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Steve Page Sep 2018
it's not so much a social force
it's not out to coerce
it's an embrace
and in the end
that's what it's all about
it's a focus on people
it's a focal point on community
a common unity of those entwined
common folk connected and over-lapped
those over-wrapped by common loves
securely bound by common ties
occupying common ground
filling common space
with a wrap-around embrace
that lasts a tight hold longer
that ignores odd body odour
an embrace that lasts
a whole lot together
-  It's what we have
in common
Not sure about the structure of this one.  I compose on a phone screen a lot (rather than on paper or desktop), which leans me toward shorter lines and this has shorter lines than most of my wittering. Anyhow, I may try it again once I get to a desktop.  
#2 Now edited with slightly longer lines and a little reworking, but not much.
Kurt Carman May 2017
In this space and time that we call memories,

Eyes closed tight…we wince to recall special moments long gone.

Some, we merely exist to relive, and others are meant for painful lessons learned.

Strumming through the cob webs, we coerce ourselves through this jaded door,

Only to find, this time, a feeling of remorse followed by expressions of grief.

Like a bank account, we deposit memories daily,

Some are easily recalled and others are over and done.

It’s those memories that reside within our hearts that cause special remembrance,

And miraculously, we have the ability to morph these from anguish to memories of tranquil joy!

*Sending a smile and all my love to you…….. I’ll be watching for you in the stars.
little Oct 2018
Silly little outbursts
Not pointing any blame
I really shouldn't coerce
Call me by my name

Put pressure on the bleeding
Physically I'm fine
Another day of pleading
Initial here and sign

Tuck the hair behind my ear
Whisper when I'm sad
I never wanted this career
Please cover up the bad
with anybody’s body
that we could find
we made ***** gestures
in our mind
i wrote this poem yesterday
and you are not a third rate sweater
now i have nothing else to say
as a measure-menthe of kindness
i vowed to fill my plate
and eat from her late night diner
you dreamed a wishing well to appear
in hours spent beneath the shoreline
i repeated that you were a miracle
she said, coerce me and i’ll never surrender
so we pretended to fall asleep, until numbers
came falling from the treetops
i could tell that you were consumed,
by the heart of everything
You can’t paint the Sistine Chapel with a roller
You can’t carve The Thinker with a jack hammer
You can’t write a symphony on a Kazoo
And you can’t dance Swan Lake on a trampoline

You can’t bake a cake if you have no oven
You can’t sew a gown with a knitting needle
You can’t build a house out of Lego Bricks
And you can’t win at Lotto without buying a ticket

Why do my eyes not notice the humming bird
Only that the nectar tube needs refilling
Why do I not glory in a field of orange poppies
Only struggle to walk without stepping on one

Why do I pass up small kudus when offered
So I can wallow some more in rejection
Why do I long so for the glow of acceptance
When I have no use for the face in the mirror

We all have to work with the gifts we are given
Talent is not something you can go out and buy
You can’t sigh your way into winning the race
And you can’t coerce people into your fan club

You have to dig deep if you want to find oil
You have to cast bait if you want the big fish
You have to believe that the war can be won
To put down your pen and ******* your sword
That first step is always the hardest, especially if you're not sure of the way.
Kara Rose Trojan Dec 2014
My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.
Dante Leto Nov 2019
The quiet whispers taunt me.
In the night beneath the umbral waves
The humble haze still haunts me.
Through daunting ways these gauntly wraiths
Yet flaunt the ways they wont me
To nightly pangs of hunger,
Reins, and tormenting unending.
Belike the blaze of spectral flames
Will burn my soul as kindling
Til naught remains but rotted frames;
To this my will is dwindling.

The ghastly echoes call me.
From my slumber come the rumbling of
A hunger that befalls me.
Amidst the stomach grumbling come the
Numbing screams, appalling
Dreams, they seem to plead with me,
Indeed, beseech me, drawling
In tongues unknown to me. Their bleat
Is strangely so familiar.
But one would tone above the rest
That said: "Behold! A killer!"

Aloud phantasms sing
Their eerie verses full of curses.
Terse, yet maddening.
Severe at first, yes, but the worst,
Perverse, the last conceived
Verse that's heard as they rehearse
Coerce a lasting bleed
From eyes and ears and nose. Behold
Those bursts of plasm brings
The fiends that thirst as they traverse
Headfirst through fathomed greed.

My bonds begin to break.
As all these raunchy melodies
Beset me, here I shake.
Conniptions, fits, and predilection
Of sadistic traits.
No longer can they be restrained,
The bloodlust must be slaked.
Among the graves of wanton slaves
Where staunch stench radiates
I wake to see nightmarish scenes
So garishly ornate.

Hailed by an astral choir.
Their incantations of damnation
Hasten my desire
To sever, ****, obliterate,
And purge through blood and fire
The filth, the waste, that permeates
This place that earns my ire.
A desecrated wretch, her fated
Death be made entire.
Raze her face with razor blades,
Exsaguinate the liar.

The blood moon's macabre glow
Bids me to forbidden deeds
And beckons me below.
A severed head and crimson red
Flora form a show
With shredded flesh. Lecherousness
This foetid mess invokes.
I taste the blood...Oh, what a rush!
By lust I feel possessed!
The litanies have conjured me
To binge on blood and death.
Ryan O'Leary Mar 2019
Today is the day
according to May
half in & half out
is how it will play.

Cut a maggot in two
the divide as we do
don't care if it lives
I haven't a clue.

Ireland is split
think we give a ****
I stood on the border
faced south so to spit.

I'm done with that lot
one and all is a sot
nothing but troubles
since the year dot.

I know we can win
if we try once again
starve into submission
with another famine.

The Ayes to the right
with a unified fight
for one and for all
no mind of their plight.

British Tory MP suggested using the possibility of food shortages in Ireland to coerce negotiators into dropping their opposition to the remilitarisation of the border area after Brexit.
A Slow Heyoka Apr 2019
Looking back to when I was born
An understanding wasn't the way
I'd lay there learning the patterns in lights
I was half a world away

When I was 4 I'd escape the house
A few doors down to play
I'd coerce my Nana for corn and kale
I was half a world away

Not once did I ever think
That anyone would make me pay
For running riot all around town
I was half a world away

Oh wow look at that
Say "thank you" they would say
I scratch my head all puzzled like
They were half a world away

Oi, knuckle down
Why won't you do any work today?
All caught up in root negative ones
"You're half a world away!"

A few quick snaps, I was the act
Ready for good old Broadway
I took loads of drugs and sang for some mugs
I was half a world away

I held your hand and kissed you
That dizzy feeling never strayed
I guess that's just the price I pay
For being half the world away

I was sitting right beside you
Saving the world on replay
Halo with my heart, on head
I was half a world away

School was really hard
I'd cut out half the day
Try to explain black holes to you
As I was half a world away

That evening when you left me
I sat and cried and prayed
That you would never hate me
For being half a world away

Instead of brewing darkness
I went and moved astray
I wrapped myself up in you
While I was half a world away

Each breath, each step, each rung
Each hair that turns to grey
I will be always missing you
While I'm half a world away

So you can think it silly
How I carry on my way
And I'll still be there guessing
Why I'm half a world away

Tonight I'll forget to wind my clock
I'll wonder as I lay
And think to myself what it would be like
Just for once...
                                                         ­     ... We weren't half a world away
poem by: A Slow Heyoka
Written on Mar 09, 2018
Yenson Sep 2018
Cyberbullies get a perverse sense of satisfaction (called gratification) from sending people inflamed materials, hate mail or fabricated poems taunting ot designed to torment. Inflammable materials or poems are writings whose contents are designed to inflame and enrage. Hate writing is hatred or obtuse poetries (including prejudice, racism, sexism or thinly disguised personal references or insinuations etc) in a poetry.

Serial bullies, whose behaviour profile you'll find in full at Bully OnLine, harbour a lot of internal aggression which they direct at others. This may include projection, false criticism and patronising sarcasm whilst contributing nothing of any value. It may also include a common tactic of "a number of people have emailed me backchannel to agree with me". This is standard bully-speak which I've experienced on several forums. In every case it's a fabrication or a distortion - usually the former. It's also a variant of the serial bully headteacher who says "a number of parents have complained to me about you...". When challenged, the identity of the alleged complainants can't be disclosed because it's "confidential". The purpose of this tactic is to wind people up. Don't be fooled into believing it has any validity - it doesn't.

People who bully are adept at creating conflict between those who would otherwise pool negative information about them. The method of creating conflict is provocation which bullies delight in because they know they can always coerce at least one person to respond in a manner which can then be distorted and used to further flame and inflame people. And so it goes on. The bully then sits back and gains gratification from seeing others engage in destructive behaviour towards each other.

Many serial bullies are also serial attention-seekers. More than anything else they want attention. It doesn't matter what type of attention they get, positive or negative, as long as they can provoke someone into paying them attention. It's like a 2-year-old child throwing a tantrum to get attention from a parent. The best way to treat bullies is to refuse to respond and to refuse to engage them - which they really hate. In other words, do not reply to their postings, and on forums carry on posting without reference to their postings as if they didn't exist. In other words, treat nobodies as nobodies.

The anger of a serial bully is especially apparent when they come across someone who can see through them to espy the weak, inadequate, immature, dysfunctional aggressive individual behind the mask. For instance, when serial bullies see themselves described at workbully/serial.htm they usually send me an abusive email.

The objectives of bullies are Power, Control, *******, Subjugation. They get a kick out of seeing you react. It doesn't matter how you react, the fact they've successful provoked a reaction is, to the bully, a sign that their attempt at control have been successful. After that, it's a question of wearing you down. The more your try to explain, negotiate, conciliate, etc the more gratification they obtain from your increasingly desperate attempts to communicate with them. Understand that it is not possible to communicate in a mature adult manner with a disordered individual who's emotionally *******.

The Number One rule for dealing with this type of behaviour is: don't respond, don't interact and don't engage. This is not as easy to do as it sounds. It's a natural response to want to defend yourself, and to put the person right. However, never argue with a serial bully; it's not a mature adult discussion, but like dealing with a child or immature teenager; whilst the serial bully may be an adult on the outside, on the inside they are like a child who's never grown up - and probably never will. Serial bullies and harassers often have disordered thinking patterns and do not share the same thoughts or values as you.

Although you may be the target of the cyberbully's anger, you can train yourself to act as an observer. This takes you out of the firing line and enables you to study the perpetrator and collect evidence.

When people use bullying behaviours they project their own weaknesses, failings and shortcomings on to others. In other words, they are telling you about themselves by fabricating an accusation based on something they themselves have done wrong. Whenever you receive a flame mail or hate mail, train yourself to instinctively ask the question, "What is this person revealing about themselves this time?"
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
there was a period in time,
when i focused on two words:
and made them relevant punching
using the definite article i called
   the reflexive         /      the reflective...
strange "dichotomy" pivot to
   but i managed...
        philosophy perhaps begins
with awe... but it sure as **** ends with
a vocab. fixation, vocab. being
the foundation...
  the reflexive / the reflective belong
to a quadratic foundation,
two words are missing...

       favorite gig? tool, glasgow...
could have been wolfmother in edinburgh...
but, see...
  tool, glasgow...
a german girl...
  she was thirsty, the maggot pit
was getting crowded...
plastic cups of water were being
   there was the crushing sensation...
of beta males...
i gave her some water
from the passed plastic cups...
i drank some myself,
i passed the cup behind me...
after a while we started mingling:
i.e. kissing...
         never miss an australian curly
haired afro from australia in
edinburgh: if you can help yourself...

after the gig she just stood there
like a mute madonna
waiting for me pick her up...
did i?
       the *** would have probably
been great... but the kiss...
in the moment?
   that's what kept the memory
there was a time when i:
why isn't squash an olympic sport...
why does baseball,
rugby... have precursor justification
of olympic sports status
over squash?
   i liked playing squash...
  fun sport...
               all you need is a cube canvas...
i still remember warming up
the rubber ball, till it became soft,
before you could play a game...
   managing hyper-geometry
while smashing the ball against
the side-walls...
     god... so much more fun worth
of a game compared to tennis...
it's... radical!                      3D!

so came the reflexive "contra" the reflective...
a case closure of:
react to it immediately (reflexive),
   react to it by stalling, allowing the ontology
of man to "pleasure" of thinking:
i know that thought is regularly dissociated
from ontology,
gimp-strapped to pure empiricism:
no god: immediate reaction...
    with not god: all you can "eat" /
spreschen dynamics...
       if god doesn't exist...
speak whatever you want,
as much as you want...
     but, to me? god is the source
of thought... hard to find a thinking man
in a godless society...
thinking goes out of the "window"
including "a" god... or: the plural
variation of splintered ambitions,
ambitions and authority...

    mit meine liebhaber wie die
mund: ich leben alles dinge,
              drapiert in quecksilber,
   durch die licht sie umhüllt...

    i already had a narrative...
well that's lost... but with my love for
for the deutzschezunge:
   nein engländer kam
mein weg...
           außer etwas blöd
    geschätzt sack nase in überall...

deutsche: nutzen englischgrammatik...
             ficker besser sprint!
   the quadratic still remains...
reflexive (oh oh, it begins....)
             readings books is a "b'ah b'ah"
sheepish: b'ah b'ah bad "thing"...
less worth of stutter...
safe compounds of the rich....
looking in, aren't you the lucky ones?
i guess you are...

             but then again: i guess
you're not part of the garden state
project... ******* fannies...
***** go ****?!
      **** offs....

                         20th century peoples,
associated with the reflexive
what is imitation when lacking
the reflexive "aspect" is stimulation...
can't exactly stimulate upon
a "gratification" of: the algebra of x...

we live in times of contra-stimulation...
simulation prone...
when "once upon a time"
the reflexive,
  when "once upon a time"
the reflective....
when thinking was allowed...
and god was disavowed...

what thinking?!
              there's as much of god in
the "discussion" as there's thought...
atheism gave birth to the sophists...
    what would the rekindled
variation of the belief in the gods
revel in, sophistry contra solipsism?
bate nook and a boredom
affair of atheism...

              the reflexive: imitation /
intimidation... stimulation...
             the reflective: imagining /

these days people are not exactly
prone to 19th century into 20th century
translations of stimulation...
   stimulation: being a reflexive term...
these days?
   people are more prone to
the simulation, a: "reflective" term...
it doesn't have to be real to be "real"...
     people reject the "concept"
of reality like might react
to antibiotics...
   not exactly clarity borne...
       once upon a time...
  people were reflexive: stimulated...
these days?
people are reflective: simulated...
  and in the latter sense?
hardly... ever willing to be responsive...
  the crisis in england...
super-bugs... the antithesis of

    hence? the missing T...
           reflexive "vs." reflective...
  stimulated "vs." simulated...
such puny thesaurus differences...

so now everything in  the deutsche
ist ****-isch?
             wow! wunderbar!
   mögen sie mögen mir!
        englischsprechendwelt vereinen!

    spät kommen

how many people can associate
this observation into their daily diet,
of the fact that
clenching your teeth,
relaxes your eyebrows,
                  from frowning?

maybe that rammstein song:
     about paedophilia?
                       if you're 18,
and she's 14, and you're
                 dating her older sister your age,
but then: love at first sight
suffocates you...
    you're almost 33,
she's in her 20s...
             you kept that whole
"love at first sight" *******...
   came the weimar, berliner gay
      with their
                 eisen, bügeln...

        kommt der zeppeline!
how many definite articles
does german please
allow to clarify? die contra der?
yes? well... that's a...
    lohnend anfang...

kommen sie,
   ich werden einst mehr....

how many people can associate
this observation into their daily diet,
of the fact that
clenching your teeth,
relaxes your eyebrows,
                  from frowning?

see... i have a fetish for german...
this english: a little bit of something,
"that", "other", "******"?
well... whatever frees me from
    i'll clearly succomb to speak
this language,
top escape the russians...
but, i just have to....
          schleppen diese deutschzunge;
ich unterlassen sie
                         mögen es...
i just became aware of the polacks...
favouring loan-words from
neighbouring canons of tongue...
i figured: the rest is history...
  to have to despair over
a sense of continuinity...
within the confines
of a biological reality,
when biological reality is currently
being undermined?
     i'm supposed to give a ****,
about that sort of *******?!
how about:
an idea transcends the confines
of biology,
what if the kantian
categorical imperative
also implies....
transcending ***,
the casual act of ***,
    the anti-darwinian aspect
of ***: *** for pleasure,
recreation, *******,
and not the origin impetus...
             what is the categorical
"imperative" of ***,
these days?
                      i'm the one who's
"****** up"?
        what about referencing cats...
reptiles in a mammalian disguise?
to bypass the misnomer...
to call red, red,
to call banana yellow,
   to call it: no black swan...
to call...
  how would one attempt
of the categorical imperative?
misnomer, purposive,
or non-purposive,
loosely associated
with poetic freedoms to
"misnomer" /
   not address expression
of jurisprudnece,
too closely associated with
juggling a thesaurus...
                                       what now?
    ich haben gelernt ihre englisch,
  jetzt ich suchen für eine flucht!
wenn nein an land,
      bei zuletzt: im mein kopf.

the ship is sinking,
the rats are bailing out first.
Jade Apr 2019
I shared a post
on Facebook.
It explained that
manipulating someone into
having *** with you
is a form of ****.

To the ex-classmate of mine
who thought it was okay
to post a meme with the tagline,
"Regretting consensual *** isn't ****,"
in response
to my own post:

Not only are
you are a perpetrator
of **** culture,
you act as though
**** is some sort of

You think
victims "cry" ****
like the boy who cried wolf,
that their traumas are fabricated,
cheap shots
to seek revenge against
impotent lovers
and unfortunate one night stands.

Being manipulated into
engaging in any sort
of ****** activity
does not equate consent;
to manipulate is to
unjustly coerce someone
to submit to another.

Consent is not the enigma
society makes it out to be;
really, it's quite simple.  

Did they say yes?

I'm not asking
if they said no--
that's irrelevant.

Did they say yes?

The fact that
one individual
feels the need to
manipulate someone else
into having *** with them
implies that someone else
didn't want to have ***
in the first place.

Guess what?

If someone doesn't want
to engage sexually
with another person,
then that is not consent,
and just as ****
can be imposed physically,
it can also be imposed
mentally and emotionally.

So there you have it,
ex-classmate of mine--
you've said your piece,
and I have every right
to follow suit.

you are remarkably disgusting.

And I'll be ******* ******
if I sit around
twiddling my thumbs,
scrolling through
Facebook mindlessly,
while you belittle
victims of ****
for the purpose of
your own amusement.

Thanks for coming to
my Ted Talk,
*** hat.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Anita Apr 2019
In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.  
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.

My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.

'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.

It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.

Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.

If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.

If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.

Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!

These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.

I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.
I'm in a mood so I decided to ask the answer to life's most sizably voluminous question. Of course, I found that the answer was the number forty-two and so I found forty-two arbitrary words and shoved them and their synonyms in this cockamamy poem. Visually perceive if you can find them :arrogant, recording, foundation, ignorant, aspect, drown, program, rider, nightmare, monk, arm, sheep, wording, ferry, net, agile, exception, unlike, threaten, sandwich, correspond, receipt,trade, recovery, judge, beat, safari, shot, lover, generation, friend, coerce, perceive, soul, sea, general, accident, polish, strike, arrange, exclude, radiation
Derrek Faraday Aug 2019
A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.

Digital clock: 2:43

A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.

Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.

— The End —