEGORISED AS BIRD-CAGE TROLLOP!
HALFWAY TO CANNED SARDINES -
OR DISCOVERING AMERICA IN A TIN WITH A
PREMONITION OF COLUMBUS DANCING THE
DING-DONG BONGO BONGO PIÑATA SHAKE
(alt. to philanthropy).
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
I reckon every day is another page, another chapter to the storybook of your life. Some people have every sheet numbered in neat chronological order or categorised according to A-Z, while others are blank pages waiting to be filled, waiting for words to come. Occasionally there are stories that have been left unfinished, tragic end or dire fate, and there are those that end in the quiet melody of unsung heroes.
Of all the life stories in the world, mine is fragile at the spine, paper thin and translucent. The ink is splashed across several pages, words intelligible and smudged with tears; blood stains dotting the edges. There are countless tales that lurk beneath the binding, and even more lives entwined with mine. You, for instance, pressed thorns between the pages of the book that is my life, leaving flowers wilting amongst the splotched ink words and tears in the paper. It is funny, because only when you look back do you realise that nothing would ever be the same if you didn’t exist.
I am older now, the accompaniment to the author that is destiny and fate, overseeing the paths I am to take, the people I still have yet to meet, the places I will go. There is no promise of calm ahead, and with every recollection there are flashes of hurt and pain, of times when my heart was torn apart at the seams, shattered beyond recognition. Despite this I continue on, the naive hope that things will get better and that I will recover, lingers in the core of my soul; sparking a new hope down to the ends of my fingertips.
And while page after page is filled with cutouts and photographs of the memories I have had, none will ever shine as bright as you.
-
"When you’re here it’s like the sunrise, and when you leave it’s like the sunset."
(A.H.Z)
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
At this specific point in time, I pause and give contemplation to the definition of time, whilst the echoing chords of pizzicato remind me of lettuce and a comfortable sense of direction in the face of adversity.
Chicken is very much related to time. Now, I know that such loose associations can be categorised within psychiatric parameters. However, such assertions are not baptised in epistemological fires. If you and I rise upon the wings of the wind, then we will understand that the aroma of Ellen will etch herself in the psyche of eternity.
I am comforted by the wisdom of predestination.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
This number, the intangible phenomenon
That governs our lives
We are separated, categorised
Stereotyped by this number
But who's to say this number needs be comparable?
Isn't it full of subjectivity
And experiences, immeasurable data
That cannot be programmed into any system
To give us a true idea
First, tell us how many times you have been around the sun
Then tell us
Your age
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
there are
two worlds in this universe
- after spotting a u.f.o.
once i am sure:
a craft of pure light -
for if the circle has 360°,
and our world is encapsulated
by twenty four hours,
kabbalism sentences me to reveal
not that a = 1, b = 2 etc.
and as numerology to find meaning
in words based upon sums of sigma (Σ),
i just spotted: 2 + 4 = 6,
while 3 + 6 = 9
69
the symbol of the zodiac Pisces,
union in the B of linguistic symmetry,
hence the need for dualism
and the monotheism
of the Gemini god, should
polytheism of India fail
but as it stands, the American indians
failed, the red indians failed,
but the blue indians remained:
with the billion populace and Bollywood
and all the scents of cinnamon cardamon of tinted
copper skin;
basically accounting from the facts
of the π geometric facts,
our world is categorised as
completing rotation in 24 hours,
theirs in 36 hours.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
back then, when communism was
heralded on the fifth of may
to glorify work,
you had old people dump coffee
beans into the river because
no one told them what to do with it,
you had unselfish atheism back then,
you were encapsulated as a species,
fully noble to be categorised as
**** sapiens; but now you're not;
we're all artists now,
spare time writing wonders,
full time displaying unmade beds
in former power-stations of vast spaces...
i guess in order to provoke thought...
after all, congested spaces breed
claustrophobia, a display in an economised
space like that is no comparison to a
large open space where you sort of
have to attract thinking
about the most debased work imaginable
to be considered in the realm of being, a
qualifiable work of "art"... well, what do you expect,
qualifying an unmade bed as art will
give you insight into newtonian causality
(i know, einstein muddled it a bit):
to qualify an unmade bed as art akin to
the statue of david will eventually
quantify an expression of art in another
medium exponentially, namely poetry;
modern visual art is the reason why
we have an exponential increase in
poetic output - if the beauty in visual art is
missing or is abstract or just plain ugly,
people will turn to the 26 signatures
to simply un-imagine what's being plated,
by the time we return to the grander aesthetics...
well, by the time anything is accomplished,
people will have to re-imagine the body
by salvaging it from ***********
and poetry will have to depose what advertising
does to the phonetic units, with so many
fonts and copyright trademarks whatever.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
and i'm the dumb one that said
you weren't dumb
and you were the intelligent
one that said hello,
may as well enjoy the rocky
mountains with mt. rushmore
shave; to keep it all under wraps
of a hollywood movie that
never made it from scripts.
yeah you asked to be treated as dumb,
and i asked to be treated as a wizard,
evidently both of us became middle class
debates on parenting:
white man's neck muscles became
black girl's hypnotic celluloid hip arsenal,
and i faked a combo of each in comparison:
while rolling a wine barrel
up a steep hill for a laughing horse
in exchange for three magic kidneys
that were categorised
as baked bean & ****** oh lawd the giant
came from the heights,
with the magic goose ******** out golden
swastikas rather than eggs of date printed 1933,
holocaust unknown khaki shirts prior the schwarzhemd
recycled for marble marrow statues,
like gold carat plating of statues with beneath
only cheap metal... but then the atomic authenticity
measuring cylinder in u-turn to provoke
such animate extension into theory of inanimate things
that animate things provoked inanimate things to ask
whether the one promise be worth blind acceptance
or eyed destruction via logic itemising in coupling
of two base words - after all neither psyche or logic are
acidic words... they're base words... but coupling two
base words leaves an aftermath of acidic reactionaries
more prone than the singleton word **** that's acidic.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
I think the sky looks best when it reminds
you of Hogarth or other of those 18th century paintings
with dark, tight clusters of small leaves
which scalpol and sillouette
against the powdery blue and creamy spaces
I imagine that I look down at my feet
and see satin shoes,
shimmery and slightly scraped apart at the seams.
The kind of shoes that would
look at home places by deep eggshell blue skirting boards
and bare floors
and light faded crimson rugs. Spindly legged furniture
accompanied by sounds of stiffened hand-sewn
dress skirts grazing the floor like a wedding march
Instead, I feel the cold and dry breeze
pass by my skin and into my lungs
and stomach and every other *****
or miniature tree branch vessel.
I think about what the Landscape would have
looked like three or four hundred years ago,
because it couldn't have looked like this
Now, I realise that like those paintings, this
sky, breeze, leaves and trees are merely an
impression
Not familiar enough or filled with enough bleached light
I would like to think that in another three
or four hundred years others will be breathing
a similar cocktail of air and pollution reminiscent of mine
and provoke some similar feeling
They might visit clothes like the ones I wore
In Museum basements they will be categorised in brown paper boxes
encapsulated in white tissue paper
labels hanging from under the lips of box lids
pencil marks indicating contents.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
maybe is the colours, red and white,
that appeal, the patterns, or the
retro items in the cupboard. he
gasped, and proclaimed the beauty
as the door was opened. so
yesterday, all was tidied, categorised,
more paper laid, for his, and my
delight.
he is home from holday.
sbm
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
How did we forget to know
The souls of all but human beings?
When did we stop listening
To language different
To the one we speak with ease?
Those elders knew, they were involved
With nature, not apart
They worked together
Until the witch hunts,
And before capitalism ate art...
And medicine, and childbirth,
Marriage, communities;
Profit would too much be capped
If common people lived their lives
With love and empathy
Because some they feared the awe they felt; the danger sensed in crushing
Waters, crumbling rock, and the power
Of biting jaws and ripping claws
Over small **** energy imposing
So they taught us to ignore the souls
Of rocks and stones and moss and trees...
We're taught to value human life
Above all that nurtures us -
Even clearly animated beings
And still amongst these human lives
Are some more valuable than others,
Categorised by colour or class,
Gender, size, way of life,
Or simply their choice if lovers
They re-wrote the myths of first beginnings
To omit other beings, except where they placed
Them only as antagonists
To bring ruin and shame upon our bodies
And eternal servitude we've faced
Modern Christianity pervades here
And other poison ideologies -
Not Jesus' way but the opposite...
Organised religion serves only to prop
Up our capitalist economies
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 7:02 AM UTC
you know, you are allowed a Kandinsky or a *******
moment in poetry:
it's like the development of the cut-up technique
beginning with Tristan Tzara and the Dada "school"
of "thought", developed later by William Burroughs
et al., it doesn't have to be fixated to a definite
curvature, a smooth narrative, this is poetry
in a boat, during a storm on the sea, it's not a Cambridge v.
Oxford boat race on the pristine Thames...
some critics ascribe such methodology as either
outright stupid or by psychiatric definition a *word
salad*, but it's simply kaleidoscopic juxtaposition,
it really is a dog drooling ultraviolet saliva onto a
canvas, while someone shakes his head
(preferably a bulldog, or a boxer, or a St. Bernard)...
oh look at him, such ***** eyes, gotta just cuddle him...
i'm not using newspaper snippets, as if writing
a stalker's letter, cutting out letters and gluing them
together on a piece of paper... it's spontaneous
combustion (most of the time)... the only method in it
is that there isn't a method to begin with...
unless randomisation of a gaseous substance with
that hectic squash game of atoms is the adequate
simile... if i were to say that was a metaphorical comparison
i'd be walking through foggy streets of London (circa 1884):
after all words have only a one dimensional interaction
that's the existential recipient of all of them,
the existentially affirmative aye - i left the other
affirmative word thought among the others,
since, sometimes, as in the cases of melancholia, thought
isn't necessarily categorised as affirmative, relegating,
drowning the prime affirmative aye with its awkward
structure (form)... all the words must pass through the ego,
not all of them have to pass through thought,
the ones that bounce against the squash cube wall that's
ego make it onto the page... more do so when compared
with treating thought as the wall and the effective structure
for the rubber ball to bounce against.
me playing squash? oh yes, very much so, loved it,
played about 4 times a week, better than tennis,
which is why no squash tournaments are televised, it's
not really a spectator sport, it's too enjoyable to have
a passive public... it's a sport with the player in mind,
like a horse attached to a carriage with those shutters
over their eyes; so now what? is poetry not allowed to
look like a ******* painting, randomised and incoherent
when compared to the standard practices of narrators?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
*the irish call this a well established word salad,
half of them are qualified psychiatrists,
because they think language
ought to be an arithmetic rubric understood
well enough for manual labour arguments to take
the populace numbers off their backs of via
ennobled cunt-fiddlers taking the entitlements
of prince or king be left holy
so that the politicians can ********** with power
and powder and vote... i veto my democratic right
of vote... i veto it! you sign your name with an X,
you vote with an X... you educate yourself
in order to be debased with only an X...
**** your X... many st. andrews in the english parliament!
you think you'll make me an "illiterate" person
voting? the vanity of the fallen armies for my literate
signature signed as once demandingly categorised:
illiterate. to hell with democracy's booth!*
and when drinking defeats me
i truly serve
a sobering-up programme
that has a life-span of a day
and a female companion
that's worse than a canine *****
barking: howl howl hoof woof!;
i too wish... i wish i wish i wish....
i never had... and that serpentine
labyrinth with me the Minotaur
for an exercise of ****** doesn't help;
and yet the cat in my bed, calm, snoozes.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
. . 10 words . .
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
preserved breviaries Catholic, properly categorised
plenty of answers many questions added to, juxtaposition
of many images, a precise definition
of antagonisation, sycophantic normal positions despised
totally, military misers accused of ensnarement orderly memorialised
properties properly improved, revealed superstition
and suspicion, doubtfully splendid spirited perdition
distinguished, heirs of documents are identified, minimised
images and boors' occupied regions, grandiose
sciences are indeterminable, safely secured benefits
for runic understandings pretentious
obstinate beasts acquire in disruption, types of otiose
considerations ill-prepared to deal with credits
and debts for answering questions licentious
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 6:48 AM UTC
the sun was out yesterday,
all day.
logs stacked, sticks sorted and tidied,
categorised in various piles, those
for keeping, some for disposal.
relocate the little bird house, robins
wait as does the cat nearbye.
in and out avoiding neighbours,
no time for chat.
finish the outdoor painting.
fall into bed early.
next morning the solar lights still
flashing, the sun shone all day.
sbm.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Welcome to Earth
Please proceed to arrivals to be labelled, categorised and indexed
A life plan will be prescribed
For our full acceptance please provide an economic return
You are then free to live within the status sector selected
Welcome to Earth
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 2:43 PM UTC
The art of connection is not by chance.
More of investment and less of dance.
Follow this guide, to a T, to have a chance.
For connection or romance.
Step 1
Two people meet who identify potential.
Potential advertisements successful.
Interest of purchase, the game is on.
Time for negotiation.
“This is what I want, and this I see in you
we could be magnificent, do you see it too”?
Step 2
The two parties state their terms.
What I want, need, now you, take turns.
This is what would make it happen for me,
what I would need for ease and harmony.
Lists categorised by priority.
Lists of what would hurt as **** if you agree?
Step 3
Comparison of wins and gains and risks and pains
in our now well documented passions.
Stated clearly in the contract, attachments,
terms and conditions.
Does the potential magic outweigh the discomfort?
Knowing all, would you be a suitable consort?
Not free of flaws, just flaws matching mine.
The positives showing potential, long term growth,
and something less tangible. A sign?
Step 4
Consideration of the terms for the exchange.
Feel free to bring in outside counsel,
all normal, nothing strange.
*** I think they like me”?
“Do you think he even cares”?
“I don't know if she is ready”.
Doubts like this no longer stand a chance.
Step 5
Place fourth what you'd be willing to invest, on the table.
Be careful not to place more than you are actually able.
Step 6
Potential trial runs, if stated clearly in the terms.
Experience the chemicals of connection
and see if trust can be earned.
Did reality meet expectations?
Where there all the right sensations in our relations?
Giving passion a chance in this well structured test.
With everything now on the table,
are the parties ready to potentially invest?
Any last warnings to heed?
Excellent, I believe we are ready to proceed.
The parties gather for progression
as it is time for
Step 7
An agreement is reached at last.
Taking into account all that has passed.
The details have been discussed.
“Yes, Christmas with my family is a must”.
Will they walk their separate ways,
or will the fires of romance be set ablaze?
The beginning of a great love story,
with nothing lost and potential true connection won.
If you just follow the steps in investment 101.
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 6:05 PM UTC