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Jinx Nov 2012
Lyrics racing through my mind,

the meaning hidden from sight causing me to become blind.

Cinderellas gone I guess it's time she grew,

especially after everything she's been through.

No more ruffled dresses and careless fears,

under her eyes is where the makeup smears.

Time to say goodbye to the Illusions of the king,

time for her to make the saddest song to sing.

Time to move on from 'Prince Charming',

time to let go of her feeling of yearning.

Standing up with her head held high,

she doesnt look back and wonder why.

Now she's moved on to her real prince,

though the saddness built up tastes so quince.

Knowing she'll have time for her heart to mend,

she still knows whats going to impend.

With every single breath she takes,

and every single time she shakes.

For every single time she falls.

She knows he'll be there for her through it all.....

After she sat there and cried,

on the inside she died.

Once white she's now a black Swan,

For now Cinderella's gone.

Looking to her muse her face remains blank,

the man's heart sank.

Her lips parted with a voice so strong,

she said 'Sing me another song, Cinderella's gone and shes not coming back so long.

Let her go back she's gone.

Bring me another day,

then send me on my merry way.

Illusions for the king don't work on me at all'
Jim Sularz Jul 2012
© 2009 (Jim Grant Sularz)

With my first soulful breath,
it was mother’s eyes I saw.
She counted my tiny fingers and toes,
leaned gently, to kiss my brow.

Announcements sent out right away,
my name chosen, so carefully.
The name, I think, a famous general’s claim,
was now the name, I’d call my own.

My first birthday gift,
sweet cake smeared across my face and lips.
The first steps I took, outside mother’s reach,
she sprinkled fairy dust, to help me fly!

Each year, with each measured line,
mother made my mark along the door.
But, I always tried to fudge a bit,
with tiptoes on the floor.

Bumps and scrapes and crying soothed,
some ointment, she’d kiss away the pain.
Everyday, I’d come running back to mother,
for hugs and kisses, anyway.

First day of school, anxious cries at home,
an endless day away from mom.
“Draw me a “choo-choo” trains,” she said,
and I drew them - all day long.

It was through mother’s eyes, that I glimpse the World,
both good and bad were explained.
But only good would make it past mother’s eyes,
and the bad was chased fast away.

Warm summer days, family picnics at the lake,
corn dogs and ice cream on a stick.
Cold snowy nights, white frosted windowpanes,
making snow angels, with half-frozen fingertips.

First school date, first Christmas dance,
where cinderellas and princes pranced.
But, the eyes I noticed now,
were no longer just my mother’s.

Long years of school, drills and rules,
a foreign shore, a sweetheart missed.
And through it all, there was always mother’s voice,
calling me home from a war’s abyss.

Wedding bells rang out crystal clear,
those other eyes I noticed, were now adored.
The years flew by, our children grew,
and mother grew older, too.

Thanksgiving feasts around the table,
children born, toasts, and loud celebrations.
Birthday gifts, songs, proud graduations,
and mother’s bright eyes, began to dim.

In her quiet manner, with a solemn look,
mother smiled and held my hands.
“Upstairs, there’s a jar behind my easy chair,
go there - when the time is right.”

When death arrived, in wait for mother,
with a chilled silence, on the darkest night.
Mother reached out for her last embrace,
then was wisked away, bathed in light.

Mother never washed off my marks along the door,
saved a flower from my first Christmas dance.
Framed her collection of my “choo-choo” trains,
next to a portrait of General Grant.

Grand children loved to dress up at “great granny’s house,”
where cinderellas and princes pranced.
And upstairs - mother left me her fairy dust,
to help them fly!
I wrote "Soldiers Called" to honor my father , Henry.   "Through Mother's Eyes" is for my mother, Virginia.

Jim Sularz
Logan Robertson Jul 2018
England you had your chance to dance
on soccers biggest stage with France
you had your chance to advance
but you fell to Croatia's lance
how two stricken spears quelled the romance
and now cinderellas laugh at your trance
as a sorry Big Ben now sits in a prance
while the Croats sip your tea and perchance
To continue.
Oh, my. Now Belgium takes third in your belly up dance
You reign now like a fish at the surface with its sad eyes askance
Where did it all go Big Ben, the spirited stance
Sigh. To wait four years lost to be tickled with waning happenstance


Logan Robertson

7/12/2018
The writer joins all the other England fans in the losses.
To continue.
jennifer ann Jan 2015
¨oh cinderella¨ the prince called out cinderellas name lovingly filling her heart with fear. his call used to make her feel safe and secure. ¨what a fool i was¨she thought.  ¨now im going to die hereº ¨hello my dear¨ the prince sadisticly smiled. ¨hello.¨cinderella rolled her blue eyes coldly. ¨why the aditude cinderella? you know i don't like that. we're not going to get anywhere if you keep pushing me away like this. ¨ the prince raised his eyebrows sympathetically. cinderella shook her head in aggravation ¨dont you get it? i dont want to get anywhere with you. you are everything i hate about this god forsaken world.¨
the prince chuckled ¨it's so adorable when you try to act like you're smar cinderella. do you even know what the word godforsaken means??? he laughed. ¨your lack of wit is so very comical¨ he smiled as he began to walk away. ¨where are you going¨ cinderella called out. ¨into town. now dont you go anywhere.¨ he laughed. ¨i have to find a doctor who will come to the palace re–break your arm and put it in a cast for me.¨
¨break my arm?¨ cinderella jumped. ¨yes my dear it's not going to heal correctly that way now is it? see how difficult you make things cinderella? if you would have just stayed instead of trying to leave me with a broken heart then i wouldn't have had to break your arm and we wouldnt be in this situation. why? why cant you just let me love you?¨ the prince looked at cinderella sympathetocly as he turned away and slowly dissapeared into the darkness of the dungeon. cinderella wept uncontrolably.
In twilight sleep,
thoughts out of control,
images take hold.
Viewed against  the canvass of blackness,
dead people dance
with succubi an incubuses.
Tiny gymnasts
balance on sharp edged swords
in le cirque du soleil
under a moonless sky.

Grimm’s tales
of baked children
and hungry wolves
play out. On a runway
starving women show
the latest fashions in cardinal red.
The Grinch stole my  green silk  Balenciaga gown.
Gave it to the frog  prince.
Sleeping beauty is just a ******.
She had too much of all of it.

Hermes glass slippers are sold
Only too few and deserving  Cinderellas,
trophy wives of  mummified kings.
What they really deserve is not on the menu.
Just le plat du jour of ortolans.
The three pigs are out of breath,
Not enough air for a *******.
Rose colored glasses take on a nasty
hue of watered down blood.
Bottle green is not la couleur du jour,
rather that bile color
with a tint of pus yellow.
There is a storm brewing,
A tsunami rising,
the earth shakes,
Volcano red lava
licks down the mountain.

Destiny?
Fate?
Apocalypse?

A voice whispers:
put up a shield, a bright canvass.
Paint with bold rounded strokes
in earthen tones.  Mold  vessels
to hold the morning dew.
Catch rays of sun
in a glass glockenspiel.
Hum the world, sing life.
Touch, feel, be alive.

A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds.
Dust dances in a shaft of light.
I am safe, for another day.
Philipp K J Dec 2018
Naked pink and ebony feet
brush the slimy grass filled path
Through the tea fields elephants retreat
After a night of jaded mud bath

Armored with sack and gunny  weight
Enter the frost covered fields in drowsy rest
Wake up the greens to  a gentle fright
And pluck under care of  enchanting *******.

The supervisor mackintosh
Walking with a bend and a toss
Shout at those Cinderellas
Who look for shoes and umbrellas
Even  before its time to knock off

The tin covered temple of olfactory  auditory deity,
the holy Garden tea
The chanting enchanting to a coma hot  mesmerizing wafts of aroma
fills the air, capture the sense of all devotees who belong to the Orthodox commune TEA or CTC.
The sirens bugle the devotees into fits
They come in shifts for worship.
The tender hearts freshly plucked before they attain mature Tea
Spread to wither under a  hell
of a hot air with care.
crushed and torn and curled,
the souls are put into a purgatory rotary drum to pause to meditate
on the ephemeral color change
To cover the green with copper red
Garment to ferment  before being sent
to the fluid fire dance
To attire in black and retire
in packages
for a last plunge in to a boiling cauldron
The finale
Endgame
A sacramental service,
a self sacrifice to energize the tired souls
In cups of tea..
Red Mint Jun 2014
You are breaking everything with your (un)worn shoes
Stomping on stereotypes, evil, and souls
While tasting the smoke of a rolled cigarette.
Then you worship the streets in the background of jazz
Calling a revolution:
The king is dead, long live the anarchy,
Monarchy is buried under fedoras and ashes.
Damp fingers and open lips cease to surprise,
Just burning leftovers of shame and bray goosebumps
In churches. Heavy breathing nuns and squeaking altars...
Men, what can you see through the illuminators of your glasses?
Your planes and ships, machines have already turned
Back into pumpkins, bleeding cinderellas and their babies
Born in the tales of horror.
Evening - it's the new tomorrow! Instincts wake and it doesn't hurt
When you tickle the Milky Way in search of a Friend.
Emma Liang Aug 2010
and the smell of crushed pine cones was so strong it made the whole world feel sharper, like glass

dull colored leaves crunched under our feet
                          I imagined them all to be Cinderellas who had been
                          just for a moment, colorful&bright;&perfect;

                                                    then I only stepped on rocks and you laughed at me and called me silly.

                                                    I loved it though, the way you threw your head back and put your hands on your knees, your eyes crinkled

your laugh echoed off the mountains it was so loud and
                                  happy it made me want to sing,

all the birds cried out in surprise and flew away over our heads
                          so many of them they covered the sky for a moment
                                                    just the downy blanket of soft crow's wings, the silence seemed so loud after that

                          you took my hand, it was so big it covered all of mine and I felt the calluses and strength of it until your hand was so warm I pulled away;

you looked sad so I twisted around you and took your other hand.

sometimes it's like trying to remember a long-forgotten dream,                                                     trying to remember these times;






other times I can hold a                                                     pine cone,
                                                                              an inky black crow feather,



                                                                              and I can hear your laugh still echoing in my head.
I honestly have no idea where this came from, but feel free to comment of course; thanks for reading!
michael capozzi May 2014
i don’t think it’s allowable
for me to be jealous of someone i
haven’t ever met but i wonder what
goes through your mind when he says “i love you,
my little starlet.” the other
day i swear i overheard the news reporters
on channel seven
talk about the cinderellas that
walk out of your job because you
give them glass slippers and make their parents
actually love them. in the background,
my roommates are talking to their temporary girlfriends and
they’re whispering “he can’t see anything, don’t
worry about him. he should be used to this by now.”
my mother, she worries about me. she told
me to stick to myself like super glue and the only
thing that should separate me is the sweaty palms
from holding your hand in subway cars at **** near midnight.
i need you now more than anything mom. tell me that
i’m going to be okay and maybe one day, i’ll be happy.
i need more than a shooting star, i need the whole galaxy.
i thought i was done writing sappy **** about girls who don't want me anymore, but oh well.
https://soundcloud.com/important_man464/nebraska-mm-vs-es-9612
"if i die tonight, then tell my mom i was a pretty *****"
Perhaps life is like a fairytale

In order to get your ultimate happily ever after

You must suffer a thorny path of trials and tribulations

Like cinderellas cruel enslavement  before her prince

And Aladins miserable poverty before his golden lamp and genie

Yet once proven sincerely worthy of a happily ever after

May one reap the harvested glorious joy of a blissful eternal life.
One can only wish
Neste lugar azul, coberto de céu e rodeado de mar, onde surgiu a vida de tantos seres e de tantas outras coisas que a nossa mente tanta dificuldade têm em perceber.
Neste lugar que Deus nos deu, cedo percebemos que aquilo que nos foi dano e que é nosso, se partilha, nos é dado vendido e cobiçado.  
Neste lugar, existem tantas coisas, mas tantas coisas, umas que se vêm, outras que se sentem, outras que se ouvem e outras tantas que se cheiram e saboreiam, que quanto mais vamos vivendo com elas, melhor as identificamos e melhor as deveríamos perceber.
No entanto, existe o Homem, que se julga um Deus, que pouco ou nada sabe, nem sempre sente e se comove com o que este lugar maravilhoso que agora é fusco nos dá e nós tão bem desperdiçamos.
Aquilo que o homem não entende, não é de fácil aceitação, e em vez de percepcionar o que os ensinamentos dos tempos nos deixaram, idiotamente questiona tudo, todos e qualquer coisa que sua mente pequena não enxerga.
O caminho da perdição normalmente apresenta-se como o mais fácil, em qualquer coisa que o mundo tenha mas nem sempre é o destino certo que a história poderia deixar.
As coisas não têm de ser obrigatoriamente belas, e este lugar não é conto de Cinderellas, é qualquer coisa que temos de ver, que temos de passar, sentir a vitória e a dificuldade, o ser filho e depois ser pai e quando mais vamos sabendo, ao invés de sermos mais fortes e capazes a fragilidade da idade chega e nos mostra a realidade em cada dia e a cada hora. Ai o sonho se torna real, perceptível e a esperança se agarra ao nosso olhar.

Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2017081421450108
Randy Lee Mar 2017
I'm dancing. I'm drowning. I hate myself, please leave me. No, don't go, I love you. I need you, I'm nothing without you,  please stay! Who the **** am I anyways? I never knew me. Eulogy my insanity, nothing else is me.  There's nothing in my name, I am not words, I am not okay. Leave me BE! I'm so lonely... my paradoxical heart is beating me to death and I can't breathe, not even rapturously, I'm burning alive from the inside out.  As if that feeling ever even existed, it's nothingness and pain, just like I am, constantly playing some pseudo game of cat and mouse with my mind,  except I'm never the cat until I snap and eat Cinderellas friends. I'm tired and hyper, will you please just stay and go away? I'm sick of pleading with and of you to the point where I never even loved you because I don't even know what that word or all these others mean, nothing is as it seems... I'm floating outside myself, nothing next to nothing is still nothing, full of rage. I can't do this anymore, off with my head. How can you make nothingness dead? I'm empty and nothing so how can nothing be empty, I can't contain my pain... ahhh I'm screaming someone please don't help, you can't anyways, so just play hide and go **** yourself or me, I don't even know... I so badly want to feel something, anything, can't I cut me? No, they all get mad and send me away... who the hell is talking? Is this even me? This is and isn't me. Oh ****, I AM ******. I've gotta go away.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
pin points
joined like Siamese
dots, exclusion
of the hyphen for
the use of pause.

it's one of those early nights having an introspective
moment... trying to give dimensions to my oeuvre:
all those heartbreaks of spaghetti fingers typing
and then trying to ctrl + c / ctrl + p / ctrl + a
but missing the keys... hey presto! a magic act:
a poem lost not even saved by automaated drafts...

yes... i do feel like i need to buy Red Hot Chilli Pepper's
Unlimited Love on vinyl...
it's funny how artists, even in the mainstream disappear...
i have no account of the existence
of the band from... circa 2007... until 2022 when
they toured and i was working the London Stadium:
poet of the coliseum...
John Frusciante came back: i never thought he went
anywhere... but even major artists disappear...

unlike those days being a greedy and eager youth
trying to impress girls with an array of influences
finding out: no return to jazz no return to classical music
to figure out finding my own voice (i wish,
there was a rhyme, vice... ice...) - parrot?
    imitating echo? if parrots could imitate echoes...

it's a gruelling evening...
   there's absolutely nothing to write about...
i'mm rereading some of Al Purdy and Walt Whitman
and i feel: feelz... detachment from any stated,
historical achievements...
          wars lost wars won or whatever
that might be between the flesh and the fingernails
when the fingernails grow too long...
an interlude from working shifts... dealing with people
is a ******: a flat tire...
   37 is no age to start thinking about a road
already undertaken:
children? no?! marriage? now?!
     flipping pancakes and idealising love furthest from
love's truth...
   murky waters and swamp-things...
      deceits, subtractions and additions of lies...
headaches, toothaches...

            shares happiness of coupling and shared
demises...
but from what i've learned:
there is no happiness greater than a one arrived
at by oneself: that spontaneity of laughing
for no reason or laughing at oneself
having thought a certain thought...
and no sweeter misery that no one can share
with you... a nostalgic grey morose murmur of...
some self- prefix fixation of this automated
monkey-bot turned 180 degree standing upright...

the last days of autumn... rotten leaves
in the park that are as "dangerous" as ice...
and a winter that only takes a sneak-peek
at where it once was: magnificently as an AGE of ice
parallels of trunks and trombones and
imagining hairy elephants...
   just imagining.... not really paying attention
to the fact that: yes... how long would it take
for an elephant to grow fur and would it have migrated
with man... all furry in sunny Africa...
kind of inverting the point of the elephant in Siberia
with man shedding fur for... bare-goose-bump skin...

this plughole, this constipation of history through
the lens of Darwinism is... like...
standing above a grave of a dearly loved one
yawning, or chewing gum...
               something like an Icarus-Phoenix
burning in the mind that dead yet dead not forgotten...
fickle creature memory and what
i don't want to remember:
with what i do remember -
   like that repetitive loop of memory-erosion
beginning with the philosophy of pedagogy...
raise hopes and teach pointless arts...
but dear, dear... don't teach them how to combat
the drudgery of work and menial toils...
i'm pretty sure that most physical labours
that require a technicality of an array of skills
will never be menial...
it's the shelf-stacking jobs that could be
made easier... in theory... with an entertaining mind...
a wandering here one minute gone the next...
a disappearing ego...  reappearing ego...
a bucket and pulled from a bucket a top hat...
and from a top hat? pulling out an old person's
chattering dentures instead of a white bunny...

a beautiful life focusing on little things,
finding spontaneous wisdom anecdotes and not defending
such roles as guru or saviour or leader...
like... going to bed before 12am and
like today... nonchalantly in concord with:
i'd like to have a lesbian girlfriend...
while sneaking away to the brothel...
but even no, given the wintry months:
having a relief from spring's and insect' libido....
sure... jerking off but not really thinking about
it, which is aided by sitting on the throne
of throne and giving birth to a meteor of
plucked brown-stuff and almost rising ot *******
heights of that one gateway not being
violated by ******* passions....

tired of experimenting of breaking society's
boundaries and leftover taboos...
just ****** tired... as if wanting something
wholesome like a slice of rye bread
or porridge in the morning...
    perfectly boring perfectly sighed over...
and a world that's only as big as my eyes can see...
sure... a mountain in the distance...
or a sky-scraper... this grand plateau of London...
no car, no need... just a bicycle and a pair
of legs... a lost commitment from having
a grandmother... made all the more easier
by the fact that: i will die without an image
of my father's mother...
               making it easier for me to digest
the ongoing process of being estranged from
my mother's mother...
               i have the perfect excuse these days:
i'm working... obviously not the work
of aligning with plastic surgeons of bus drivers...
work the liberator and excuse from...
i used to love seeing my mother's parents...
i'd visit them for stretches of months...
sit with the old people and soak up:
fermenting and almost sad that my youth was
wasted on old age... but the books i read
and the training i received from "missing out"
made me a rigid-stone...
from the youthful energy of disappointment
to the slowly growing old dynamic of
oriental thinking...
even now if i will ever put a foot in Poland
i will only be doing so
on a whim of: i need to purchase cheap duty-free
cigarettes... i'll fly over and spend
a day in Cracow... try to look local...
******* back to the airport, buy three cartons...
spend £30 there and back and spend a total
of £90 on 600 cigarettes...
which will still come cheaper than if i bought
cigarettes here legally, stupid...
or under the counter from some Romanians...

i was supposed to go to the gym with Francesca
today... honestly... i was busy... busy being
busy about not being busy...
spent the night chatting to a friend from Hawaii...
she texted me that she was going on a date...
that's what i mean:
i'd like a lesbian girlfriend... someone i could go
ice-skating with... talk macho ******* with...
go to an art-gallery...
but: keeping up with Platonic traditions...
if in need of **** find it elsewhere...
with the likes of Mona...
who, apparently disgraced, was shunned by fellow
prostitutes for becoming pregnant with
a customer... that's the thing...
i hope it wasn't me... but chances are...
cross-eyed at the zenith of her ******...
lips touches lips and all the wonderful stuff that's
like sunlight having descended and
enveloped a field of wheat in August...

i don't mind... carefree mitigation of rumours
and the frenzies of atomic vibrations...
invisible yet existent parodies of impasses
of: how Hannibal solved the issue of the Alps...
how Lawrence created the endless number of clocks
from the sands of Arabia...
how the sea was a puddle for the first to not thirst...
such evenings when language is loose...
gooey... mindless bragging and jargon...
something person spotted from time to time...

with my mother's brother, my uncle:
i once adored him... i used to go to concerts with him...
that one afternoon he cleaned and worked on
his Porsche... we listened to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
Californication... an interlude of going
to the chicken shop and getting some chips
and hot wings...
his personal life of sleeping with prostitutes...
multiple girlfriends... i admired that i wanted
that for myself rather than the odd... mutant...
rigour of my father's monogamy...
i tried it once: twice...

i'm so thankful for the women in my life,
i won't event pretend to not give them their names:
Isabella, she dumped me...
Promis... she dumped me...
Ilona... she too dumped me...
dumped Humpty-Dumpty...
which gives me the focus of Pontius Pilate...
each time i wash my hands i wash imaginary
hands of Pontius Pilate...
   it's so much easier than to fall in the category
of the sort of man that has the luxury of clinging women
he then dumps...
much easier to be dumped...
it reveals avenues of... perhaps Mona, that *******,
really did have the best *** in her life
and wanted my genes to be preserved...
no one knows expect for her
and the insinuations other prostitutes in the brothel
have dropped...
but i won't be revisiting that place for some time...
my libido is stale-bread and...
eh... a ******* for an hour telling someone:
slow down... slow down...
                      just a little tenderness...
i don't need to be circumcised twice!

             unlike the ***** where you can ferociously
gorge on the uncircumcised bits...
or when interacting with piston against the backdrop
of the floral patterns: we're talking an act
with possible teeth involved...
my love made all the more easier:
so easier to move on... being the one being dumped...

western dogma: wisdom as an over-complication
with eastern dogma: wisdom as an over-simplification...
traps and mazes of the latter...
dogs chasing their own tails...
perhaps? reimagining the once legal
aesthetic of improving the Dobbermann dog breed
by snipping the nails and clipping the ears
so they might be pointy?

back to "dearest" uncle... he's back living in Poland
with his mother nearing her 85th year...
apparently going back... friends with investment
potentials... 3 weeks there and all he's doing
is sitting in the living room in his boxer shorts...
watching t.v., trying to play the role of manager
of a non-existent company...
having sold his one greatest asset of a paid-off
mortgage of a house...
his dream: retiring in his mid-50s like the norm
in Greece... a man still in his prime
having lost it...
                         hardly me cooking and improving
the life of grandparents by painting shelves...
changing the linoleum flooring in the kitchen...
changing a light-bulb...
it's like that scene from Hellraiser: Inferno...
the decadent police officer being dragged back
into his childhood bedroom...
this Hell of the Western World's Mentality...
living with your parents like it's a wheelchair hindering...
what?! and paying 12 months upfront
to rent a box in London is somehow better
than the allowances of homelessness?!
hardly... **** me... hardly!

sure... when he was living in England
and had the advantage of bilingualism...
how his "friends" dragged him into a ****-show:
circus without the clowns storming
a FIAT 126P by the 20 load of cramming...
now my horror-suspicion can be shared....
but at least i had escapism within the confines
of books... and no, seriously no ambitions
to stand on a stage and dance...
poetry and mediating mediocre saved me...
i allowed myself: i was allowed
sieving through observing people:
pedestrian talk: no talk...
            
     loads of money: he did save up a load of money:
compared to the usual dynamic he's
hardly a millionaire...
but compared to me... i count my riches
by the time i spent reading a book...
reading Heidegger's Being & Time...
hell... i paid... no... i didn't... my grandfather
paid 20? let's be realistic... he paid 30zł for each book...
in a subscription "race":
one book per 30zł... 20 books in total...
anyway... i was a vagabond in Heidegger's head
for 30zł that spanned for almost 3 years...
a difficult book...

                          i'd spend less time in Sartre's antithesis
of Time: id est esse nihil                                    -ness
does it really matter? the number on the receiving
end... is the calculated progress of judgement
of what constitutes "progress"...
Welsh is always a second clue concerning Britain...
given: you will hardly hear or learn
how the Scots "forgot" their origin in tongue
so smoothly lost that it would require a James
to bend the knee and crack his knees
like walnuts to arrive at these isles unity... ****-wit...
it's a pointless sort of defeat...
but adamant Welshmen and their prosthetic hard-on
for myths of: origins of the dragon folk...
hardly passable: most impressionable...

right now, though! i figured out something!
i don't want to write something original!
i don't!
you: "you": you... you know what i want
to achieve?! i want too write something
that... that can't be plagiarised!
which is a take on originality as
anti-originality-original

suppose these "poems" leave indentations in the fabric
of time (solely, they already have,
in the room i'm currently sitting in,
listening to R.E.M.'s automatic for the people
for the Nth time, nothing has changed)...
wow... my ego-tripping pays off...
but what tripping with no ego? just a silence
of the mind? the only reason why i'm writing
it because i can't return to my prior to psychosis
state of the thought-narrative bliss of
semi-solipsism semi-object-thinking...
one LEGO project after another...

i'm sitting here hunched before QWERTY looking
at the screen not looking at the keyboard
because: mastering QWERTY is oh so much different
to ice-skating...
life this self-suggesting, doubly-affirming:
believe me you be...
          are... conjugating the perfected grammar-math...
perhaps the wrongly assembled: you're be...
makes no more sense than
a chicken clucking trying to imitate
the screech of a diving hawk...

a lion growling a cat meowing...
             green met yellow and how blue was spawned...
if the blues was all blue
then i guess jazz was: having the purples...
classical music was the savvy pinpoint
between silver - gold - platinum...
but i still preferred folk songs...
the sort of songs without genius and more
the spontaneity of drunkards...

we heave an unbearable load of nostalgia:
nostalgia being a fakery of memory
and memory being no better than imagining
a present and future... with the downfall:
a memory reimagining the present and past...
if thinking is stability: if!
posit if within the confines of "if"!
then imagination is pyrotechnics...
the same can be said of memory...
fickle creatures... self-appropriating
self-gratifying no-self-involved students of
a circus...

i conjure up a memory: i'm re-imagining
what ought to be re-remembered...
no can do... i think of something outside
the prism-prison of geometry of a square:
that becomes the Disney Mouse...
wow!
     imagination and memory conflate
and thought: knows all the best distractions...
existence per se and for no knowledge
of the usual vectors of demand: how, when, who, why,
north? how...
east? when...
south? who...
west? why...
                         this is my globe of words making sense:
by sense i imply: words i own: i can manifest
within the confines of constructing a loss-of-self-self...

some spineless messages from Vietnam like
i'm speaking, writing, English, ergo i'm American...
it might only take a few Pakistanis selling Qurans
to conflates ****** with a German...
doesn't matter to me...
does it? did it? will it? ha ha...
     well... a ****** in England not pretending...
tangy-****-****... drool of accent of America...
talking to someone from Vietnam trying to start
up a brothel with girls to "sell"... shady corners of the world...
a bit like not trying to be Russian and talking to
someone from Afghanistan...

bored citadels with barricaded Cinderellas
***** me a snake and wishing ****** dress: white...
promises... me and you and me not getting any
STDs?!
                vampires,  in literature... at the height
of the AIDS epidemic... epidemic: in through to out...
pandemic: out through to in...
     d'uh... you ******* brain-frozen buzzing itches
of intellect not worth salvaging...
i'm tired! i'm tired of mediocre and the excuses leftover
by western psychologists...
i wasn't handed the kind poker hand...
i had to struggle... i struggled...
considered mad i waited until the world
caught up to me supposed "madness":
the world turned out madder than my originally prescribed
madness...
who's celebrating now? no one...
i'm curious about the demands of the gods...
i'm in pivot: contemplating both the crucified
and the one to be impaled on a spike...
my god... could celebrating torture be so misunderstood?!
crucifying someone is half the torture...
but impaling someone... celebrating
an anti-homosexuality... mein gott!
that's the focus: in situ of gravity, glue,
moon, money, sun, honey... being crucified is rather tame
compared to being impaled with your hands
being tied behind your back!
tame... this... thingy-magic... torture emblem of
excuses... solipsistic nostalgia some mediocre people
had it well... **** them... trample them...
horses need to learn to own hoofs!
no point of learning without some crushing
of skulls-soulless;

bemoan what fact? i might... somehow... endear myself
and enrich my existence with / by listening
to these harrowing calming-pill narratives of:
and who isn't who without anything being lost?!
oh! the hierarchy of victim-culture:
blaming X for Y and Y for Z...
fat ***** best fatten herself up by grief growing like
mould: slow...
  
of course i'm readying myself for the death-hanging...
the death-looming... the death-apparent...
tick-tock... tick-tock...
it would be impossible to thoroughly move with
a life, a concern for it, "it":
having a blasé affair with: exactly, with what that's not "that"?
pin point a needle in a haystack...
see a camel a mile away from passing
through a needle's eye...

old teachings are like ancient ruins...
people are not willing... the ontological reality
outside of the realm of Darwinism is unavailable...
there is no Darwinism to explain why
there were furless elephants in Africa:
and still are...
while there were furry elephants of Siberia
and Northern Europe....
eh?! explains X x what?!
            the English tongue is poison with its
dramatic Darwinism make-over speed up: ****
history: does anyone care to remember yesterday?!
if poetry is such a ******* **** in the realm
of arts... what's journalism?
historically speaking: it's...  A *******
CONSTIPATION!

you "people" are constipated meta-profession
ortho-beings... paraphrasing: eh?! who?!
no lost of libido... if at least half of us turned
to the path of patchwork of Cain...
we might... get something done...
Broke from the universal chain, see how many that could hang,
Check the vocals that bang, chips beginning to stang, boomerang,
See me back at it again, flows coping deep into ya mental,
Scripts like a serial, killer filler, moves like thriller, no filter,
This the styles, of the oldie swords with, more tactics than Shinobi,
Haters below me, while a smoke a benzie, tire moving rapidly,
On the highway, thinking of ways, to make a pay, stop at the tre,
My home near the Astrodome, welcome to texas, home,
Of the blades and chrome's, entered another zone, know I'm prone,
Ripping mics, like Jordan eat hot wings, with a touch of Borden,
Ain't none, out soaring scoring, more points, over publishing,
Siblings, know better who's the go getter, funky with mozzarella,
Dance with Cinderellas, before the midnight strikes, likes,
By the radio, saying there he go, flipping rhymes *******,
For sure, pure and raw, as honey, glaring from, the sunny,
Far from funny, mafia **** coldest hits, when the barrel spits,
Splits,ya anatomy who these cats, that' tried to battle me, cry me,
A river, of blood, **** these fake *** young thugs, stuck on drugs,
Give em a blessing, from passed down lessons, you stressing,
Auto tuning, too much, time for me, to perform in the 4 quarter clutch,
Like Horry, at the top, of the center or the inner, corner spinner,
Fools cant hang, hit minds like scorpion pains, drains,
Ya positivity, feel the adrenaline, of the live negativity, reality,
Sinks deeper than an ocean, still coating, rhymes for ya mind,
I'll still grind, reading the rainbows, taught me how to define,
Real against the fake, watch the snakes, of the wicked jakes,
See the outtakes, of the stakes, more souls, on an outbreak,
Watch the virus, moves like a eel cop haters, who dont feel,
Set it off, like Latifah but ain't no dying, in this scene fiends,
Knocking at the door cuz they want more, as I polish the earth's core,
Knocking at the door cuz they want more, as I polish the earth's core,
Bhoomi Mittal Sep 2021
I just want to relive those days again,
When I used to smile genuinely,
Instead of giving a fake tight lipped one.
I want to be the child again,
Who used to get happy,
As if given his favorite cotton candy;
I want to be the mischievous one again,
Who used to give a cheeky- smile & puppy eyes,
On being caught for the little mischiefs';

I want to live my utopia,
Where every thing is just so perfect;
Where Cinderellas' have a happily ever after,
Where a knight in shining armor,
Is waiting for his damsel,
Where Augustus and Hazel become a single soul,
Where partings are never too longing.

I miss my old self,
Who used to believe fairy godmothers are real,
And one day she would meet the seven little dwarfs,
Who would be ready to protect her.

I miss the one little kiddo:
Who would instantly look up at a shooting star,
As if wishing for someone to wake her up,
And take her covertly to meet Olaf,
The one whose banter was enjoyed,
The one whose laugh was contagious.

But now it feels like,
It's all in the past...
*Hazel and Augustus are well known characters from the book "THE FAULT IN OUR STARS" by John Green.
Once I flick, the wrist, you'll see my ice crisp, mics looking ******?
Like who's, rhyming after this, magnificent, ya presence,
Is hesitance, once I take a chance, gander a glance, romance,
The beat, out of her feet, souls rock and roll, simple yes or no?
They say, I cant rock the show, watch ya mental grow, spark a sew,
Stitching, words carefully, prepped by me, styles of obi kinobe,
Jedi dead eye, hawk tactics, flying by, widen ya fragile sty,
Sly, and slick, but far from wicked, shots, off like john wick,
So a take pick, number one draft kicks, out comes, ya lent,
Cuz ya money spent, no time to circumvent, as I dance,
Moonwalker vibes, all they way live, suckas playing, the jive,
Heart of lion, pride pounce a stride, no need,for feelings to hide,
As I slide, glide like Clyde, smooth jack, like a g-ride, play Hyde,
To Jekyll, see a speckle, of spotlight, watch blaze the sights,
Fish lens, see myself in a benz, with murdered out endz, trends,
Set by, me  the stylistic, of the century, make or break,
Dyntasy, see folks eyeing me, trying me, let off the 9 millie,
Wha da da dang, listen to it go bang, kicks, harder than Lu Kang,
Swang, my caddy, looking good across, the fleetwood,
Naked girl, top front grill, big body if steel, feel the depths, of real,
Bring ya down, like Shaquille, it's like magical, appeal, steal,
Any show, 10Gs a hour, growing power, like yellow tinted powder,
Watch me crowd a, empty place, giving a victory taste,
Flavors in ya ears, rocawear, switched to new gear,
Now all I wear, is suits to boots, combat with no troops,
Been made for war, soul cadenace soI'll, slim.your chances,
Advances, past on auto, cosmic flow jo, burning tracks, once mo,
I thought you knew, we blow through, cruise, suckas catch snooze,
Underworld *****, left clues like blues, mis the late news,
But you on time, for ya funeral views,  never bright, a dim fuse,
Abused, the critics who use, my styles to keep em glued,
Like the news, media rock donnabellas, hella cheddar,
Mozzarella, how many Cinderellas, waiting, for the lucky fella?
They guy never existed, flip the exquisite, expensive,
Visits, from the truth, almost chipped, my tooth,
In the booth, I gotta stay, true to my fans, i remained a valuable,
Jewels, stayed stuck in the crud, forms out, the sludge,
Never judge the judged, see the colors, I dipped in fudge,
Hate has no love, or feelings, see the world, we living in,
Dire amongst sins, my spinz, make ya go crazy, look at the citizens,
Hands reaching, for hope, but ain't no hope, put faith, in the Pope,
He must be on dope, drugs haze, got folks, in a zombie phase,
dont take the shot, or else ya body, gonna see an early rot,
Be gosh, all yall oshkosh, take a swig of Hennessy slosh, toss,
Up my spirits, to the Aurora, I hope they dont ignore tha,
Thunder, brings lightening, rain and tornado hailstorm, sightings,
Brightening, ya opticals, so tropical, topics, skip the profits,
Rather be a poor man, in the bezel of an eagle, see the raw evil,
Honey eyes, glaring staring, look deep for a daring, body pairing,
To the fake, glamour life, style problems, always foul,
Flagrant fragrance, worn as I charm, i contest the storm, swarm,
At the bees, bound to get stung, with tragedy, pain to agony,
No empty, vessels I stretch the muscle, til the hustle hustles,
JenniferC Nov 2020
Take me to fairy tales.
Show me
where Snow White lives,
Cinderellas shoe of glas,
Peter Pan, The castle ball
and the power that magic has.
Take me to
true love that gives you shivers.
The happily ever after
and the valley of the rivers.

Show me
that everything we believed in
as a child exists.
Faith and hope -give me this.
All that I no longer remember
cuz it has left my mind
and my body.
I'm affraid its forever.
Tell me
that everything we had faith in then
not only is a memory merely.

Please,
take me to the River Fairy.
Show me legendary,
the queen, the king,
foot prints from santa on my roof
where he has been standing.
A fallen angels broken wing

- show me something.
I was a potatoe type of guy, forget the cookies and carrots,
didn't believe in Santa nor Cinderellas with golden chariots .
Twas' late at night as I crunched my chips I watched  TV  
lo and behold what did I hear ? a large thump and a humf,  
coming from the chimney, Oh Dear !
He stomped and he clomped then he said to me,  
" You live like a pigster and where is your sister ?
clean up your place, what the Hee!  "
He held up a sock and my heart went KerPlunk  
as I watched him remove, all my favorite junk...  
He then gave me a card that was both soft and hard
dipped in gold it was lanced with sweet magical stance.      
He then waited and hummed as he Jingle Belled some
"Its time for my pension" he said, then he paused.
"guess what ol' chap, you've been Sanctity Claused !"

— The End —