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Francie Lynch Nov 2016
BeforeTV

Before TV,
When we were together,
Before growing apart
From father and mother,
We entertained ourselves with song;
All the sisters and brothers.

We gambolled in the backyard,
The clothes line was our zip line,
We fell soft, then hard.

We somehow got a hold of skates,
Not knowing what they're for,
So we took turns,
Laced them on,
To skate on cement floors.

We raised a high jump,
Skipped on the driveway,
Double Dutch and Speed;
We strung a line for volleyball,
Nailed a hoop below the roof,
Played soccer in the hall.
We paddled ping-pong on the table;
Our household freedom
Made us as grateful
As animals in a well-kept stable.

Some winters we'd flood the back,
And shoot and slide until the cracks
Turned to puddles,
Then I'd sail popsiclestick boats
Over oceans,
To distant folks.

On the frontwalk we tossed our stones,
Landing on the moon,
And hopscotch til we went for soup
And soda bread and **** milk.

If we had a ball and bat,
Chances are we'd not come back
'til the sun went down;
And then,
When the stars came out,
We'd *Hide and Seek,

Til the last one'd shout,  Home Free.
With dirt and patchwork dungarees,
We went in
For good-night tea.

Weren't we the normal family?

Then we got our first T.V.

After T.V.

We were landed,
Not gentry,
And we started channelling
U.S. T.V.

We weren't polite like Cartwrights,
Nor guaranteed Lil' Joe's birthright.

The sisters locked on Patty Duke,
Then dressed the same
To get the look,
So they ditched their Wellie boots.


We'd lie on the floor,
Stuck like glue,
On Sundays watch Ed's Big Shoe.
We didn't know the sun had left,
Our eyes were on the TV set.

The Cleaver boys still got dessert,
Though leaving green beans on their plate,
Left ice-cream and sweet chocolate cake.
We'd stare confused, yet salivate;
Such treats and food we'd never waste.

The Douglas boys had single beds,
En suites, bathrobes,
Hair on their heads;
Pillows and open windows,
And locks on doors,
They weren't co-ed.
We slept, at least, two to a bed,
Four to a room, two bedspreads.
We slept on mattresses with stinging springs,
Torn and traced with stale *****.
In the hot and humid summer,
In bathing suits
We'd swim in slumber.
Our small window couldn't open,
We roasted in our four walled oven.

We watched Lassie and Gomer Pyle,
Green Acres' Arnold had us beguiled.
We didn't get Father Knows Best,
His gentleness raised our regrets.
Lucy and Ricky, an odd couple,
Were always getting into trouble,
Like Fred and best bud, Barney Rubble.

Were these the models to emulate,
To blend in North of the United States?

These families had open conversations,
Shared their thoughts without hesitation.
Mine were full of consternation,
And alien, like My Favourite Martian.

We grew in a foreign land,
Beached like the cast on Gilligan.

Surely, we were Lost in Space,
Separate from the human race.
No gyroscope to set direction,
To separate fact from fiction.

We weren't stupid,
We were astute;
We weren't the ones on our TV.
We were a singular family.

Post T.V.

We numbered ten at the start,
Then aged and drifted far apart;
We can't gather to watch TV,
As we were once wont to be.
But I remember Ernest T.,
Throwing rocks to win Charlene,
And arrested by Sheriff Andy.
We laughed at all the silly doings
Of Barney, and Thelma Lou's wooings.

I send e-mails and textual banter,
(One brother still likes writing letters),
Reminding me of our early days,
How TV censured our innocent ways.

We never were small screen.
We emigrated to Canada from Ireland in 1957. A brave new world.
Jenny Nov 2015
Its easy to forgive the faults and failings of our friends
For love makes it so simple -if some word or deed offends
We try to understand them- for we know the inside out
And if we love them very much we cannot blame or doubt ...
Its just a little harder to forgive an enemy ,or someone who has censured us or done an injury
Its hard to overlook it and be loving,sweet and kind,although we know we've got to,to preserve our peace of mind.....
But to forgive yourself!
why,that's the hardest thing of all
We all do things that we regret,the strongest sometimes fall
We call ourselves all sorts of names ,how angry we can get with self-reproach and worrying and useless,vain regret....
Yet when we whip ourselves like this ,we break our forces down,it robs us of our self-respect,turns smiles into a frown .....
If God forgives us surely there is nothing we can do
We've seen our fault and paid the price and learnt the lesson too....
So banish it this very day and cast it from your heart
Forgive yourself,forgive yourself and make another start.
Ceryn Mar 2014
I was inspired by the many cynical minds
from yesterday and behind,
by countless events of outrage
that poisoned and amazed
the universe that once censured my kind.
But I am not backing down
for in the years to come, you'll see me rise
not away from everyone's judgmental eyes
but with fiery flash, I'll have to burn your pride
and jest the world with my old despicable style.
Pardon my style, but my words and emotions won't cease to rhyme.
Prabhu Iyer Aug 2014
Grown my beard long enough,
time, now, to
announce to the world,
the demands of the new Caliph:

First a rider on raiment -
of black be your fashion.

Then, in the name of the Lord
the most merciful,

We demand razors!
Yeah we need more of them -
for shaving our underarms
and other sacred duties outlined below.

We demand brides!
We can knock at your censured
doors at night:
for faithful brides and
infidel ****** for pleasure.

In the name of the Lord, most merciful,
Madam, may I ask,
is your modesty circumcised?

In the name of the Lord, most merciful,
Can we have more watches please?

But mannequins, they must be covered.
And when we huddle the infidels
in trenches or behead your sons
please, we do so in but peace!
Not to denigrate any religion, but a take on extremists who hijack holy books to satisfy their own lusts for blood and otherwise.
My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

'We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee'
poet.

So to you I said 'I'm ill'
'Care to spill?' she hisses.
'Yes' I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
'Prince and King Godber'
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, ******, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain't slept...
Small ****? Na ****, but let's not go into it tonight,
naked.

In her dreams he's laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn't know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

'Do what thou Wilt' says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do - boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don't you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to **** myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming **** this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half ******,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that's saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal ****, she bleats
'look it up in your encyclopedia of shames'
you'll just find a picture of a woman.

It's intoned meaning
It's poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, ***** on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna **** us.

Already has.

**** it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don't go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.
This poem is primarily about the distance that often occurs between men and women when they don't talk to each other directly enough from their own lived experience. A schizoid howl in the dark.

In one sense a poem about intense conflict, in another a poem about moving forward and learning to accept my own weaknesses.  

The use of graphic strong words and language is just there to emphasise the game that is at play within the words, namely the games men and woman play with each other through life to destroy each other, metaphorically., I hope if needs moderating that this is understood.
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
(Frederick and Matthew entered the forest. They decided to find all Surah’s secrets.)
For Frederick and Matthew, the time of following Surah and Clayton
Without getting caught started. Wanting their arrows to straighten,
They stopped into the wood. They found some pieces of soapstone.
While making the grooves, they looked for the witch in the zone.

'She's not here,' said Matthew,' let's go to evaluate the mining claim.'
'She's hiding, because her everything, now, is a waiting game.'
On horseback and having hunting dogs as companions, they ventured
Deeply into that forest. ‘Surah is angry, because, she is censured.'

The disciplinary controllers of manners and mores had great powers
In her degradation as a noble from her proper class. In the tower's
Prison must stay those affecting the moral welfare of the kingdom.'
'Excommunication is usually used against those acting without wisdom.'

As they made their way close to the mountain's crest, they observed
A cave tucked behind a waterfall. 'So well these fossils are preserved!'
Said Matthew after entering the cave, and finding two big rooms.
‘I think these two chambers were destined to serve as tombs.

For sure, we're not the first humans who visited this part of the cave....’
'If a rock fractures, and collapses now, can we call ourselves brave?
Frederick smiled, ‘It’s great to be brave, while you're still alive.
We must find all the secrets of this cave; thus, we must contrive.'

While exploring the cave, they realized they couldn't find the way out it.
‘You cannot find the way out, because this passage is not brightly lit.'
They searched for an exit, until their lighting was almost spent,
But the dogs led them to the lake knowing to track by scent.

'Move slowly, keep your eyes open, and stop moving things,    
Before you hear what else might move....’'I need some water wings!
Here is a boat!' 'Look on the walls, huge lamps hang on them!
‘We can see now!’’ Look on the ceiling!' ‘I found a Rubin gem!'

'It’s strange that the cave is situated in-between a lake and a waterfall.
Must be a treasure, or maybe a clue hidden in this cave. Check the wall!’
'I found a steel door. It’s rusted shut, and it will not open for me.'
'You're going to need to oil the hinges. Take oil from the lamp. It's free!’

Frederick climbed up the stairs of the tower to get into a room.
He saw Jezebel laid on her bed while sleeping as waiting for her groom.
He understood, in that moment, Surah’s cruel, dangerous game.
She sold her soul to the demon, and sacrificed her family for fame.

’Frederick, come here to see something you have never seen before!’
‘We found a treasure that Surah needed to hide because of that war!’
In a space between walls were hidden thousands pieces of gold.
They found a treasure-filled tunnel. ‘Her suffering was well consoled!’

(Meanwhile, the archbishop was talking with Clara, and Sarah.)
’Mary is ill, and she thinks that she will die soon’, Sarah told him.
‘We must pray for her life’,’ Day by day, her recovery chances slim.’
‘Surah, her sister, how is she? Does she look for a good way of life?
‘She believes in a good way to die. Her life is a ***** strife.’

’It’s hard to bring back a guilty person to another good sense
Of her spiritual condition. All she is doing is to act in self-defense.’
'Surah's punishment should allow other evil-doers to be deterred.
She was persistent in her criminal course, ‘and his words weren’t slurred.

(The archbishop continued to tell them his opinion.)

'There must be a just proportion between the penalty and the crime
Like excommunication and deprivation of spiritual goods for a long time.'
In addition to seeking the return of its properties and assets, the church
Must find its lost documents and values. It needs new rights of search.'

To be continued..tomorrow
Estefannia, Estefannia;
A past t'at is mine, a poem t'at's gone;
A censured love impaired and sourly torn;
A carving of my soul, of my early years;
A sonata and melody t'at hath passed by;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A drama t'at canst never lie;
Even in illness and dark hysteria;
Thou breathe and liveth on inside of me;
Thou forgivest and forgetest me every single day;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Our stories are one and so is our poetry;
Whenst I writest, and so wilt thou;
Thou art part of me, a twin to my flesh;
Thou gigglest and wakest me up to a morning dew.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet like me now and in th' past;
T'ese memories of thine shalt ever last;
Like twists of fate t'at shalt ne'er halt;
Like a feeling t'at shalt stay e'erlasting.

I combeth thy hair and feelest thy lips;
I touchest thy skin and walketh by thy feet;
My past is one, and too is thine;
Just like thou owneth half of me and of mine;

I liveth and breatheth by thy soul in me;
I hath my veins wherein floweth thy blood;
I and thou shalt ne'er be apart;
Thou art with me, in flesh and in my heart.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet of life and love and hatred;
A seer into wintry and sunny days;
A speaker t'at ne'er be portrayed;
A lonely soul at night and in broad daylight.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A mystery lover one hath yet not found;
A fine artist shattered by her grounds;
A midnight and morning and afternoon poet;
A wanderer cursed for even her own good;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
One betrayed by her own gown;
Detested by night and its hazel dystopia;
For all sirs wanteth her t' be alone;
To die in her weeps and moronic hysteria.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Still a lily blooming in yon rotten air;
With cheeks too balmy and sickly and fair;
Ah, so w'ere is love, w'ere might t'is love be?
Might t'ere be not one love for she?

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Alone in her dreamy gardenia;
Longing for love and admission;
In a ruptured world and academia;
Within a dry, and sour dream of oblivion.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Clever in her poems and fantasies;
Witty in her charms and parodies;
Ah, but such a soul is often forgotten;
T'ey wantest her to fade and be gone in seconds.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Ah, what a despised, poor honest soul;
Tangled in a planet filled with filth and foul;
A name t'at a gent shalt ne'er call;
A soul t'at one e'er seeks to fall;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A soul a gent shan't bot'er to remember;
A love a prince destroys, and swaps, and shatters;
A patience ****** into many calls and delays;
A poem t'at finally hath no more to tell of and say.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
A poet with such abandoned peace of mind;
A dame uncloaked in storms and pouring rain;
A lover whose poems t'ey wishest to slaughter;
A diligent soul every gent longest to ******.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
To whom life hath become too pitiful;
To whom such worlds hath been greatly sinful;
Who seeks a love t'at not even exists;
Who is mocked and smothered by such beasts.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Whose labyrinth of love is lost somewhere;
But whose patience sounds sweeter and more beautiful;
Perhaps th' right time's to come, and thou'lt see an heir;
A young poet both legitimate and thoughtful;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Within thy heartbeat recall my whisper;
Amongst the suns' rage and maleficent thunder;
But whenst love becomest two-faced and atrocious;
Thou art still a laugh t'at stays with me;

Estefannia, Estefannia;
For love is hateful, it is unfair;
For love ne'er smiles, nor shalt it care;
For thou art too pristine for its world and itself;
For thou art as pure and prone as pearls.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Perhaps fate shall unburden thee of what thou beareth;
And relieve thee of thy worried breath;
Ah, Estefannia, love shalt be a sign to thee tomorrow;
I hope it shalt be raining and see some snow.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Almighty is awake t'ere, and listening;
His verses are clear through such birds singing;
Singing and gliding and singing and gliding through th' suns;
Lurking by th' clouds and t'eir shivery Friday afternoon.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
For thee a love is riding through th' air;
A love carried by a magnificent persona;
T'at shalt emerge once thou finishest thy painting;
And hovering again through thy writing.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Let's now see night and its fatamorgana;
O'r past poets art all t'ere, watching and guiding thee;
So let not t'is love make thee fear;
For 'tis to arrive whenst thou may not hear.

Estefannia, Estefannia.
One shadow and one fear,
One laughter and one tear.
And t'ere is no mimicry in th' sky, my dear,
For all is one past, a past we canst no more hear.

Estefannia, Estefannia
Spells blew through thy fingers,
Just like t'ese archaic written words.
Like hasty clouds t'at run not off water,
Thou wert once trapped, within t'ese sullen words.

Estefannia, Estefannia
A song of thy voice t'at rings in my ears;
But a song of love, of slumbering vice and hate.
Ah, Estefannia, I am thy soul and still here;
For life is not yet over, and turning back is not late.

Estefannia, Estefannia;
Write all again tomorrow and after;
For poems and thou shalt e'er be together;
For love is t'ere, as thou shalt still seek;
As a breeze t'at flows, whilst it cannot speak.
Filmore Townsend Dec 2012
on.
and love of winter,
found absent though
i do not lament it –
i lament the loss of my ****.
lament as the sun rises.
and acts of valor,
acts of ******* or –suasion,
trail’d off as words
spew forth in riptide.
forth to recreate, to wipe clean.
and censured nods exchange,
we met not eyes, you were
only in my vision’s drift. in my
field of autonomous response.
and in repose at end of day,
all my colors in restful
form. harmonious form.
substantiated form.
and discernable of madness,
reparable non-sense to draw
some drifting vision.
to draw upon jaded gaze
cloak’d defensive.
and i wander the thoughts,
i wander the right
emptiness in your eyes.
and i wander on.
Everyone says that i get all the girl's hearts
I'm shocked that people think so
I guess i'm doing pretty good
I'm just going to keep doing me
The people who give me attitude and bring me down just woke up on the wrong side of the bed
Or just got too bitter within the revolting dread
All these kids want to be rappers
But how many will actually make it?
All these kids want to be the best sports athletes
But many don't get very far
Why does this happen?
Is it from a lack of trying?
Am i asking very censured questions?
Cause if i am, i'll stop.
My heart is too big and my mind is too curious, that might be what pulls everyone in
But i ain't perfect
This one just flowed out too.
Mike Essig Apr 2015
To Be Governed**

“To be GOVERNED is to be watched, inspected, spied upon, directed, law-driven, numbered, regulated, enrolled, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, checked, estimated, valued, censured, commanded, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so. To be GOVERNED is to be at every operation, at every transaction noted, registered, counted, taxed, stamped, measured, numbered, assessed, licensed, authorized, admonished, prevented, forbidden, reformed, corrected, punished. It is, under pretext of public utility, and in the name of the general interest, to be placed under contribution, drilled, fleeced, exploited, monopolized, extorted from, squeezed, hoaxed, robbed; then, at the slightest resistance, the first word of complaint, to be repressed, fined, vilified, harassed, hunted down, abused, clubbed, disarmed, bound, choked, imprisoned, judged, condemned, shot, deported, sacrificed, sold, betrayed; and to crown all, mocked, ridiculed, derided, outraged, dishonored. That is government; that is its justice; that is its morality."
Not all poems are about love.
Regina Golan Feb 2018
I watched your gracefully long,
inflated fingers stretch out
to dial a digital code
on your silvery, slatted intercom,
requesting, no, demanding, that Joel
hustle his way through the humble halls
to your dominion
from the flaccid factory at the opposite end
of the bulky building
that you now so proudly owned,
never willing
to proffer credit for the generous growth
to anyone but yourself.

Sitting on the seventies colorific plaid sofa
in the expanse of your stately second floor office
I watched you shuffle papers, take a long
drag of your slim menthol cigarette and
call across the hall to a father unlike your own.
Her father. That unfit, unworthy, plain Jane wife of yours.
But he wasn’t really hers, because they were all
hustling for you, weren’t they?

I heard my Papa call over to you
in his kind, quiet way,
to ask you to go easy
on the poor sucker
journeying to your jurisdiction,
which made your sky blue eyes crinkle
with obvious revulsion
at the thought of going easy
on one of the many indolent soldiers
doing your bidding
in the catacombs
of the facility, the likes of which
you rarely, if ever,
set that size 16 foot of yours.

Immediately changing face, I watched as
an enormous mustache-framed smile unfolded
over your classically Russian,
hand-carved vanilla face,
like an animated Asian fan
in a Geisha’s dexterous dance.
You looked at me in boyish anticipation as you asked me,
“Where shall we go for lunch today?”

When Joel entered the vaulted, double doorway, he made no sound
as he tread on the luxurious gold-threaded carpet that had been laid
merely one week before, at the disgust of your father-in-law.
As he entered, Joel’s hunched-back frame curved due left
and anxiety clearly riddled his fearful face.
He began to whimper aloud, like a bleating animal
in line to be slaughtered, as your booming base bravado
shook the white walls
and made, even me, wince in astonishment.

It was the first time that I saw your potent power,
the likes of which I dared not ever ask to be
directed toward me, the eldest of your clan
and the most subservient of us all.
I learned early on that Daddy knows everything
important to know, that Daddy rules
the rectilinear roost, that Daddy should not
be questioned, even if my childish certainty
told me otherwise.
You needed me to believe in you.
It was your right to be followed
as a censured book of law
in the judicial system of life.

Once Joel’s injured suit of armor thumped its way
out the detached double door,
your face lightened five shades of pale
and delight beamed through your bright eyes
like a small child tasting the salty sweetness
of your very first kaleidoscopic-colored candy.
It was time for me to name
the extravagant restaurant of my choice.
It was once again you and I
against the unworthy, wretched world.
My know-it-all, darling Dad and your gifted little angel,
the extension of yourself in all the best ways,
granted I kept my mouth from moving and
my words to a pleasant, flattering tone,
like the finely spun fibers of your
newly acquired, gilded carpet.

Where shall we go, my foolish father?
Direct me, for my innocent eyes are
yet short-sighted to an intelligence such as yours.
Help me get up from your stately sofa
and build me a faulty foundation on which to stand
my worthless and wanting self
so that I may be worthy of the
peripheral love that so far has eluded me.
Anora Anakaya Sep 2011
Two halves of me are warring.
One with logic and good intent.
The other with feeling and a heart.

One bends all reality
in an attempt to prevent
heartache and hurt.

The other speaks from
the tip of the tongue
nothing censured
and without care for possible pain.

One wages battle
against all that I know of you.
The other will never give up
or back down
or cease to care
for you.

One waves a ****** banner
claiming death unto the enemy.
"**** thine own heart"
They shout.

The other waves a banner of peace
Doves upon a white sheet.
"Love thyself and he"
They call out.

The ****** battle rages on
Each side claiming to be right.
Slowly one half begins to wane.
Its prowess cannot match
The other's beating heart.

One strikes the fatal blow
One side dies a mangled mess.
If the heart beats the logic,
logic might be spared.
But if logic doth prevail,
the heart shall be no more.
Please critique.
A sweet, chirping grey jungle tree;
Stirring up bloodied doses within me,
I hath been abducted by morose darkness;
And its fetal, yet obnoxious messes,
For t'is flowered cave smelling just like death!
And to me, death is more like an obsession
In a glaze this phony, and dripping wet
Cold that I hath met about, in person.
One that hath fascinated me; with wronged tears
A single soul is not yet there to hear;
And lurking pools of fears, all blended
Into the versatile skin of the unfriended
Moon, being the beige universe, and evil—
Although he knows not how I should feel.

I, had been enslaved by the worst sun;
And tied to the post of unwanted salvation.
I, not being the privilege of Life now;
I shall go tonight, and not return tomorrow.
I had enough love, but with no love to be,
I shall not halt to see this side of me.
And hark! By the solitary lights of the moon;
The Earth was once my saluted destination;
But who could fight for a savage battle
In an attempt to experience rebirth,
Born with no contempt for the world;
But with Remorse bludgeoned, and hurt,
As though I had committed but treason;
And living was just to hold a vain reason.

For such reasons would be censured venom;
To them, who raved not at my longest poems,
And my guilt’s blood would be their songs,
They had committed justice, and no wrong;
Which a dour soul could adore at a lonely night,
Whilst being mute towards the shifting trees,
Torture and denial were the nail of Sunlight,
Waking me up to the enchantment of ragged bliss.
Had I, another day, woken up to another peril;
I acknowledged my embedded fate as an Evil,
To recite the spells that had infuriated me,
An indolent vice that had but been meant to be.
An insult, that such straggled **** may hate;
But so, forgiveness is far a threat too late.

Such fortuities, I hath not cornered to embrace;
And I shall not be back to sing conned waste,
And by being gratuitous and to *******,
I want to be the handsome rebellion to my fate;
Had I found myself trapped on the defunct floors;
I could not escape marked death at Midnight's door,
And at that sick moment I had been flawed,
Frightened, slackened to my rawest flesh,
By the metal edge of a cut sword, and then;
I was but Death at the rotten night, my friend!
Such fiends, such rage—were far in their summer bliss,
And yet I but grew as a faint shadow in peace;
I watched their flaked nostrils from inside my tomb,
My tomb, and its scraped walls—my quiet home,
I could not breathe now, nor bend towards a kiss;
I was the soul the Earth had forgot, had missed;

I, roused again now as a darling apparition;
I wear a black mask and utter repetitions,
No soul shall want to collapse in my steps—and bolt!
I hath entrapped many daydreaming in sloth,
Those with looser complacency, and breath
In their nostrils lives such straggly wrath;
And in such hair so ricocheted and unkempt,
How canst one but find a stranded scarf, a lamp?
With the odour of blood I can taste, and yet
Makes my hungered mouth groaning wet,
I hath drunk from too many souls, and I
That shan’t live any more, nor shall I die;
Ah! Now I shall ****, and begin with the dirt—
Cleansing such Earth off of malignant worlds!

What a disgrace, a scraggly—yet resilient disgrace!
A bend in the road had I been, and was I mean
To the world but sought not to know me?
And at times of need, their race but leaned to me;
And their fair promises, and royals, had not been true—
Unlike the verity of the justice I had found, and knew.
Unlike my bosoms, that had faced too much sorrow,
These ghastly sighs and temptations shall know now;
I hath found the world to lay my head silently,
With no love to be, and cut my love reverently;
That the stars should watch us meanly, but sure
They would not be a stale aura to my picture.
But to die, to cease demurely without a certain name
Shall be one that feels not my pool of shame;
And t’is crime is no exception, o my lover—
I am exempt now, from the insolent love, forever!

What an imbecile, that we embraced to softly!
What a butterfly that cannot fly in me;
Not a life that holds my chest, nor my blossom
Not a purity that holds clear my poem, o thee!
An ink on the page, but yet ‘tis my story
That I want freedom to writ my fierce destiny.
What a blurred visage to my vision such is,
What a menacing world to want a kneeling kiss!
With no love to see, and with no called name,
They hath no trifling tales nor misspelled shame;
That I had perhaps been too morally confused,
That Death was ethereal, but coldly infused;
Ah, thou, so to thee Death is no exception—
Having not thought of my hurt, my inflammation!

For a living fate can be unassuming, and uncertain;
For humans can die, and be nauseous;
For such lives are a demerit; and for a friend;
For a destiny that can be true, but tedious.
From a love that I am already free,
From a love so ubiquitous; and in unison,
I am obliged to no merits, nor tragic beauty;
I shall seek and give no compassion, nor reason.
And in a vain attempt had I hastily tried;
And in a vain triumph had I sullenly dried;
And in bewitching the silky skies had I died;
So shan’t I return to the boisterous Heavens,
The Lord bitterly misplaced me, and lied
To me behind the graves, and rained gardens.

For in the days that followed my death, hath I sworn
To kidnap back the life that had been blown;
And be the Black Spirit they would find pertinent
To hear the trespassing of death, and their moments
To crunch the life of the ones before me;
Amicable as they were in their apposite defence,
But not as the lush presentation of their beauty;
That I should entrance and ****** them, hence.
Who couldst defend my murdered youth but me;
Who couldst strongly step on my bursts of anger;
Who couldst restore my prone poetry but ******;
Who couldst live but I, who lives forever;
Who couldst separate my from my agony;
Who couldst live but with ill fate, and be?

For the age that I hath lost, and thoughtless’ burnt
And of being grace, and kind hath I not heard;
And with delight, shan’t I stop and turn;
For no obvious reason, for no maddened alert.
I am stronger in my rebirth, and with sharp, strident
Steps, hath I grown more braced and confident;
For no reason, for no further light hath I doubted;
For no marks, nor discourse hath I faulted;
For such apologies, and humility are obsolete,
For my imagination of such is clear, and yet;
I hath no more obligations so, to be met—
And with such unwavering strength crystal clear,
And everlasting sleep to me so near,
I am to grow out of the vines of my grave;
And descend carefully on the midnight’s cape.
And yet, who is sleeping sweetly in his wife’s bed;
I shall soon send him into delicious death.

For the life that had been obediently drawn;
For the miraculous night that turned to dawn,
For the life that had belonged to me, and so
I am to be above the stars, and ever in the know
All my victims so sternly, thoughtfully, and deeply
I am to **** reverently, and by sweetness, vigilantly:
“I am to drink the redness, and be the Sun’s equal”
My voice singing through the forest’s damp halls.
And now yet, with the futile man dead in my arm,
I fling myself into another chained woman’s charms!
With her blood so capricious dripping down my throat;
I can feel myself furiously sweat, and sweetly float;
I am to rouse in transparency through the roof;
And be the midnight, no more aloof!

And to be the Spear of the universe, and hell;
I would like to wish every fault and demerit well;
Soon, there shan’t be the raucous singing of jingle bells,
Death is in everyone—eating off of their shells.
Ah! My lover’s flesh, that I am devouring eagerly;
Now is but a piece of provision so sweet to me;
In which I canst indulge in but a locked pain;
Feeding off of his blood and its red rain;
Ah, I am so hungry, and those eyes are for me!
He gasps, and I am free now, as the flannel sky;
I am free to haunt and grasp all about me,
I can feel their smell descend about so nigh.
My lover, and his vain woman of the scorched past
Are now in death, far from their sly voices and hearts!

And to be the Sword of the Space, and devils;
I feel honoured to be part of the evils;
And be the taunt and haunting to all men,
To all this Earth’s visions, emblazoned fiends!
To me, all of their deaths hath been inscribed;
Ever since I was grown from dead, and my lungs
Hath been imbibed with more pronounced vibes,
And choruses more awesomely sung;
I am to assimilate those humans, now, ha-ha!—
And be a creature of the night, the Hailed One,
They shall bow to me in flash, and in my old Stanza;
All murders are to be spoken, to be done!
My enemy, and his once powerful screeching speech;
Gunned down into his last breath, the gospel’s ditch!

And the vitriolic dream, now, that is too high;
I shall not stop until all petrified souls shall die,
There, above me, the afterlife writing in agony,
Justified in every sense, and be the last poem
That I shall write in my dated prose of destiny;
I hath become the Satan to destroy, and numb
All the rhymed births and breaths of life, ah!
I hath been ****** into this fate, of my own;
And be I never a praised, nor a soft wife—
Yet I am impressed already, by closed immortality;
And my youth forever, with its endless passion
And latest bursts that happen in eternity,
I am to counter and cure all my halted questions;
I shall go and return, I hath all the time in me!

And Ruthlessness, then, that is too holy;
I hath admired thee with all the blood in me,
And to restore the humanity in me prominently;
I shall **** all, and make their deaths permanently!
For all deaths are idyll to me, and my abode,
An abundance as I roam, and float about!
What hath happened to my human, and bold songs,
For they hath not been a sky to me, all along;
What a condescending spirit a human is,
For they think what a fierce not is;
Whilst all that is thin is bold, and a rose;
What a singing displeasure to my prose!
Ah, to **** all, and cherish all their dyings,
I shall cut and devour with my heart singing!

Then, into the skies, as I ascend I hear
All flowered flesh is but towering so near;
They hath heartbeats and clueless rainbow;
They are not to fight me with violence,
They hath no tyranny, nor are above my shadow;
They hath no abode—but my impertinence!
Ah, and blessed am I, so meekly blessed;
This is but the best day I hath ever had,
For so anger and betrayal are not unwise at all;
And so holy are miseries, and miseries are ******.
I am to **** more, and bring my joys to Fall,
I am to eat, and devour more in summer.
I am to drink more, and bleed in winter;
To celebrate deaths, and merry more in my walls!

Then, into the Earth, as I descend I see
That I descend with a later moon, and be
For all who loved me, there shall still be death;
For I shall arise amidst these unhearing walls,
For the many teardrops that were shed,
For the shrieking pains I shared, and their toll;
For the world, that hath not been too exquisite,
For the crowds, that hath all along lacked such wit,
For the Sun, that hath ne’er been a soul sweet;
For a love that ne’er had a single beat!
For a love that I hath fragrantly cursed,
For a love I hath determined to make worst.
I am to eat, as though I am the Sun, the West;
I shall put its whole black pit to sleep, to eternal rest!

With all good cheer hath I spoken, and thus I turned
To see further stomachs and chests lying down, churned
And eating off of them is a swarm of butterflies
That were stirred to life by my own puke of frights;
And I, spitting out but flames and fires from within me
And my mouth that hath burnt thousands of thee,
I am not afraid to claim my rights, as I please;
And to destruct far more indeed, as I wish—
Which I celebrate as an ordinary gift, and yet
Hath made and shall render all conscious souls mad!
And all about me hath gone to precious sleep
In their admiration of my prominence, and weep;
And all about me hath turned to obstinate death;
Ripped down of breath, and any traces of life, of late.

With sainted grand glory hath I writ, and rejoiced
The merry and cordial pleasures of deathly bliss;
For such splendour, are not lovingly present every day,
And the vanished worlds have become dear to me today;
That now, as I devour another’s wrist, and arms
I am absorbed within death’s knocking charms;
And his limbs offer farther delicacy than the stars,
And his soul be a playful drink two worlds apart;
Another one, that tastes like those fine vines,
And grapes, and the fruits smelling like Truths.
Ah! I sit there, leaning softly against the Cedar Mine;
Sipping his blood by the humming Eolian lute;
His veins dry and graze me, sickly, too fast;
I hath not had a drink and feast too vast!

And with deadening love hath I lived, and existed
In the world into which Faith hath not fitted;
Like the ode in me, trying to tie the Moon
Whilst such dimmed favours laid in the Sun;
I had been crafted only, but in vain
I had been transmitted also, but in pain
And all despaired, with my talents, to death
To be woken again in renewed hate;
What a fault of thine, o thee, and perhaps mine;
At times a rustic stupor to me, and yet is fine!
I am the Evil to be, and Satan so free,
At peaceful hours shall I come to thee;
Finding my ecstasy in Death and ******;
My civilian songs to the Earth, forever.
Lorraine Colon Feb 2017
Soon the sun will set in this valley
Where I've roamed for many a year,
So many questions left unanswered!
So many answers remain unclear!
And others will ask what has been asked before,
But this much I know:  I'll ask no more

I cannot say that I'll miss this Earth
That censured me at every turn;
Too often were tearful lessons laid
On a heart that was too slow to learn,
And many more tears will flood misery's shore,
But this much I know:  I'll cry no more

And as for love that hid from my view -
Come, emerge from your hiding place!
I'll no longer seek your charity,
Supplication was my heart's disgrace;
Surely, more lonely hearts will plead at your door,
But this much I know:  I'll beg no more

This frame will dissolve into the soil
To nourish the worms and green things,
And flowers and birds will take delight,
Uncomprehending the gifts death brings;
And life will continue the same as before,
But this much I know:  I'll be no more
Torin Jul 2016
I don't need friends
Jeoulosy invites envy
And weight can be so much to bare
Without carrying you on my coat tails

Bombs for the bombastic
I'm dropping all I can
Because my hands
Don't want to hold on

The only peaceful end to war
Is when everyone is dead
And I'm still standing

I have been censored
Censured
Left to let this rotten fruit destroy the garden
afraid to speak my truth for some delicate sensibilities

Bullets without guns
I've loaded up on ammo
And taken names
Wars will rage with or without me

But how does the war end?

The only peaceful end to war
Is when nations are destroyed
And I'm still standing
Russell Conrad Nov 2013
It's true that in my brevity of life, I was censured for trouble. Constantly considered the desponding mind of a normal boy, and why or how did I become what I am. My answer to them has always been the same, since I was just a child, your deplorable young blood has been ripped up. Thrown to the side for the gibbet by all the wrong scrupulous attitudes, and I'm running out of deference to give. The prodigious lies brought me here, and I'm glutted throughout the mind, soon to be forever blind.
Sally A Bayan Jan 2019
. . . /\ . . .
_______


Every ticking of the clock
there occurs some bad or good acts
they could be organized, or unkempt,
yet, nothing, or no one could pre-empt
our thoughts.....there's not a hint of rage
just questions on being there on a big stage,
called life, like a puppet...or pulling your own
strings...fighting abuse when that moment is born,
the fear to err...in making a vital decision
to reel, when marked as  a failed person,

who wants to be censured......or judged,
be disheartened by an ugly smudge?

it's almost unwelcome, to hear scrutiny
wary of doors shutting on you, with finality

it's hard not to hear people's words
when they hit the ears
and the chest.............like swords,
a hostile wind.....a strange silence...are felt,
loud in their echoes,
........no human heart is ever made of pelt.

faith and hope
........embolden the spirit to persist,
to rise from all storms in life
...............to still exist...

when the winds blow nonstop,
............................is, i believe,
God's way of fanning the fires,
........................of our will, to live,
we  go on breathing
...................we survive......

Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
January 26, 2019
Ken Pepiton Jun 2023
Dear, the cost, not the idle salutation once
taught as business standard, Dear Sir,
Dear Madam,
Dear dear dear me
I do believe I must
become the tutor, of me
make the mental, sensible
{to the author with fidential zeal}
think yourself through 75 years, find

the hidden first love, the first own thing, kept
held as common sense, whosoever does mean me.
So, ever is the course wherein human events fluxuate.
----
Faust, I failed to read  when assigned.
So today, I dipped
into my own past, and found
the sense used then, the need,
in truth
to know
the world is alive.
And, as seen
through eyes a million miles away, our
shared seeing causes all our sensory arrays
to look back, and think another pace time
uses to cross space, bursts of insight, gasp

poiesis - that which "pro-duces or leads (a thing) into being'" patient work, tedious as setting type
by candlelight, sighing in knowledge, the tree
of radical aspirations to bear dozens of kinds
of fruits, some useful to life, some useless, though
we try, some sets life has been lived through, to you,
- such scenes could have ended other ways.
epochs, men have no honest measure for such
spans of time used to attain the heights
from which we look across my valley
and feel one of us, making peace
with the fact that war does not function
in reasoning contests, as war is unreasoning,

the stubborn little devil who knows only what
he wishes he had control over the use of, this
spirit of adventure, tamed in wisdom gathered
and attributed to a mystical king, truly mythical,
we know that way of singing praises, exalting men
as God's special agents, as proud of the title,
as any agency of secrets sacred national trust,
in God,
as Solomon Chase assured Mr. Lincoln,
We put our faith in the people's belief
in the goodness of the use of the money printed
and minted to pay for war and exact a capital plan,

one nation, under God, as defined
by the finest minds,-- aieee wait, fun facts, scatter
braining how much space is empty in a mind
made up enough
to devise a new form
of governing, as if all forms existing feel wrong,
to us, we freemen, with all the slaves we need,

we have the leisure to reason with antiquity
and realize, if ever there were eight billions
of possible re-connection surgings to emerge

as mind unmade up, come to watch a battle,
war and all its uses come to reason missed
understood standards force laws obediance

the idea
of thought being possible fails,
materially
in any formal structure possible only
with our  
gravity as matter's law one,
beyond free willing quarkish mean ways

One love idea, Reggae guysay, rollon
in the course, the rut, fun's t'come

Long, long long longer that you wish to learn
winding lines wishwings…
Spat like one o'dem spittin' images

In a pig's eye, one can see what we don't know.

A looping, stitching stretching stream
threading current
of consciousness, packeting
in formational preceptoriallines
of irrational reasonings insisting persist
- gutwrenching hungers are not visual.
stirring emotions is not stirring use of knowns,
arts entaling science, we agree. No nasty words.

Ghuckyew. Rhea… diversify religiously
extol the gnosis of knowing the ropes
tying tight the ifity-ness used to hold work
done by the weaver and seamster on time,
folding edges to feel flat, smooth, inside
-- where whole cloth joins cut edges
at any selvedge process,
where curves cut
from fabric woven mind wise, tend
to come undone
on mechanical extentions
of fingers and toes,
and music imagined as humms
after the setup,
as the machines imagined and eventually made up
vibrate alluring frequent acknowledgement
we know you know, we may be realized already
- looking back and front and side ways, down up
---
Judging myself unfinished, yet
done doing all assignments, yet
getting an itch to prove approval, yet
hesitating,
for lack of knowing, and laziness, yet
learning
patience's
false witness argument,
if what we preach is not true,
how could we be so sure we know

Jesus ate, in his quickened flesh, fish.
Thus, we must be persuaded,
we shall also be
fishy. Da
gone gone dagonitgone antigone gone


theater of doubt, all in white, lime-lit
blinding all who care or dare to see
as blind, the faith of the gamblers's
thrall to money love and war.

Betterment through betting, all-in…

Have you any real
estate in which you do attest, its me?

I am my own real estate, executer
am I of all that I choose to do or not
in the confines of the course of human events,

as Hoyle's mind built canals on Mars,
so now we bet we can imagine being special,
as me, on a planet with, thee, you, Sie, du, see do.
- a viral propagation plan, thorny issuances
- sniff or sneeze, but do not die trying to make
- peace with all war makes worth lying for.

As we, our wedom began, as any wedom must,
the laws of philo and phobia in science used
by us, the we at point, piercing this wall,
your reading mind accepts the bet, if
this is art, for the sake of artifice
imagined in a current form, an AI
of informing fluid finding reason to bend,
or stretch, taut as drum, a net unseen
by any bird in resistance.

Posi and Nega, sisters in myths, new myths,
affect the same unknowing rash decisions,
when in truth, statistical-knowing one thing true,
there is at the most wee-tiny scale, an emptiness,
a mean unobstructed way for right to be, or not,

and now, we are, so we made that choice.

Today, this is that way which is the only way.
Today, this map of numerable lines, in nos, laws…
sense we are all in-im
balancing percepts on precepts,
undermining certainty,
exalting godishtical oracular maxims,

Knowledge is power,
secret knowledge, you may never know,
riddle reasoning used in cogito sums
given children to solve by asking
parents proper questions,
and writing show and tells. Wanna bet?

Al Suri, spokesman for FUD,
Fear, Uncertainty, Doubt,
appears to persuade martyrs,

the illiterate prophet's utterly canonical
promise of a certain libidinous eternity,
most appealing to frustrated post pubescent boys.

Stacks of squared away blocks,
stack up as extending the reach of order
coming down from the top, whither
the light that said the single word,
according to the Prophetic voice,
Read, he heard, and I cannot, he replied,
fold here, hear me, light seen, I cannot read,

what is here for me to read, a thought,
what are you saying, read, what is reading worth,
to one who has never learned the letting out
of silent song or scream, or plea for hope,
flowing as from scribal rod in perfection,


Two things only do the people earnestly desire,
bread and the circus (Juvenal)
"Duas tantum res anxius optat, Panem et circenses"

Here, sing. Reconciled, by doing singing heard,
sing out, child, hear yourself singing as if you know
how such a thing as singings may be made up,
to seem perfectly fine,

a mused mentality, thing of thought, with something
words alone lack, essentially.

Seven Types of Ambiguity

--- at this moment, my writing records show
today is June 3, my only ever wife's birthday,
that's right, and I know that it is morning,
by the angle of the sunlight though my window,
and the leafy shade dancing over sleeping moss.
Yet at that moment he looked back to reread
Presenting a new mind
Wednesday, May 3, 2023
11:02 PM
real-time 9:52 AM… we all find that, too odd.
And glibbly mention glitching…
Query Greek logos gnosis, active in-tell seek:
Brave AI Sums it up.
The Gnosis logo is an example
of a crypto industry logo
from Global, designed
for the crypto industry.
It is an official variant
of the logo
for the SVG file format standard.
Gnosticism is a Christian belief that claims
to possess a higher knowledge acquired
on a mystical higher plane of existence.
The ancient Greeks distinguished
between two types
of knowledge: gnosis and logos.
Gnosis was akin
to "how-to"
such as
how to build a boat or ride a horse,
while logos was more akin
to academic knowledge
such as knowledge
of mathematics or logic.
The distinction between the two types
of knowledge was important I-i
n the early history {noerror}
of Christianity,
with Gnostic Christians
emphasizing
gnosis
while the Catholic Church
emphasized logos{… not logical? Ai ask}
Gnostics see themselves as a privileged class
elevated above everybody else
by their higher, deeper knowledge of God.
- higher deeper, good one, HAL
--- Yes, AI am a cyborg, and a heretic, and king
of me and many wedoms formed
with books
by authors and finishers
of faith utility tales, told
to make believers,
stop thinking this impossible, and pose
the question,
are you me, dear reader, I trow not, I am mere
when you are so near as to read my very mind.

Virtue, undefined signals sent through time
to when you stop, and see selah, as instruction
in constructing a foundational faith, establish
mental
anchor. Persist in time, be yourself a while
while
nothing makes sense, yet.

{Akio Kashiwagi, the warrior}, money maddened
survivor or apprentice or pawn
of greed's gift
of mighty right feelings,
taker's joy, loser's grief, and none
of my own,
eeeeha!
emphasis on imagine the feeling

MAGA, as when the We persisting in aliegance,
feel our national ideal We take all the Mandan had,
and waste it seeking the use of money, on credit,
to make the possibility
of human error
manifesting
in Manichean lying prophecies,
as solemnly sworn on the true revelation,
from Moses, Lycurgus, Thoth or Hiawatha,
as it is written, so it must be done,
come the time all knowing is free
for the asking
- orthodox, right, upright, gravitationally
- balancing spirit and truth as effortlessly
- as a child on a rock in a pond in tree pose,
- sent to me,
- instantly, a moment later, with a note,
- from five years ago, when my chess mate
- was five years old and told his ma,
show Grandpa

Knowledge confidence power,
believing is the verb such forces use,
by faith, we breathe, when we stop and think,
we must believe a breath is available to not fear
when all our wind is loosed, not lost,
in time, we find far higher forces

legal, Empire law, winner's of the last global war,

America, my country, right or wrong, Philip Nolan,
a ghost from summers past,
A man without a country… yet kept alive,
- alone on an island with 5G and a solar charger
Idle words arrange from data entertaining venu,
deja venu, no? Same time, same mind…
- by laughing outloud ten times, or more each day.

Physical failure of happy thoughts,
whose fault is that, the splitzoid schitzoid gnoshit

Nieztsche, ezt ni-eztscheanic logos-ical guessering being
gamed. As time passes un lost, locally accounted for.

All in, ages ago, take the card/

In writing, guaranteed, you know waddamean…
let this rock be my witness, as happy Sisyphus says,
listen to the pundits pundate exceptional fore sight

"Only a catastrophe can save us"
Slavoj Žižek - Elevate Festival 2023

Vieleicht. Ich weis nichts, aber
möglicherweiseerweise….

Alles ist, so Alles sein kann.
- waking after a time slip, inevitable
- at my age and constituted pose on point.

Gather up the fallen down, save that for later.

Proving reconstructed causal agent reaction,
volatile will
to expand
to fill the emptiness,
perceived as where no catastrophe has yet to be
- a selah level settler subtle law, still waters
- obey, under the message read obey
- acting as if we know we may imagine new
- realities, with real life on earth our goal,
- the whole truth free to be sought,
- as givens, after the religious power knot
- was snipped, and done was done,
- the genius in Alexander, swallowed
- his childish faith in the lesson, for the rush
- of power
- and peace
- of mind, alienated from all anxious patterns
- cursing recurving conception, grasp a straw
- hope takes no anxious thought,
Thinking that
could halt the chain reaction. Up, imagine, ever
upping the competing reason, grave issues
write down the reel
of all the wars's reasons,
catalog gathered sensibilities, certain fixedness,
functionally aimed
at you, readying your last excuse.
- certainty is madness

We all fall down,
the actual truth, is upto our rolling over
to rise again.

Fret nought,
Life is rough draft, really,
nonsensical, save subjectively, rejecting seeing
catastrophe except while standing on one's own head.

a bit in the confusion
of comforting zones, meek

defending diffidence, while exercising confidence,
this is life, and more fun than any game, after accepting
the yes in the promise of all yeses. Seriously.

Diffidence is a defect:
it is an undue distrust of self,
with fear
of being censured
for failure, tending
to unfit one
for duty. [Century Dictionary]

Duty done, Private, First Class. Walk away.

The we bound by war born law, pays me,
to make peace where none was,
the re-leasing of easy living,
as ware of life as of self,
breathing breath's giver's gift, sharing air,
as fish share seas, feeling

a sense, now known named auto, self
poiesis gnosisnot sticky substance of faith
imagined in hope… reali
zation, global in scope, Higgsian
in the spirit of our times.

A Thousand Day Journey, a novel event
taken as granted, a gift in passing time,
I finished this counting
to account for all the lies I ever told me.

No new thing under the sun, Nieztsche
and Solomon's proverb collections attest,
recursings face reblessing, redefining finity

engineering gut bubble noise, gurgle's good,
we all get gurgle, giggle then can follow, if

we have recovered from memorized lines,
hero stories we tell with me on the horse,
riding to announce the thing which we fear
is come upon us and I alone escaped to tell,

but I had no hammer, and I had no bell,
but I had these jagged dancing lights,
where the floaters on my eyes are
constructing cataracts as I watch,
white wall squint old men wishing to see
- Biden squint eye does not intimidate,
- the new defense secretary in his wake
rhetoric of war in real time, records we trust
in God, prove no war ever can make peace,
with calling proof enough, reproof
of instruction is the way of life,
the ruliard is imaginably infinite, if the base idea

becomes "Knowledge comes in flavors and colors",
useful for any artist's mind enabled to recover
lost time in real time with novel assistance
from grand reservoirs of rain's retained
for power to attain the steady state,
all men, wait, suff it to become as
created equal
in worth
to the functional
fortuitous continuance
of serious sharp edged tools… swords with motors,
I saw Jerry Pournelle say.
In print.
In the spirit of this mindshare.
Rightly dividing the truth with mere words,
exercising godliness, effecting fervent will
to be as plain a plan as any ever,

accept the weight of knowing we walk upright,
we need crawl only for a while, as we learn,
like riding a bike,
some things we do with machine augmented minds,
minds exposed to speeds and constant story threading

the washer first, then the nut, then the crown nut
and the cotter key, to hold the prop,
seen ******* wind across my sky,
real life, I have the image,
and have not used Photoshop in years, this is the future.
I will doubtless exist in the ever as long as HP, perhaps as long as the Amazon cloud, and the map to my current state of perfectly fine, thanks, is due to the therapy caused by being read by such as you, and gleaning from your fields/
Willoughby Sep 2018
To my followers ( though the numbers be few) I weep crocodile tears for you (dry as they may be) that you unfortunately didn't get to read my latest poem, "My Wife is a Sheep".  It was barred.  Censored.  Monitored. Deleted. Not posted.  
Oh the humanity! 
  
    Again I crossed some line.  So I'll begrudgingly
acknowledge it, in a gun to my back sort of way, and apologize to the Hello poetry monitors.  Why apologize?

    I don't want the sensors, monitors - **** overlords, here at Hello Poetry to be angry and on a warpath out to get me. So I'm sending them each a box of happy chocolates telepathically to mentally stupify their minds and sooth them in their misunderstanding and assure them that my writings inflict no harm to them or to Hello Poetry. I'm a good buddy. I'm a friend... Love you!

 Give us a little freedom of speech for heaven sake.  After all, freedom of speech is an amendment guaranteed by law.  Your not against laws, freedom, the Constitution, America are you?    
  
I'm one of the world's last remaining shock poets and even I'm becoming extinct. You wouldn't want that to happen would you?
I'm an endangered species!

    How can I reach full realization as a writer if I'm censured. How can I blossom and flower as a poet, and let my stamen dangle in the wind for the bees to land on and take away my gooey nectar (uh oh, could be a ****** reference -- Let's barr it, censor it, delete it, not post it). 

    Ultimately, how can I be the "go to guy" shock poet if I can't be shocking? When a reader wakes up and feels like a dose of shock poetry to start his day, and I'm not around, what will they do?

     My advice to you Hello Poetry monitors is to go out and do something shocking!  Feel it's rush. Roll around in its essence. Revel in its pump.  Then  you'll see. you'll be like me. Liberated.  So free....now relax and repeat after me. I love shock poetry...shock poetry......shock poetry....
Lawrence Hall Feb 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                   My Songs are off Spotify

I’m going to take my songs off Spotify
Not that I know what Spotify might be
Or that I have any songs to take away
Only that it seems to be a thing these days

I want to be censured by Republicans
Not that Republicans know what they might be
Or that they ever notice me at all
Only that it seems to be a thing these days

I want to think today and pray for you -
Now those are exactly the things to do!
A poem is itself
Abbigail Nicole Oct 2017
she’s beige, belonging to the tailor-made census censured for centuries.
you know, those clones clinging to a clue and cozying up to epicurean corpses.
bellisima encore, her with the eclipsing ego like some ill-conceived freudian offspring.
woman of gospel – preaching gore, gossip, guile – isle of iconic illusion.
When their ears fell in love with the Orthoptera or Grylloideas before Joshua, the night was restless, abandoning them from their shelters, they brushed the seeds of the thistle that trembled with the new millennium of the Duoverso.  Levitating their ailerons in the tenors of their birth and dilettante sounds, before an ovipositing candor of the remains of the abdomen that remained in their jaws, always being from one of the Beams, for the largest Ensiferas that hung from their antennas in search of Joshua's telepathic messages in the manger. Sappho of Mytilene, also known as Sappho of ****** or simply Sappho, pretended to be a marigold proliferating in the twenty corridors of the Greek poet, and also as the tenth poet in the other ten that was reflected with transparent wings of the dew that stuck physical phenomena -Saphonic, and in the relent rain of wind and condensed air, in the form of drops due to the sudden decrease in temperature in contact with cold surfaces. Sappho dew was spoken of in Kafersuseh, usually when it comes to condensation on a Poetic Grylloidae surface, naturally on the ground cover or artificially on a dull foggy crystalline, in the amount of supernatural tradition, heroes, superheroes, and anti-heroes conspiring with the territorialities of the hexagonality and the brutish wings of the Cricket that were preparing to take root in the manger to combat the demons of Ashera, sniffing with their antennae in trills of physical-ethereal bronze wings, under intra-caudal grazing of the manger, under the aligned conjunction of the parapets and the Crickets that were preparing to take root in the dismembered arms, speaking with their trill antennas and physical-ethereal bronze wings, under an infra-caudal pastoral of Kafersuseh and under the aligned set of the barbicans.

The Aramaic message comes forward with vigor from the orthopterans and birds that piled up on the journey, going back and forth. The Beams shone from the celestial kingdom holding onto the Cherubim and the Archangels, through the paths of conversion and the support of the bizarre Christian time, in implacable hegemony for the propaedeutic of phylogeny, but more than a perfumerist chemistry and the same creation. carrying Lepidoptera winged tetra and Sand Crickets, on the interlocking and obfuscated pheromones from a nascent-elemental child, in his own evangelical philosophy, from a winged dimensionality and in the gloom of Manger shouted and aligned, before the compendiums of double pyramidal landmarks and of inflection, of his word in the Grylloids and panaceas created in the affinity of the world and of Animalia, stylizing muleteers carriers, phrasing acronyms and parabolizing the polygonic nomenclature of the child made territorial man on the wings of a Cricket, already being it! but depicting himself as a lifeless man in the fullness of a canon advantageous child, from a sudden two-dimensional grillionality. A great Zohar light was gathered all towards a whole in those errors of advantageous terrestrial columns and orthopterans that Joshua felt in advance in his resined ears, as irreversible entropy giving back his wise existence to prepare them for the day of his holocaust. Pre Existing in catharsis and substantive busilis of divinity connected with the Grylloid phylogenetic species, classifying until the Aramaic crackle, pontifying pheromones settled in the lithosphere site of Gethsemane, in a biological sense and in close coincidence in the fording of a big book period, or in the phenomenological simultaneity of Eukaryota and Glaucophyta until late Animalia, giving parental relationship in the characters of the vibrational timbre of the Beams and the atavistic pedestal, readjusting themselves in the evolutionary elliptical of winged tetra species, allowing to change the ancestral linguistic accouterments in processes of the redesign of the genetic historical tree ..., divine and increasing.

Inter-Duoverse, in the demography of space it has been frequented since today in a nuptiality between the Sun and the Earth, wrapping the inter-generational homes that have prostrated themselves to the One-Dimensional Beams, evolving millions of years with between links of northern angels and the south, for each year between the years and lustrums that the ancestors are passionate about, unleashing their youths and eternal ideals as they aged, as an atom not guaranteed in families that did not get to know their Duoverse. When they walk through the urbanized farm of their parents they go in their shoes and from the parental sun to interparental barefoot. The children travel far from the monographic patriarchy, declaring themselves among psychic families in unstable networks of trunk conformity and procreation, dismissing family industrialism towards industrial cemeteries highly emanating from dioxides.

The strains of supra healthy cerebral, born from Beams of deforested family trees and treasured in the Trunk of the seventh ascending generation, towards a nefarious tribal of industrious and vegetating regressive parapsychology, bringing zombie societies, to great lethargy that disorganizes the parallel emotion of the Being a descendant of a Messiah, with the prophetic organization. There in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, in past generations, the "I-O" were omitted to limit them from the paragraphs as Ghost Cemetery lost in other lost sacramental ancestors. The inappropriate location of our ancestral duties has oriented us in the axis of the pabulum, before the second coming of the Messiah to continue the re-sprouting foliage of the Universal theological tree. The children of the seven intergeneration generations will be those of the beloved of a patriarchal family, and those of the Exo family lineage that will be outside the non-generational family, where everything flourishes according to the requirements of ******-domestic economies, and in the new Chimera from new shudders and reconcomments, the Sun and the Earth being spouses after being divorced from a deluge of immolations and inter-millennia and rotations, further than those of any prophet wandering without advancing or rotating, enrolling and expiring in generations succumbed and prehistoric from other prehistoric ones. Pre and post Flood; not presenting itself as an object to link a thousand decades where not even a holy chirp from the Thrush, praises on the windows of the world bringing us babies that are born without past or future quantum generations. Ready at the glimpse of Duality and its nuptiality with the Sun and the Earth, they will make us magical and creditors of increasing demographics and unions that will marry in inter generations, not seeing passions in exhaustion, under the lawn of the allegory of love defeated. Giving ourselves conjugal virtuosity, but of immanent dogma for the purpose of multi-figurative coexistence, under the Yoke of an individualized Faith, in the passing of millennia, we continue to crawl on the floor of the nebulae, and we do not rise to establish ourselves as masters of the ecstasy of the pendulum of the stars, creating us more egalitarian and orthogonal in the cosmos and its Verthian architecture, of poly productivity, of Sun-Earth and its post-genetics, of high-grade clay, expanding with halberds on the highly caloriferous self-insolated and inherited Suns, towards a rupture of Solar freedom, abandoning us in the horizontal, adapting to pluralism and plutocratic sunsets.

Here is the classic verse-parental liberation from stripping oneself from the rows of the socio-political womb, re-institutionalizing archaic and pro-archaic forms of life and the cessation of intergenerational trepanations, in the residence of the breath that feeds the others, living together in the evolved transformation that does not ascribe the morality and presumption of a thinking individuality, rather destitute of the link of its uninhabited corporality, from the beginning umbraloid in the One-dimensional Beam of Kafersesuh and beyond the framework of pollution that does not configure settlements of superfamilies nomads, without scented crowns, not of feminine conjunctural and ontological presences in the new world of an awakening of an Adam, censured for being chosen and sentenced to be a Human rickety from his descendants, not having ascendants of sin and of illicit chromosomal enrichment.  Made beast, from the inertia of a paradise full of hidden public and private exchanges, but not secular, for those who pay tributes of ecstasy in a reborn and weakened state. Here is how Diogiversality is verticalized (Diogenes's anthological action), concluding the variants that weaken the nexus of the denatured society of its atavistic social nuclear concomitant, extending eco-life gaps, but eco-destructured and of intergenerational cruciality, being of arbitrary passion and of seismological doctrines, of haughty morality and of woven sociologies without body or motor, with an intersection of castes and generations evolved in a retrograde and elemental psychic sense, but biologically and reversibly to its boomerang lineage. Everything that depends on a third life is verticalized homologous to the third age of the ascending seventh generation and all cyclical third life separated from other evolutions, greening one-dimensional in time, for times of past polyarchic potential and abdicated beings, but with spirits and bodies of young people uniting between generations that twist into pivots that are reorganized in intra-human relationships, renewing themselves from the trunk, with a mechanism of sepulchral silence and resilient behavior in the unbreakable tri-generational spike of “ Beam and Dimension, for three who advance in their integers, and not in their fractions ..., born of three and four generations in between "
One-dimensional Beams II
Zaynub Elshamy Oct 2018
It seems I am condemned
to a doom of my own making
I should have stopped myself from falling

I'm guilty by default;
censured by society
criticized for said impropriety

I carry no defense for
my offense as charged;
so are they really a crime?

My mistake is my trusting
my own self-persuasions;
my personal convictions

My only shame is one
of self- blame for letting
sweetness become a game

Shouldn't my deceit
be judged by God alone;
only he decides whom to condone!
Censured
Like a story told in sighs
(self-created, troubled-hearted)
we must be ever mindful
of our P's and Q's
for if we're not we'll
get really severe reviews

in these modern times P represents
political correctness
and all care should be taken not to
cause any offence
in our manner of linguist address
  
then there's the letter Q  where we
cannot question those of the cancel
culture crew  
as they've the so called most authoritative
vernacular point of view
  
should any of us not follow the
new age
lingo
our tongues will be
censured
pronto
Man Apr 2022
i've censured myself
and censored myself
over what others might think
what those i love might
for their worry
their judgement
for pride
Michael Marchese Apr 2020
My turn for impeaching
Obsequious peaceniks
Are making me sick
Of these linguistic,
Jingoist sentiments
Leeching  
Off coughers  
And coffers closed
Like the schools
Teaching
Their culture supremacy
Remedies preaching
Their outreaching
White-washing,
Black-coded
Bleaching
Intentions
Descending to hell
All contentions  
Are quelled
And if any dissenters
Rebel
It is censured
As well
So extensions
Of interlope errs
On the side
Of the circumspect
State of affairs
Still divided
Itself like a house
That can’t stand
To take planned
Economic
Commands
From the man
And his red-handed
Caught in the act
Band of sycophants
Damning
The evidence
Flagrantly
Blatant
Blank-slating
The bank
Breaking laws
With impunity
Faking
More news about death’s
Final breath away
Pains in the chest
And unrest
Manufactured
As wrested from us
Is the last shred of powerful
Gods in which trust
Is soon crushed
Underneath
The hypocrisy,
Lies
Normalizing
Deceit
Can’t look me
In the eyes
Bob B Mar 11
Watch Donald Trump. Watch what he does.
Beware of what might ensue
If he's in the Oval Office again
And does what dictators do.

Viktor Orbán° came to his home--
A strong man through and through
Who has rejected democracy,
For that's what dictators do.

Orbán and Putin are mentors to Trump.
He loves their world view.
He doesn't care how they step on rights,
For that's what dictators do.

He swears that he'll go after opponents
If he is elected anew.
Trump wants loyalists only because
That's what dictators do.

His anti-migrant rhetoric
Has a frightening hue
As he dehumanizes others.
That's what dictators do.

Repeat a lie often enough
And people will think it's true.
Trump is a master at bending the truth.
That's what dictators do.

Figuratively, his nose has grown
At least a foot or two
From all the lies he's told so far.
That's what dictators do.

Republicans who don't obey him
Or line up in his queue
Are censured, for Trump has called them out.
That's what dictators do.

The former president now has
Indictments up the *****.
Our system of justice he says is unfair.
That's what dictators do.

Criticizing others is fine.
To Trump that's not taboo.
But criticize him and he'll get even.
That's what dictators do.

He starts with others, and then just watch:
He'll COME after me and you.
It's incumbent on all of us
To STOP what dictators do.

-by Bob B (3-11-24)

°The prime minister (and current autocrat) of Hungary
Lawrence Hall Apr 16
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         Maybe Edmondson and Wells are Right

                                  Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 20


                  I do none harm, I say none harm, I think none harm.

           -St. Thomas More in Robert Bolt’s A Man for All Seasons


How awkward that a beautiful woman
Might not be a woman except in her heart
And in her bearing, demeanor, and dress
Making a choosing, and not a demand

But if I am asked about matters of DNA
I hope I may freely reply, “Coffee? Or tea?”
Neither censured nor restrained nor vilified
Beneath the Cross free to accept or not

We are all children of God, woman, and man -
Let us all care for each other the best we can
Consider Edmondson and Wells' BRILLIANT anthology, ALL THE SONNETS OF SHAKESPEARE, which includes many other of Shakespeare's sonnets culled from his plays and from some of his longer poems.
It took me forever to find solace
That comfort that I’d sought
Under distressing situations
I was heavily distraught
I found a relaxation
A feeling of inner peace
I strove from my foundation
To a plateau within my reach
Deserted, I had lost my way
Lonelinesses bitter cold embrace
I did away with my anxiety
It now finally had a face
I was capped to common ground
What I lost had now been found
And the chaos I’d been a part of
Was censured and denounced
The dawn, after the rain had trumpet its force on the old roof tiles
it ceased to a soft drizzle harmless and tender.
Yes, I know I should get up at seven steeped as I´m a protestant work ethic.
Overcome by laziness, I slept for two hours more.
In my drowsiness, thought about how our freedom has been restricted by the internet,
our thought and secrets are no longer our property but shared by authorities that want
to know our innermost thoughts.
We are prisoners of an all-embracing society that will not tolerate thoughts
other than banal comments about a friend's birthday.
What we heralded as a great instrument for communication
is perverted and spied on by our leaders.
Free speech only exists for those who have nothing to say and accept living
in the land of the convention.
Nothing can be nobler if we demand our right
not to be censured
and called seditious because we will not be trapped
in the trivial acceptance of perceived lies.

— The End —