"communal" poems - Hello Poetry

"communal" poems

**The band starts playing at a ***** and crowded backyard. Rebellious youth gather to cast their vote with the stomping of their doc martin boots. Beer cans everywhere, everyone's trying to let loose the raw stranglehold their society has produced. The guitars go off and the ritual begins. First they assemble in the heart of the pit. In the center individual tragedies bring fourth the wrath of a God's army. Anarchy you call it, Ha! I call it reassurance, reassurance that this anger is surely communal. I never saw it more clearer, the youth's power to resist: If the government wont hear us, we will create our own sound even under the batons of fascism, we spit on your rule, your control of our art. We wont bow down to a law with our names written all over it, while another politician walks free from corruption. While another officer guns down an un armed child and calls it self-defense. While suspicious mass shootings continue to occur and mass cameras grow in recording. While you send more people off to war for another countries resources. These thoughts explode out of me into shoves, screams, ****** cuts, reckless behavior, and then finally release. Pure psychiatric release.**

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Jul 18, 2014

Jul 18, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC

**The band starts playing at a ***** and crowded backyard. Rebellious youth gather to cast their vote with the stomping of their doc martin boots. Beer cans everywhere, everyone's trying to let loose the raw stranglehold their society has produced. The guitars go off and the ritual begins. First they assemble in the heart of the pit. In the center individual tragedies bring fourth the wrath of a God's army. Anarchy you call it, Ha! I call it reassurance, reassurance that this anger is surely communal. I never saw it more clearer, the youth's power to resist: If the government wont hear us, we will create our own sound even under the batons of fascism, we spit on your rule, your control of our art. We wont bow down to a law with our names written all over it, while another politician walks free from corruption. While another officer guns down an un armed child and calls it self-defense. While suspicious mass shootings continue to occur and mass cameras grow in recording. While you send more people off to war for another countries resources. These thoughts explode out of me into shoves, screams, ****** cuts, reckless behavior, and then finally release. Pure psychiatric release.**

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As Autumn approaches, my mind drifts to the decaying leaves, Halloween, the cool, crisp breeze... The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with death— that Summer must always go. And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations for an exalted Spring. Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay— like a host who lectures his party guest for too long so he won't look at his watch. Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills! Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa, the misty light rain in the gray of the morning, the high canopy of fleshy red flakes! And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed with sacred rituals and good company. I need Autumn personified— a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl. A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm. Someone comforting like oatmeal. Someone surprising like the first day of school. I need Autumn. I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.

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Sep 6, 2018

Sep 6, 2018 at 9:23 PM UTC

thecoffeboysapprentice

As Autumn approaches, my mind drifts to the decaying leaves, Halloween, the cool, crisp breeze... The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with death— that Summer must always go. And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations for an exalted Spring. Oh hell...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay— like a host who lectures his party guest for too long so he won't look at his watch. Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills! Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa, the misty light rain in the gray of the morning, the high canopy of fleshy red flakes! And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed with sacred rituals and good company. I need Autumn personified— a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl. A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm. Someone comforting like oatmeal. Someone surprising like the first day of school. I need Autumn. I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.

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There is a young lady called Anna. She is a loner. She lives alone with her two cats. They are her world. I am a cat lover myself and have 2 little cuties in my nest. But these cats are just plain feral. They terrorise the other cats in the neighbourhood and **** in all the neighbours’ garden. She works Monday to Friday for a recruitment company. She leaves her flat in a purple Mazda convertible which is renowned for being a Hairdresser’s (AKA dumb **** car. Every day she leaves at 7.30am on the dot and every day she arrives home at 7.15pm on the dot. Once at home she turns on her TV cinema system (sub), just to watch the TV. ***** At the weekend she also leaves her stinking putrid ******* bags out in the communal hallway. ***** She ignores her neighbour’s knocking on her door. She ignores the notes that they put through her letterbox. ***** So as Anna was not willing to speak to her neighbours directly. They had no other way to turn apart from to report her to Environmental Health for playing her TV cinema system (sub) too loudly and also for the disgusting ******* that she regularly leaves out in the communal hallway. ***** In which she returns the compliment by reporting them (said neighbours) to the Environmental Health for: 1) Shouting at each other, 2) Talking too loudly, 3) Banging kitchen utensils on the floor when she is in her kitchen How deluded is this ***** At the same time that her neighbours reported Anna to the Environmental Health they also spoke to the Community Support Officer. They advised them to contact the Mediators in their local area. Which of course they did. The Mediators arranged to visit one evening. Unbeknownst to them they parked in Anna’s allocated parking space. Once they had finished with her neighbours, the Mediators returned to their car. Just as they were about to reverse their car, Anna arrived home in her Mazda convertible and blocked them in. ***** When she got out of the Mazda convertible, with attitude I might add, she asked the Mediators who they were. They then introduced themselves. Once she knew who they were, she invited them into her flat to hear her side on the story. YES I AM HER ******* NEIGHBOUR AND YES I AM STILL WAITING TO HEAR BACK FROM THE MEDIATORS……

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Jan 30, 2010

Jan 30, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC

Inconsiderate Neighbour!

There is a young lady called Anna. She is a loner. She lives alone with her two cats. They are her world. I am a cat lover myself and have 2 little cuties in my nest. But these cats are just plain feral. They terrorise the other cats in the neighbourhood and **** in all the neighbours’ garden. She works Monday to Friday for a recruitment company. She leaves her flat in a purple Mazda convertible which is renowned for being a Hairdresser’s (AKA dumb **** car. Every day she leaves at 7.30am on the dot and every day she arrives home at 7.15pm on the dot. Once at home she turns on her TV cinema system (sub), just to watch the TV. ***** At the weekend she also leaves her stinking putrid ******* bags out in the communal hallway. ***** She ignores her neighbour’s knocking on her door. She ignores the notes that they put through her letterbox. ***** So as Anna was not willing to speak to her neighbours directly. They had no other way to turn apart from to report her to Environmental Health for playing her TV cinema system (sub) too loudly and also for the disgusting ******* that she regularly leaves out in the communal hallway. ***** In which she returns the compliment by reporting them (said neighbours) to the Environmental Health for: 1) Shouting at each other, 2) Talking too loudly, 3) Banging kitchen utensils on the floor when she is in her kitchen How deluded is this ***** At the same time that her neighbours reported Anna to the Environmental Health they also spoke to the Community Support Officer. They advised them to contact the Mediators in their local area. Which of course they did. The Mediators arranged to visit one evening. Unbeknownst to them they parked in Anna’s allocated parking space. Once they had finished with her neighbours, the Mediators returned to their car. Just as they were about to reverse their car, Anna arrived home in her Mazda convertible and blocked them in. ***** When she got out of the Mazda convertible, with attitude I might add, she asked the Mediators who they were. They then introduced themselves. Once she knew who they were, she invited them into her flat to hear her side on the story. YES I AM HER ******* NEIGHBOUR AND YES I AM STILL WAITING TO HEAR BACK FROM THE MEDIATORS……

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So it came to pass at last and sad to know a Timber has fallen It stood in strength tall and strong for over seven decades Resplendently toned it spread an uncompromising foliage Masterly in domain magical in reach attaining untold grades Humble in origins yet grew with endeavour and knowledge Distinguishably it cut sway in tundra and in lush green glades Son of sons of the Land held roots countenancing no crawling It reached for the stars and danced reasons with every shades Ran with the sun and sat with owls and vipers for tutelage Sweeping the very highs and the lows in communal trades In the jungle of sharks and vipers it be known who's in Charge A Timber has fallen while the rains falls and blue clouds fades There's now a mighty hole in the earth and rivers are swollen Leaves scatter and branches beckon hundreds of onward bridges Leaving best Princess, flowers and saplings for love and largesse A notable trunk laid supine free to roam without worldly cages Odes will enter dancing in guises and tears flow without finesse A Timber has fallen and dirges will ring out for a man of all ages Yemessia bows and says Adieu My Senior, we will meet again..... [email protected].

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Aug 20, 2018

Aug 20, 2018 at 10:29 PM UTC

A Timber Has Fallen

So it came to pass at last and sad to know a Timber has fallen It stood in strength tall and strong for over seven decades Resplendently toned it spread an uncompromising foliage Masterly in domain magical in reach attaining untold grades Humble in origins yet grew with endeavour and knowledge Distinguishably it cut sway in tundra and in lush green glades Son of sons of the Land held roots countenancing no crawling It reached for the stars and danced reasons with every shades Ran with the sun and sat with owls and vipers for tutelage Sweeping the very highs and the lows in communal trades In the jungle of sharks and vipers it be known who's in Charge A Timber has fallen while the rains falls and blue clouds fades There's now a mighty hole in the earth and rivers are swollen Leaves scatter and branches beckon hundreds of onward bridges Leaving best Princess, flowers and saplings for love and largesse A notable trunk laid supine free to roam without worldly cages Odes will enter dancing in guises and tears flow without finesse A Timber has fallen and dirges will ring out for a man of all ages Yemessia bows and says Adieu My Senior, we will meet again..... [email protected].

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Each generation’s majority makes choices that usher change Lost pined for simple peace Depression lived for human survival Silence spoke for equality in a civil voice Hippies fought war with flowers Boomers drove for mad knowledge of self Grunge nodded honesty from suburban garages Y baptized Science as god Mobs then anointed Orange Man as king Down at the crossroads as means to their ends For taxes, for borders, for babies, for guns, for Right Trading truth, communal values and united dreams for their causes How will we be remembered As we watch this Heyday bloom What will be this generation’s rallying cry Will there be one A culmination of past generation's trusted change Lost, depressed, silent, free, self-aware, honest, doubting Us Here now Strong Watching the flames Will we quietly turn away As our world burns Or will we tap a new strength To face the fire Together © 2019 MJL

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Apr 1, 2019

Apr 1, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC

Heyday for Orange Man

Each generation’s majority makes choices that usher change Lost pined for simple peace Depression lived for human survival Silence spoke for equality in a civil voice Hippies fought war with flowers Boomers drove for mad knowledge of self Grunge nodded honesty from suburban garages Y baptized Science as god Mobs then anointed Orange Man as king Down at the crossroads as means to their ends For taxes, for borders, for babies, for guns, for Right Trading truth, communal values and united dreams for their causes How will we be remembered As we watch this Heyday bloom What will be this generation’s rallying cry Will there be one A culmination of past generation's trusted change Lost, depressed, silent, free, self-aware, honest, doubting Us Here now Strong Watching the flames Will we quietly turn away As our world burns Or will we tap a new strength To face the fire Together © 2019 MJL

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They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley. They came with carts laden with lumber stacks - with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools. They gathered with the homesteaders bond. to co-build their neighbor's' dreams. Sweet music of community echoed off the hills. Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation, saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton. The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain. A smithy leaned over his fire and forge - chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges. Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called. In two short passings of the sun the deed was done and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light. Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table to share a hearty meal adorned by the music of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter. Then one by one they steered their wagons home gazing back at what their labors had wrought - knowing to the depth of their communal souls that we are more together than we are apart Listen up, America! This is the music of community. We are more together than we are apart. © 2016 by Robert Charles Howard

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Jul 31, 2016

Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC

robert-c-howard

Pennsylvania Barn Raising

They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley. They came with carts laden with lumber stacks - with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools. They gathered with the homesteaders bond. to co-build their neighbor's' dreams. Sweet music of community echoed off the hills. Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation, saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton. The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain. A smithy leaned over his fire and forge - chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges. Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called. In two short passings of the sun the deed was done and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light. Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table to share a hearty meal adorned by the music of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter. Then one by one they steered their wagons home gazing back at what their labors had wrought - knowing to the depth of their communal souls that we are more together than we are apart Listen up, America! This is the music of community. We are more together than we are apart. © 2016 by Robert Charles Howard

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When we think about the choices in our lives When we fight and we bicker and become bitter When we think there is only power or powerlessness If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness In that instance haven't we began the process of choice That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness To those who have only lived powerlessness And know nothing else Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness That you have ceased to be one of them Or your mere power has denied one of them That there is no choice for them Because they haven't birthed that consciousness And if you choose power they'll remain powerless Because within you there is no loyalty, right? It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to That a mind and body can cultivate power That can be harvested, shared, communal For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self That that can survive in this world is impossible Its antithetical to the modes of production In which our societies operate and thrive How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor How can any community in any corner of the world escape The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism When will we reclaim our escaping humanity When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine And don't think that you are safe when you have made it When you have entered the circle of dominance Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes Just as dispensable as that of the powerless Because to maintain that circle of dominance Requires a total conversion to misanthropy The rigor with which your power will be required To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break And when you become useless, it will replace you So that we must realize that the modes of production That we allow to exploit us In powerlessness, or the semblance of power Can never safeguard our humanity How much further will we allow power to be concentrated So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness

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Mar 31, 2013

Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC

emanuel-martinez

Modes of Production: Power and Powerlessness

When we think about the choices in our lives When we fight and we bicker and become bitter When we think there is only power or powerlessness If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness In that instance haven't we began the process of choice That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness To those who have only lived powerlessness And know nothing else Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness That you have ceased to be one of them Or your mere power has denied one of them That there is no choice for them Because they haven't birthed that consciousness And if you choose power they'll remain powerless Because within you there is no loyalty, right? It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to That a mind and body can cultivate power That can be harvested, shared, communal For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self That that can survive in this world is impossible Its antithetical to the modes of production In which our societies operate and thrive How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor How can any community in any corner of the world escape The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism When will we reclaim our escaping humanity When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine And don't think that you are safe when you have made it When you have entered the circle of dominance Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes Just as dispensable as that of the powerless Because to maintain that circle of dominance Requires a total conversion to misanthropy The rigor with which your power will be required To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break And when you become useless, it will replace you So that we must realize that the modes of production That we allow to exploit us In powerlessness, or the semblance of power Can never safeguard our humanity How much further will we allow power to be concentrated So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness

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Never been there. Can't talk about it much. I've seen shadows on the wall. Crying faces down the hall. I've seen reflections of friends in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD. Can't talk about it much. It's not a subject I like to touch. Never been there. Never talking like I've seen it all. They have. Ask them what it's like to fall down and check your face for scrapes and have other people put band-aids on your *** ("Oops, my mistake!") Or better yet, don't. Don't ask me. Don't ask them. They can talk. I've never been. If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend. But don't ask. Don't reopen or worse, pen, their pain and their past. Just listen if they ask. Have some ******* courtesy till then.

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Sep 8, 2015

Sep 8, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC

**** Is Not A Talking Piece

Never been there. Can't talk about it much. I've seen shadows on the wall. Crying faces down the hall. I've seen reflections of friends in the communal toilet while they Puke-TSD. Can't talk about it much. It's not a subject I like to touch. Never been there. Never talking like I've seen it all. They have. Ask them what it's like to fall down and check your face for scrapes and have other people put band-aids on your *** ("Oops, my mistake!") Or better yet, don't. Don't ask me. Don't ask them. They can talk. I've never been. If they ask, you can answer with the voice of a friend. But don't ask. Don't reopen or worse, pen, their pain and their past. Just listen if they ask. Have some ******* courtesy till then.

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.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.* just your atypical pedantry, a translator's subscript comment - who's richard rojcewicz's... regarding what? heidegger... das volk, and the three derivatives - volkhaft (populist), volklich (communal) und? völkisch (folkish) - i'm starting to suspect that i'm tapping in the all things folk.... unconsciously, favoring folk music... see, us central europeans, we bunch together and share the most odd similarities - i never thought that the song herr mannelig could be translated from Swedish - as it was translated into German... then again... Vikings founded Kiev... and all these loan-words of Germanic origin in Polish... the only Anglo loan-word that i know of, is, weekend... hence, das volk, people - by the way... German has "too many" definite articles, and only one ein - or eine - is that the same rule as in Ęnglish? i.e. N in an example, rather than in a counter example? two vowels adjacent in separate word, sitting across from the grand chasm of... a spacing itch? but look at German, i never get it... DAS DIE DER... is there an aesthetic difference, and only an aesthetic difference to mind? bewildering... if there is such a thing as a western civilization... that sometime pompous obnoxiousness, fair enough... no problem: but learn to hide it, feel it, rather then feed it... it's not a question of a civilization, but more... an answer to what is less civilization, and more... a chore... just like western women, notably the english women call motherhood a, "job"... it's a... wait... a job? doubt was big in classic philosophy of the Cartesian schematic... so no one knows that the French existentialists brought in negation, as the driving force to replace doubt? who the hell sees doubt these days? either the know it alles - or the hush-hush crowd... motherhood is a... job? well... then i guess, being a man... western civilization, by that standard of logic... can't be anything more... than a.... ******* chore!

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Aug 14, 2018

Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

das volk (translator's note)

.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.* just your atypical pedantry, a translator's subscript comment - who's richard rojcewicz's... regarding what? heidegger... das volk, and the three derivatives - volkhaft (populist), volklich (communal) und? völkisch (folkish) - i'm starting to suspect that i'm tapping in the all things folk.... unconsciously, favoring folk music... see, us central europeans, we bunch together and share the most odd similarities - i never thought that the song herr mannelig could be translated from Swedish - as it was translated into German... then again... Vikings founded Kiev... and all these loan-words of Germanic origin in Polish... the only Anglo loan-word that i know of, is, weekend... hence, das volk, people - by the way... German has "too many" definite articles, and only one ein - or eine - is that the same rule as in Ęnglish? i.e. N in an example, rather than in a counter example? two vowels adjacent in separate word, sitting across from the grand chasm of... a spacing itch? but look at German, i never get it... DAS DIE DER... is there an aesthetic difference, and only an aesthetic difference to mind? bewildering... if there is such a thing as a western civilization... that sometime pompous obnoxiousness, fair enough... no problem: but learn to hide it, feel it, rather then feed it... it's not a question of a civilization, but more... an answer to what is less civilization, and more... a chore... just like western women, notably the english women call motherhood a, "job"... it's a... wait... a job? doubt was big in classic philosophy of the Cartesian schematic... so no one knows that the French existentialists brought in negation, as the driving force to replace doubt? who the hell sees doubt these days? either the know it alles - or the hush-hush crowd... motherhood is a... job? well... then i guess, being a man... western civilization, by that standard of logic... can't be anything more... than a.... ******* chore!

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I want to be you In the holy communal I want to be you Suffocated by the plastic bag I want to be you Sitting at the top I want to be you Head-diving from sixtieth floor I want to be you And happy 98th birthday! I want to be you Reading this and I want to be you Who had half the mind to wonder If this means anything

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May 24, 2018

May 24, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC

I want to be you

I want to be you In the holy communal I want to be you Suffocated by the plastic bag I want to be you Sitting at the top I want to be you Head-diving from sixtieth floor I want to be you And happy 98th birthday! I want to be you Reading this and I want to be you Who had half the mind to wonder If this means anything

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The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away, in their communal bed two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand, confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling, it informs on me, providing the room temperature, and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses, the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass, all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection, all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy despite the visual evidence abounding all around, despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted, love songs, poems and the other artistic churn, depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical in quantitative quality, typology, representation and manifestations measurable each greets the other with morning declarations of mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability is precious capital precision equal and ha! each love is the greater... you knew this? then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the Fighting Fallacy rules, every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are identical and equal, in so many ways, but never quantifiable exactly 8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side 11/12/17

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Nov 12, 2017

Nov 12, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC

The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy

The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away, in their communal bed two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand, confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling, it informs on me, providing the room temperature, and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses, the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass, all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection, all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy despite the visual evidence abounding all around, despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted, love songs, poems and the other artistic churn, depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical in quantitative quality, typology, representation and manifestations measurable each greets the other with morning declarations of mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability is precious capital precision equal and ha! each love is the greater... you knew this? then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the Fighting Fallacy rules, every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are identical and equal, in so many ways, but never quantifiable exactly 8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side 11/12/17

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Forever and ever Without a choice, Roofs were raised In booming voice: God the Father. Proclaimed the choir. In our two millenia, The communal host blessed pro-choice, With Omni-this and Omni-that: *Christ the Son. Christ has won.* The carollers rejoice. The Spirit transubstantiates With tongues of creativity; Is One with femininity. What greater God! What a Trinity!

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Mar 10, 2014

Mar 10, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC

In the Name of Woman

Forever and ever Without a choice, Roofs were raised In booming voice: God the Father. Proclaimed the choir. In our two millenia, The communal host blessed pro-choice, With Omni-this and Omni-that: *Christ the Son. Christ has won.* The carollers rejoice. The Spirit transubstantiates With tongues of creativity; Is One with femininity. What greater God! What a Trinity!

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An ant is just an ant my son An impact it wont make But a million ants will move the world A conviction you won’t shake. An ant is still a living thing It eats, it breaths, it works It runs in an environment Where the hostile spider lurks. It works in regulation With a thousand brother ants To a strict cooperation That achieves communal stance. An intelligence is present, A timetable has been set This organized endeavor Makes it’s success an winning bet. An ant makes love, it rears it’s young It grooms it’s brother’s hide. And if enraged an ant will fight A foe a thousand times it’s size. It’s glittering antennae And it’s shiny compound eye It’s economy of movement And compulsion to deny Involvement with any cause Apart from that one sent By the Queen Ant’s regulations At the Ant God’s monument. I am moved with admiration For this tiny creatures heart, It’s commitment to community And resolve to set apart All individual aspiration And selfish action of it’s own. To gather condiments for nest and Queen Compelled forever more…to roam. Marshalg Mangere Bridge 17th May 2008

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Nov 28, 2009

Nov 28, 2009 at 11:53 AM UTC

An ant is just an ant my son An impact it wont make But a million ants will move the world A conviction you won’t shake. An ant is still a living thing It eats, it breaths, it works It runs in an environment Where the hostile spider lurks. It works in regulation With a thousand brother ants To a strict cooperation That achieves communal stance. An intelligence is present, A timetable has been set This organized endeavor Makes it’s success an winning bet. An ant makes love, it rears it’s young It grooms it’s brother’s hide. And if enraged an ant will fight A foe a thousand times it’s size. It’s glittering antennae And it’s shiny compound eye It’s economy of movement And compulsion to deny Involvement with any cause Apart from that one sent By the Queen Ant’s regulations At the Ant God’s monument. I am moved with admiration For this tiny creatures heart, It’s commitment to community And resolve to set apart All individual aspiration And selfish action of it’s own. To gather condiments for nest and Queen Compelled forever more…to roam. Marshalg Mangere Bridge 17th May 2008

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Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125 Allegro ma non troppo The silence gives way gently to quiet tremolos rustling beneath the beckoning call of distant horns. A melodic cell, nascent in violins, spirals down to the somber depths of cello and contrabass. A sudden cataclysm shakes the hall like thunder heralding our universal birth. Gales of sonic force splashed like turbulent waves against the rocky shores. Drifting sans glass or sextant on a sea of expanding mystery, we gaze to the heavens in hopes for a glimpse of our father’s aetherial dwelling. Molto vivace With hands intertwined, we dance in a ring to the capricious airs of the laughing gods with Zeus himself on timpani. So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor and fill your glass to the brim! For today is yesterday’s morrow and tomorrow’s history. Adagio molto e cantabile There is no greater and more healing light than the candles that shine in the eyes of a friend or loving spouse - tenderly lighting our paths through the storms and fogs that cloud our lives. Peace abides in a friend's embrace. An die Freude Against raging storms of strife and sorrow. we hear a healing voice A calm cello hymn - that migrates up to higher cords of violas and violins - breaking into joyous song sung by trumpets, winds and drums. Casting all shrillness of discord aside, a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode - and sings of Elysium’s daughter. Quartet and chorus enter in proclaiming hope for the human family, A tenor raises a stein to valor in the company of his friends. The quiet pulsing of horns and winds ushers in torrents of ecstasy. Arms clasped in communal embrace, we gaze to heaven on bended knees then rise with a majestic fugue that illuminates our souls like a blazing Alpine dawn. In a cyclone of passion, Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes entreat us to restore what custom has rent apart that each of us may live our lives as brothers in heavenly sanctuary. May 25, 2007

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Sep 20, 2013

Sep 20, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC

robert-c-howard

Beethoven and Schiller

Symphony No.9 in d – minor, opus 125 Allegro ma non troppo The silence gives way gently to quiet tremolos rustling beneath the beckoning call of distant horns. A melodic cell, nascent in violins, spirals down to the somber depths of cello and contrabass. A sudden cataclysm shakes the hall like thunder heralding our universal birth. Gales of sonic force splashed like turbulent waves against the rocky shores. Drifting sans glass or sextant on a sea of expanding mystery, we gaze to the heavens in hopes for a glimpse of our father’s aetherial dwelling. Molto vivace With hands intertwined, we dance in a ring to the capricious airs of the laughing gods with Zeus himself on timpani. So pass the wine and kiss your neighbor and fill your glass to the brim! For today is yesterday’s morrow and tomorrow’s history. Adagio molto e cantabile There is no greater and more healing light than the candles that shine in the eyes of a friend or loving spouse - tenderly lighting our paths through the storms and fogs that cloud our lives. Peace abides in a friend's embrace. An die Freude Against raging storms of strife and sorrow. we hear a healing voice A calm cello hymn - that migrates up to higher cords of violas and violins - breaking into joyous song sung by trumpets, winds and drums. Casting all shrillness of discord aside, a baritone lines out Schiller’s ode - and sings of Elysium’s daughter. Quartet and chorus enter in proclaiming hope for the human family, A tenor raises a stein to valor in the company of his friends. The quiet pulsing of horns and winds ushers in torrents of ecstasy. Arms clasped in communal embrace, we gaze to heaven on bended knees then rise with a majestic fugue that illuminates our souls like a blazing Alpine dawn. In a cyclone of passion, Schiller's words and Beethoven's notes entreat us to restore what custom has rent apart that each of us may live our lives as brothers in heavenly sanctuary. May 25, 2007

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Defying the consensus of complacency, And the enantiomorphic political practicality, Candidates embrace their vacillating indexicality. Spouting thrift store self reliance sapientiality, Telling lores of cultural compatibility. Hope filled promises of economic suitability, Aligned with institutional feasibility. Packaged in over-inclusive catchall empty signifiers Strewn across all media screens, communal utilitarian plan flyers. Requesting no need for responsiveness, For a vote no longer dictates precedence, In the age of social media endemic presence relevance. PFL

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Jul 3, 2016

Jul 3, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC

Defying the consensus of complacency, And the enantiomorphic political practicality, Candidates embrace their vacillating indexicality. Spouting thrift store self reliance sapientiality, Telling lores of cultural compatibility. Hope filled promises of economic suitability, Aligned with institutional feasibility. Packaged in over-inclusive catchall empty signifiers Strewn across all media screens, communal utilitarian plan flyers. Requesting no need for responsiveness, For a vote no longer dictates precedence, In the age of social media endemic presence relevance. PFL

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Painted ponies of the Paiute Run against the sky Cracked lightning lights the orange fire Desert winds stoke whipping flame Eagle flies blind to the sun Scorpion strikes out in vain Antelope leap crisscrossed arroyo Coyote calls across the sand Thatched huts explode in maelstrom storm First People’s shadows smoke the ground Clay pots crack and break in time Fire-cracked stone in communal circles Markers of forgotten stories Great Basin parched to cracking lines Full moon wanes to yellow bone Awaiting dark clouds quenching rain And painted ponies once again. r ~ 6/4/14

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Jun 4, 2014

Jun 4, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC

Painted ponies of the Paiute Run against the sky Cracked lightning lights the orange fire Desert winds stoke whipping flame Eagle flies blind to the sun Scorpion strikes out in vain Antelope leap crisscrossed arroyo Coyote calls across the sand Thatched huts explode in maelstrom storm First People’s shadows smoke the ground Clay pots crack and break in time Fire-cracked stone in communal circles Markers of forgotten stories Great Basin parched to cracking lines Full moon wanes to yellow bone Awaiting dark clouds quenching rain And painted ponies once again. r ~ 6/4/14

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Monday It has come to my attention, that someone has been stealing from the communal fridge. I notice that my own personal milk with my name on the bottle is half empty, also three fingers of my kitkat are missing. Please refrain, or action will be taken. Tuesday It has come to my attention, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see my milk has been topped up, though, why two fingers of my kitkat in a V sign beggars belief. Just tasted my milk, you ***** ******* I will now be monitoring the fridge from my office. You will be caught. Wednesday It has come to my attention, the camera monitoring the fridge is now monitoring the ladies toilet. This is intolerable, you are usurping my authority. Heads will roll. I will now be moving the fridge into my office till further notice. Thursday It has come to my attention, my office has been penetrated, the fridge is missing, and I find a ransom note on my desk. I don’t know who you people think you're dealing with, but let me leave you in no doubt, I will find out who you are, and you will be dismissed. Friday It has come to my attention, a delivery of fifty fridges is cluttering up the whole building, management is going ballistic. I concede to your demands, please get rid of them. Let us get back to you taking my milk and my biscuits, my job, my life. Just leave me alone. Thank you.

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May 3, 2015

May 3, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC

Monday It has come to my attention, that someone has been stealing from the communal fridge. I notice that my own personal milk with my name on the bottle is half empty, also three fingers of my kitkat are missing. Please refrain, or action will be taken. Tuesday It has come to my attention, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see my milk has been topped up, though, why two fingers of my kitkat in a V sign beggars belief. Just tasted my milk, you ***** ******* I will now be monitoring the fridge from my office. You will be caught. Wednesday It has come to my attention, the camera monitoring the fridge is now monitoring the ladies toilet. This is intolerable, you are usurping my authority. Heads will roll. I will now be moving the fridge into my office till further notice. Thursday It has come to my attention, my office has been penetrated, the fridge is missing, and I find a ransom note on my desk. I don’t know who you people think you're dealing with, but let me leave you in no doubt, I will find out who you are, and you will be dismissed. Friday It has come to my attention, a delivery of fifty fridges is cluttering up the whole building, management is going ballistic. I concede to your demands, please get rid of them. Let us get back to you taking my milk and my biscuits, my job, my life. Just leave me alone. Thank you.

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Edifice erections surreal mistic heights Wayward excursions and catenary's bight Communal collusions of harmonies site Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight Exponential overload was communities plight Semantic regalia is myriad temptation Finite being a mutual oblation Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation Conception's vastness like incalculable equation Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory **** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory

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Jun 27, 2015

Jun 27, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC

toreinss-pinwinkel-iii

Resurrecting the Tower of Babel

Edifice erections surreal mistic heights Wayward excursions and catenary's bight Communal collusions of harmonies site Ethereal subsistence on exsertion's light Lingam and yoni are indefatigably tight Exponential overload was communities plight Semantic regalia is myriad temptation Finite being a mutual oblation Vicarious recalcitrance an obeisant sensation Conception's vastness like incalculable equation Ephemeral effulgence is indomitable pervasion Treacherous traverse and eternal occasion Succinct salience is symbiotic allegory Fecundity's verve a transcendent promontory Imperative ascension the conjunctive's divinatory Audacity's exigence and fertility's invocatory Erotica's erectile like mentality's trajectory Futurity's fatidic and inherent delusory **** it fell right over like categorical imperative's contradictory

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*Perched upon the peasant’s altar Anomalous, conglomerate, anorexic, and onyx The concubine’s cake with the Oxford comma, Communal and picked and eaten at by little birds Nominal trauma oozes visceral ****** and break Sever and break Steep walls of amorphous clay Congeal to the walls of the willow Exquisite and infinite, infidel Flight ****** Lo, light of my life, Long hair dripping with whiskey*

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Sep 20, 2012

Sep 20, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC

*Perched upon the peasant’s altar Anomalous, conglomerate, anorexic, and onyx The concubine’s cake with the Oxford comma, Communal and picked and eaten at by little birds Nominal trauma oozes visceral ****** and break Sever and break Steep walls of amorphous clay Congeal to the walls of the willow Exquisite and infinite, infidel Flight ****** Lo, light of my life, Long hair dripping with whiskey*

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We believe we must be gregarious. In communal bonds families annoint One another in a precarious Need to follow one leader at the point. Individuals are not relevant. Momentary solitude makes us run. In silence we find nothing elegant . Time to search for innerpeace has begun. "Oh' Catain, My Captain," cried Walt Whitman. The captain is dead. There's no one we need. We don't have to group to stop the hitman. The single flower's a rose, not a **** We, need to be I, hear this confession: Farewell friends, I am my new obsession.

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Feb 11, 2013

Feb 11, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC

Sonnet (Bouts-Rimes)

We believe we must be gregarious. In communal bonds families annoint One another in a precarious Need to follow one leader at the point. Individuals are not relevant. Momentary solitude makes us run. In silence we find nothing elegant . Time to search for innerpeace has begun. "Oh' Catain, My Captain," cried Walt Whitman. The captain is dead. There's no one we need. We don't have to group to stop the hitman. The single flower's a rose, not a **** We, need to be I, hear this confession: Farewell friends, I am my new obsession.

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On the pier of life I sit, dangling in my thoughts. Days past I'd be fishing for the stars, happy in my thoughts. A small fish here, a small fish there, it mattered. I had something. Now my eyes close to the horizon, to my reflection of the sea, and to life. Birds flock to the skies, in harmony, with the wind, with each other, over singing trees and ryhming seas, in communal and in chorus. My dark eyes look up, mournful. For how I thirst the album of life, fervent and epic. Resigned I sit, my shoulders sagging, my closing feet dangling at the end of the pier. I close my eyes and think of my pallbearers, laughing. I imagine their lips, curt little whispers, my epithaph, he did get his feet wet in life. Logan Robertson 3/30/2018

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Mar 30, 2018

Mar 30, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC

logan-robertson

When He Comes Marching Home

On the pier of life I sit, dangling in my thoughts. Days past I'd be fishing for the stars, happy in my thoughts. A small fish here, a small fish there, it mattered. I had something. Now my eyes close to the horizon, to my reflection of the sea, and to life. Birds flock to the skies, in harmony, with the wind, with each other, over singing trees and ryhming seas, in communal and in chorus. My dark eyes look up, mournful. For how I thirst the album of life, fervent and epic. Resigned I sit, my shoulders sagging, my closing feet dangling at the end of the pier. I close my eyes and think of my pallbearers, laughing. I imagine their lips, curt little whispers, my epithaph, he did get his feet wet in life. Logan Robertson 3/30/2018

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the curling smoke from warming fires rise into the slate gray sky of the Beqaa Valley sheaves of rising prayers expire in twisted plumes dissipating into the gloom of an ever looming winter overcast refugees from the Arab Spring's uncivil wars gather for warmth around waning embers, smoldering in the underbelly of the lowliest bottom of rusted steel drums, tended with scavenged debris some thought better suited to fortify the faltering hovels of last resort the fires join us in communal rings straining the tenuous links of brotherhood, the politics of men assiduously tear asunder we count ourselves among the fortunate, blessed exiles recused from the acrimony of desecrated cities, welcoming the residencies of bewailing lullabies of colic infants, the searing hunger of stunted children and the incomprehensible babble the elderly eloquently speak in tongues of a desperate exasperation our nagging impotence swaddle us in ambivalent inabilities to master circumstances profanely denigrating our humanity privation is our daily bread the bitter manna feasting on the animosity the banquet of rancor generously prepares for peace starved pilgrims in these refugee camps the cold cuts deeper hunger pangs grow sharper our blighted dignity, vanished livelihoods, and the presence of recently interred loved ones trudge through our mean encampment as fully enfranchised citizens in our distressed kingdom what was lost can never be recovered our homeland leveled yet doors still stand open silently pleading all to cross a new threshold the full restoration of our hope, the reconstitution of our flagging humanity, the spark of the holy spirit willfully uniting us in the salvation of reconciliation is nigh we are the divine children stoking the embers tending the fire that light pathways through the cold darkness of a broken world Oh come Emmanuel, dwell among us Oh come Emmanuel ransom once again the poor captives of Israel…. Selah Music Selection: L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg Veni Veni Emmanuel Everywhere Christmas 2013 jbm

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Dec 24, 2013

Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC

james-bradley-mccallum

the curling smoke from warming fires rise into the slate gray sky of the Beqaa Valley sheaves of rising prayers expire in twisted plumes dissipating into the gloom of an ever looming winter overcast refugees from the Arab Spring's uncivil wars gather for warmth around waning embers, smoldering in the underbelly of the lowliest bottom of rusted steel drums, tended with scavenged debris some thought better suited to fortify the faltering hovels of last resort the fires join us in communal rings straining the tenuous links of brotherhood, the politics of men assiduously tear asunder we count ourselves among the fortunate, blessed exiles recused from the acrimony of desecrated cities, welcoming the residencies of bewailing lullabies of colic infants, the searing hunger of stunted children and the incomprehensible babble the elderly eloquently speak in tongues of a desperate exasperation our nagging impotence swaddle us in ambivalent inabilities to master circumstances profanely denigrating our humanity privation is our daily bread the bitter manna feasting on the animosity the banquet of rancor generously prepares for peace starved pilgrims in these refugee camps the cold cuts deeper hunger pangs grow sharper our blighted dignity, vanished livelihoods, and the presence of recently interred loved ones trudge through our mean encampment as fully enfranchised citizens in our distressed kingdom what was lost can never be recovered our homeland leveled yet doors still stand open silently pleading all to cross a new threshold the full restoration of our hope, the reconstitution of our flagging humanity, the spark of the holy spirit willfully uniting us in the salvation of reconciliation is nigh we are the divine children stoking the embers tending the fire that light pathways through the cold darkness of a broken world Oh come Emmanuel, dwell among us Oh come Emmanuel ransom once again the poor captives of Israel…. Selah Music Selection: L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg Veni Veni Emmanuel Everywhere Christmas 2013 jbm

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We fight and we fight and we fight For what our communal conscious believes is right We scratch and we scratch and we scratch At the surface of our supposed human needs We wave and we wave and we wave These banners that state a truthful name How hard we work to prove that we are human How hard we try to not to be dissproven The grave does not care who you are The scythe strikes fast strikes clean but strikes fair It doth not judge for we beings think far too much At night when the prowling pride stalks its prey Where the stars shine heavy on the hides of the unlucky Does the lion question whether to eat the man or the woman? The gay or the straight? The gimp or the man stumbling due to too many sips? The lion only wants his meat His catch Much like our friend the grave We fight and we fight and we shout and we shout And we wave and we wave because we think that is how freedom behaves How lost we are, we children of mother earth How stunned we become at our own plain insignificance That a drifting leaf in a Fall breeze has even more elegance Twisting spitting crying masses of flesh and bone Drones upon drones stand upon stones upon stones An eternal cycle of nature's evolution A plan that is known and unknown Seen and said but not ever shared We fight and we fight and we fight and we fight We say the cause is the hand of an almighty God That the cause of liberation comes from the impulse of our sanitation The wolf howls to be free and is But we We human beings We just Fight and we fight and we fight

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Jul 20, 2011

Jul 20, 2011 at 11:09 PM UTC

We Fight and We Fight

We fight and we fight and we fight For what our communal conscious believes is right We scratch and we scratch and we scratch At the surface of our supposed human needs We wave and we wave and we wave These banners that state a truthful name How hard we work to prove that we are human How hard we try to not to be dissproven The grave does not care who you are The scythe strikes fast strikes clean but strikes fair It doth not judge for we beings think far too much At night when the prowling pride stalks its prey Where the stars shine heavy on the hides of the unlucky Does the lion question whether to eat the man or the woman? The gay or the straight? The gimp or the man stumbling due to too many sips? The lion only wants his meat His catch Much like our friend the grave We fight and we fight and we shout and we shout And we wave and we wave because we think that is how freedom behaves How lost we are, we children of mother earth How stunned we become at our own plain insignificance That a drifting leaf in a Fall breeze has even more elegance Twisting spitting crying masses of flesh and bone Drones upon drones stand upon stones upon stones An eternal cycle of nature's evolution A plan that is known and unknown Seen and said but not ever shared We fight and we fight and we fight and we fight We say the cause is the hand of an almighty God That the cause of liberation comes from the impulse of our sanitation The wolf howls to be free and is But we We human beings We just Fight and we fight and we fight

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What makes it so easy to ponder about lost admiration than newly found attraction? It must be that we have so much more time to ourselves after realizing that our lost love can be compared with a pair of old tennis shoes. We have journeyed to distant lands of pleasure, happiness, communal pain, hard work, and satisfaction. We have shuffled through the ever changing seasons of the emotional storm. At some point, it is almost unimaginable that we will someday be replaced. Some tennis shoes never get replaced. But do the owners of those shoes ever have the chance to regroup, grow, and renew? The soles and linings and laces of shoes begin to wear out. Soon, patches are needed. Sometimes a newborn child can serve as a patch and sometimes an exotic vacation will do the trick. Surely no one believes that the patches are permanent… It is easier to ponder about long lost attachment because, at the end of the long walk that we have taken with our shoes, we often come to think and wish that we had taken better care of their owners.

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Sep 19, 2010

Sep 19, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC

maximiliane-j-schinabeck

What makes it so easy to ponder about lost admiration than newly found attraction? It must be that we have so much more time to ourselves after realizing that our lost love can be compared with a pair of old tennis shoes. We have journeyed to distant lands of pleasure, happiness, communal pain, hard work, and satisfaction. We have shuffled through the ever changing seasons of the emotional storm. At some point, it is almost unimaginable that we will someday be replaced. Some tennis shoes never get replaced. But do the owners of those shoes ever have the chance to regroup, grow, and renew? The soles and linings and laces of shoes begin to wear out. Soon, patches are needed. Sometimes a newborn child can serve as a patch and sometimes an exotic vacation will do the trick. Surely no one believes that the patches are permanent… It is easier to ponder about long lost attachment because, at the end of the long walk that we have taken with our shoes, we often come to think and wish that we had taken better care of their owners.

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. what's the difference between thieves, and magicians? not much... both have quick hands... and an awake, yet asleep public communal presence... the thief has a public of the victim, and the c.c.t.v. "stage"... the magician? has a public of the crowd, and the "dajjal" stage of a camera replenishing a concept of: not enough public... thieves and magicians are bedfellows... you allow one to flourish... the antithesis will come along, and in an indiscriminate fashion... allow the "magic" / "thieving" to take place... what is a magician, a public figure... compared... to a thief? i can't see the difference... the audience was fooled by the magician... the individual was fooled by the thief... are they... so much unlike each other? magicians can own a theater stage... thieves, sometimes... just sometimes... own the, basic... pointlessness of english c.c.t.v. mechanics, to make police officers make: a follow-up investigation... oh, but i have genius interrogation practices... no one wants to listen to... like 10 hours straights of listening to stefan molyneux... or 48 hours, sleep deprived... listening to BBC 24 hour news reels... that **** could crack anyone... what the americans did to the Iraqis? last time i heard... they blasted the slayer oeuvre down headphones into their ears... Americans... feeding conquered Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre? BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE! and didn't the encore come? ******* retards... crows feeding seagull chicks with sinew and regurgitated scavenger meat! if only they played them some Bach... i'm pretty sure... the Iraqis would still be left... disorientated... but the American army "interrogators"... ha ha! played them the slayer oeuvre! WEE-TARDS! anyone... and i mean anyone: will relieve themselves as being "tortured": doubly charged up, and ready to ingest hyper-coffee in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic of ingesting amphetamines (pervitin) - night-raids... the londoonoirnischt blitz, sloth krieg... ya ya yawn... urgh... burp... and always... those poncy - english, gay, aristocratic men... and their... psychotropic women... so what's the difference between a common thief... and a spectacle magician? one "owns" cctv footage, the other owns a stage... yet both share a: quicksilver take on, what cannot be interpreted in either handwriting or stenography... hmm... can't be sure whether both could be considered legal.

0

Jul 31, 2018

Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

thieves & magicians

. what's the difference between thieves, and magicians? not much... both have quick hands... and an awake, yet asleep public communal presence... the thief has a public of the victim, and the c.c.t.v. "stage"... the magician? has a public of the crowd, and the "dajjal" stage of a camera replenishing a concept of: not enough public... thieves and magicians are bedfellows... you allow one to flourish... the antithesis will come along, and in an indiscriminate fashion... allow the "magic" / "thieving" to take place... what is a magician, a public figure... compared... to a thief? i can't see the difference... the audience was fooled by the magician... the individual was fooled by the thief... are they... so much unlike each other? magicians can own a theater stage... thieves, sometimes... just sometimes... own the, basic... pointlessness of english c.c.t.v. mechanics, to make police officers make: a follow-up investigation... oh, but i have genius interrogation practices... no one wants to listen to... like 10 hours straights of listening to stefan molyneux... or 48 hours, sleep deprived... listening to BBC 24 hour news reels... that **** could crack anyone... what the americans did to the Iraqis? last time i heard... they blasted the slayer oeuvre down headphones into their ears... Americans... feeding conquered Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre? BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE! and didn't the encore come? ******* retards... crows feeding seagull chicks with sinew and regurgitated scavenger meat! if only they played them some Bach... i'm pretty sure... the Iraqis would still be left... disorientated... but the American army "interrogators"... ha ha! played them the slayer oeuvre! WEE-TARDS! anyone... and i mean anyone: will relieve themselves as being "tortured": doubly charged up, and ready to ingest hyper-coffee in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic of ingesting amphetamines (pervitin) - night-raids... the londoonoirnischt blitz, sloth krieg... ya ya yawn... urgh... burp... and always... those poncy - english, gay, aristocratic men... and their... psychotropic women... so what's the difference between a common thief... and a spectacle magician? one "owns" cctv footage, the other owns a stage... yet both share a: quicksilver take on, what cannot be interpreted in either handwriting or stenography... hmm... can't be sure whether both could be considered legal.

Continue reading...