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"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.
0
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
plank v. veneer via grasshoppers
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.
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45
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.”
0
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 1:17 AM UTC
A Metaphor.
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.”
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31
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
0
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
Hexagon Sun
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
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41
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.
0
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
Black consciousness
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.
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16
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.
0
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
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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.
0
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
democracy (the church) / bureaucracy (the state)
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.
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54
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).
0
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
Globalisation, Greek Nation States, London (e.g.)
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)
0
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
here (waiting)
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)
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7
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.
0
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:53 AM UTC
Rest Assured
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
0
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
The Chronology of Wisdom
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.
0
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
p.s. extract to (π = ~∞°)
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.
0
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
feng shui & and the art of wrecking motorcycles
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.
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43
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.
0
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
what's that slang? / ani tu ani tu
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.
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Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Museum Poem
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
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Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
1210. gingham
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
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Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 7:02 AM UTC
Small **** Energy
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?
0
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
Kandinsky moments in poetry
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?
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*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.
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Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
X
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
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Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 6:48 AM UTC
preserved breviaries Catholic, properly categorised
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.
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Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
.it may be cold.
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
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Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 2:43 PM UTC
Welcome
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.
0
Jan 22, 2025
Jan 22, 2025 at 6:05 PM UTC
Investment 101
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.
Continue reading...
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