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534

We see—Comparatively—
The Thing so towering high
We could not grasp its segment
Unaided—Yesterday—

This Morning’s finer Verdict—
Makes scarcely worth the toil—
A furrow—Our Cordillera—
Our Apennine—a Knoll—

Perhaps ’tis kindly—done us—
The Anguish—and the loss—
The wrenching—for His Firmament
The Thing belonged to us—

To spare these Striding Spirits
Some Morning of Chagrin—
The waking in a Gnat’s—embrace—
Our Giants—further on—
Humans acting inhumane
purposely maim
For some higher purpose
serving no purpose
that requires them to purposely
commit these atrocities?

Pah-leeze

Kids and young adults
mostly dolts
not understanding
Looking to belong
it doesn’t add up
Won’t be long
until they’re not left standing
left underneath the heel
of a consuming lunatic
A blackened heart
no time will heal

Served up as another meal
Just an added wheel
One more cog
Doing for “God”
the most ungodliest of acts
Acting pious
but I’m not buying
Won’t get by us

Get left in the dust
They may be resolute
in this crusade they carry
but cruelty served among the blade
may have worked in the past
But that time has come and past
and like a book past due
so is the rue
that will be served upon you

Tuck those napkins into your shirts
because your time is short
And if there is a God
I’m sure you’ll meet him
and have to answer,
along with those of kindred spirit,
to next of kin
of those who are now spirits
The lives you took

Can’t take any more
Everyday many more
My eyes can’t believe
the ugliness and cruelty they see
So I turn away
I do not look
Don’t want to know
because ignorance is truly bliss
But is it?

Is it bliss for those
who’ll be sacrificed
so some nut job just might
go to an afterlife
with many wives
Are you kidding me?!

Take a hike
go fly a kite
because that’s about where
your ideas and ideals
(to use the term loosely)
come from

I’m in a fit
just thinking of it
This poem is long, I know
but I can not fit onto this page
the total rage
I hold in me for those
who can’t uphold
the simplest of human values
which is the value of human life

Where does one go wrong
in the head
to not see the wrong
no, instead
thinking okay
to take away
the precious breaths
we take each day??

Just go away
If you must ****
please start with yourself
Offer yourself up
to whatever it is that you are dreaming about
But leave others to be as they be
for they do not believe
what you believe

And don’t tell me that it’s not okay
to not think the way
that you think
Why, what’s the harm?
If you hold strength in your values
and beliefs
That whatever you’re chasing
is unwavering
Then how can I,
little ol’ me,
just standing here being me
How is that somehow an attack
on what you believe?

Just leave
You be you
and I’ll be me

It doesn’t matter what’s between
There’s no need to intervene
Shoo
Bye bye
Take a hike
*****

I promise not to judge you
even if my beliefs
are comparatively opposite
how it is the things you see

There's only one rule
You fool
As foolish as you are
Yes, a wound that heals
still leaves a scar
But you can't fool me
Nor will I be
Numb to the severity
Of the sickness that you teach

And sickness is the word
To describe the absurd
Of the nonsense that you heard
and accepted as true
because you have no values
Well, maybe to you
You feel you do
But these directives you choose
Need to simmer your stew
They're old; nothing new
Heard it before
On humanity, a sore
Faulty programming taught
For it can not be bought
Don't sell at the store
Not interesting; it's a bore

Young children know well
Yes we guide but don't sell
In each of us it's innate
Most choose love over hate
As a spectator you'd find
The majority of time
Even if no one is watching
People's actions are kind
Without being beaten
Because people want to be treated
With dignity and respect
What you give is what you'll get

So don't act like you've been chosen
That ******* you're holding
Its noxious scent fills the air
Through my nostrils it tears
But a fresh breeze
has rolled in
Brings with it the Golden
Rule; the same one
The simplest of tools
One of the first things
Taught to us in grade school
A basic design
Yet also eloquent
I think for most people
it's something inherent
The way that you wish
How others would treat you
Apply them to yourself
Make those actions what you do
And if all of us follow
Treating each other this way
The storm clouds would abate
Nothing left but brighter days
Written: February 22, 2018

All rights reserved
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/notably concerning graduate education at the university of Edinburgh: why do these doctors think they can teach, who made them so, well, what's the word, useless, demeaned at having to teach? every time a doctor of chemistry was asked to teach it was like watching someone being tortured in an iron maiden... sure, a professor of chemistry could teach, just like every single post-graduate, PhD student should have taught, a doctor of chemistry didn't teach, unless he taught as Americans are prone to speaking in acronyms, and they say the Scots speak an undecipherable english... like **** they do, understood them like I might understand the zest pinch of a hobskotch chili! after all, the chemistry doctor doesn't exactly make use of his PhD students, but since they were the sheep first to the slaughter before the guillotine of knowledge, they could translate the higher tier chemistry to the undergraduates... no one sane enough would want to learn chemistry from a doctor of chemistry... those men and women are lost to their own enterprises, to their own Faustian romance, to teach chemistry at university, it would be best to be taught by those inclined to further adhere to advanced pedagogy... post-graduates ought to replace doctors in teaching undergraduate material... balanced out by the fact that the said doctors would not require the help of PhD students in research, with what already is time wasted on lecturing, what to them is, the ****** obvious... but then again... the supply and demand isn't there... even though PhD students could teach, they don't, smug chemistry doctors lecture in the guise of solipsism... theyd rather be engrossed in their research than give lectures... but since those trained PhD monkeys do all the trial and error, wasted time, which the doctors themselves could do... they waste their time on giving undergraduate lectures... because these recent protests at universities, where students complained about not having enough time spent with doctors in the field... I'd start by bemoaning not being given enough post-graduate time... after all, the people who closest to jumping over the waiting benchmark.../

in vino veritas:
due proof that snobbery
and that indie collection
of the smiths' reissue
only goes so far,
    comparatively,
Miles Davis' kind of blue
isn't overrated nor is
it overplayed,
notably a conversation
with Boris, the Russian
in Edinburgh,
who had to pick sketches
of spain
as his favourite...
pop music versus ******
fetishes... people will be
ashamed of pop song guilty
pleasures than any bedroom
"deviances",
the boat the boat, whatever floats
yours...  
mine? seven years late,
Britney spears' criminal...
because John Coltrane'
a love supreme is easier
to digest than ******* brew?
fudged packed *******
and a perpetuated crescendo...
Boris could have took to
Porgy and Bess...
         or the birth of cool...
whatever it was,
high above Steppenwolf
   desiring the immortality
of a Bach... still:
       there's Händel...
but let's face it,
both sides lost something,
whatever the iron curtain
was, there was also
something akin to the,
jazz window...
                  because can you
even imagine jazz being learned
at a music liceum?
       i still don't know why
the Japanese love classical music,
or why it's Chopin rather than
List embedded in their heads,
not the gentle fingers of Satie
or Debussy...
         two Portuguese jesuits did
little to spread Christianity,
but music written by Chopin
found its atom, its universality
of translation...
                  even withe the Higgs...
something that is non-divisible,
not atomic, not sub-atomic,
                               über-atomar...
supra-atomic, which includes
the sub-atomic spectrum...
         a perpetuated ad continuum
     of ad per se, in addition to:
an addition, an addition,
        a void brimful of a lost
paraphrasing...
                          in the name of...
in the direction of (the) ortho-
   and of (the) meta-
    and of (the) para-...
                  amen.
                       the upright,
rigidness of: jump off a building,
see pancakes at the bottom...
the desire for a hier-und-nach...
well.. telegram cipher from 1930s
**** Germany,  in response
to heidegger's da-sein...
     da-nach...
                 no need to explore
the paragraph, just enough tease
to block out images of, "paradise"...
       para or besides norms,
    a phenomenon and
      an anomaly that's a res per se,
Kantian for: noumenon...
          a proposition without a school,
or tree of logic, which,
Husserl did manifest...
    in phenomenology...
              I can't help but notice
that classical music is only
relevant today because of movies...
listen to any classical music chart,
7/10 times it's music accompanying
a movie...
               comparing
kind of blue to midnight sonata?
yep, the later is overplayed...
   it's no longer a piece of music,
but a literary cliché...
      even in such wonderful books
like geek love by Katherine Dunn...
jazz is the only genre of music
that comes close to prog. rock,
    id est, no song: an album...
      even though I admit
king crimson's in the court...
     with children of men
      as a backdrop...
once upon a time the iron curtain
and the jazz window...
    rap, shmap, shpindle me dingo...
and the old man still lectures me
on work, born in 1939,
who still remembrance the Soviet army
of boy-soldiers and black-clad SS-men...
oh there was work just after the war,
given what Aries took with
the harvest just years prior...
                       woe to the aspiring poets
born in a cocoon of a father
who laboured by perfecting a trade
that, apparently,  no future Englishman
would take up! or if they did...
only via the trickling down
of the plutocratic, extended family...
and a ****** job they did too...
         well... if everyone is willing
to be and only be, a pop star entertainer...
I'd hate to imagine this piece
to be an instruction manual,
   a cohrent: whip and stirrup
demanding a gallop...
                       perhaps less cabaret voltaire,
and more jackson *******,
because why should painters be
allowed all the excuses under the sun?
and when will I see a poetry anthology
written solely by critics?
          oddly enough:
or rather, the pitfall...
     reading a poem never manifests
itself in a drive to write one myself...
an enzyme of a blank,
      a substrate of a butcher's novel...
or rather... a meaty novel, preferably
historical, notably one
that serves as an answer to Muslims
with regards to:
   remembering the Crusades,
forgotten the Golden Horde...
           and never really bothering
to look into the other crusades
against the Prussians, Lithuanians,
Kashubians et al.
                   such feral lands...
perhaps if you speak the language
as well as Norman Davies...
  you might, just might, not stand out
like a sore thumb in these parts.
Hewasminemoon Jul 2014
It was almost February and winter still hadn’t hit. I was beginning to
think that it wouldn’t arrive, and that spring was here. One evening as I was walking down the streets of the city I looked up to see a single snowflake falling down to meet my face. It was tiny and looked lonely, but a few moments later, it was followed by several more snowflakes. Sooner than later, the ground was covered in a white sheet of snow. and I was stuffing my hands in my coat pockets and pulling my hood on to brace myself against the bone-chilling wind. I made my way into a small coffee shop that was still open and was greeted by a short stocky man in his mid thirties with a dark, curly mustache and sleeves of faded tattoos.
“Hello” he said, his voice sounding deep and smooth. I pulled out my headphones that were burning in my ears, pressed pause on my phone and shoved them carelessly in my messenger bag.
“Hello”, I replied back with a slight smile, pulling my hands out of my
pockets and making my way to the counter.
The shop was small, but it had a staircase leading upstairs with more room for seating. The man who stood behind the counter continued to unpack small plastic covered packages, putting them away in cupboards and freezers. I pulled out my wallet from my bag and plopped it on the counter, feebly attempting to pull out my card with my hands shaking violently from the cold.
“What a night”, the man said, his eyes still focused on his duties.
“Hmm.” I said, nodding. “Can I get a 12oz mocha, please?” The man looked up from his package, and giggled coyly.
“Sure you can, sweetheart." He put the package that he was holding down below him, and began making the drink I had just ordered. My credit card held tightly in my hand, still shaking. There was awkward silence between us and I got the feeling the man understood I didn’t feel like talking. He finished my order, filling a small, white ceramic mug, and pushed it across the counter towards me.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head, implying no and handed him the cold card. He swiped it and handed it back to me, along with a receipt and a pen to sign. I signed the receipt, grabbed my coffee and headed up the stairs to my right. Upstairs, there was a large room with a dining room looking table and several chairs, and to the left, and a small hole in the wall with several cushions. I smiled at the welcoming spot, and took a seat. Pulling a small table up next to me, I set my coffee down, and rested my bag on the floor below me. The upstairs was completely empty. In fact; the entire shop was empty besides the man working downstairs. I took a deep breath in and let my head rest on some of the cushions behind me. Closing my eyes, I let out my breath and felt the warmth and the vast history of the shop run envelop me. I grabbed at the cup beside me and sipped at my coffee. It was still too hot to drink comfortably, so I set it down. Out of my bag, I pulled out my phone with the headphones still attached and scrunched into a tight tangled ball.
Untangling them, I placed each bud in my ear, and pressed play, continuing the song I had stopped when I had entered the coffee shop. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I sunk deeper and deeper into the pillows around me, the smell of old books seeping into my skin. Finally, I closed my eyes, and after a few moments, was sound asleep.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a man’s face, unfamiliar but comforting.
“Excuse me…” he said, with a wide grin.
I jumped with embarrassment; ripping my headphones out of my ears, although they were no longer playing anything. How long had I been asleep? And who was this young man? An employee of the shop? A customer?
“Sorry!” I yelped.
The man chuckled as I swung my feet around to the floor and pulled out my phone to check the time. Realizing it was dead, I scanned the room for a clock and with no success I asked the stranger “What time is it?”
He rolled up his sleep, and checked what to be a rather expensive watch. The man was dressed nicely, but nothing too formal. A clean pair of black jeans, a plaid shirt and a sweater over it. His hair, a dark brown looked thick and slightly curled. He ran his fingers through it as he responded. “It’s quarter past.”
“Past what?”
He blinked at me. “Eight…” he paused at my confused look. “A.M”
I gasped at the time. It was just past nine at night when I had dozed off.
Why did the short stalky man not wake me? Did he forget I was upstairs?
Maybe he assumed I had left, and just missed me doing so.
“I…I…” I stumbled upon my words. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, still
unsure who this man was.
“My boss told me you’d be up here.” He lifted my cup of cold coffee and
handed it to me. “I can get you a warm cup if you’d like. We don’t open for another half hour.”
I nodded, and with the cup in hand, the man turned and headed down the stairs. I gathered my things, smoothed out my shirt, tossed my hair to one side and followed the man down the stairs.
“My names Elliot” he shouted from behind the counter and the noises of the coffee machine.
“Ellie.” I shouted back.
A door swung open and in Elliot’s hand was a new cup of coffee.
“That’s a coincidence.”
I smiled nervously and took the cup from the man.
“Sit.” he said, nodded to a table.
I followed his instructions and set my cup down and pulled out a chair.
He stared at me for a moment as I stared at my coffee. After a long moment of silence, I started.
“I am so sorr-”
He stopped me and reached out, resting his hand on top of mine.
“It’s alright Ellie…really.”
I had a few questions but didn’t know where to start. So I let the silence
continue.
“My boss figured you needed a place to stay.”
I wasn’t homeless. Did I look homeless?
“Do you...have somewhere to go…?”
I nodded. “I’m not homeless…” I proclaimed. I couldn’t help but stare at
his hands. There was something different about them from the rest of the
man.
“I figured. You’re too well dressed to be homeless.” He smiled, and his
hands moved up and through his hair again.
“So, if you’re not homeless then what’s your story?”
My story? I didn’t have a story. I was a young single girl. Lonely. Living
on her own in the city. On her way home when a snow storm hit. I just stopped into the coffee shop to get warm, not to spend the night like some refugee.
“My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” he continued to grin at me.
I paused to think of an answer.
“I was just on my way home. Stopped in for a cup of coffee. Guess I didn’t
drink enough of it.”
He laughed at the comment, showing a set of pearly white teeth.
“Maybe it wasn’t a very good cup of coffee.” He glanced at the cup in front of me. I lifted it and took a sip.
“This cup’s better.” We both laughed softly, then found each other staring
for long while at one another.
“I’ll make sure not to tell my boss you said that.”
I took another sip. “I should probably go…” I said, standing up.
“Go where?”
“Home.”
He shook his head chuckling slightly. “Hang out. I’ll open late.”
“I don’t want to be more of an inconvenience than I already have been.”
Elliot reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it softly.
“Ellie.”
My eyes grew wide, and I felt my heart beat quickly within my chest.
“Let’s not play games with one another. Stay.”
I pulled my hand away, and bit my lip.
“I can’t. I’m sorry Elliot.” I grabbed my bag from under the table, and thew
it across my shoulder. “Thank you…” I said, thinking of his hands but
staring at the blue in his eyes. I turned around, and pushed the door open.


---------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

It was Valentine’s Day (or as I like to call it “Singles Awareness Day” ) and my friend had dragged me out to this terrible bar in the suburbs  titled “Distraction” My friend, who was newly single and “ready to mingle” laughed when she saw the big blue sign with the name.
“That’s an ironic name” she said, snickering.
I nodded my head and groaned as we headed inside. She was right. What was this bar distracting me from? If anything, it was drawing more attention to the things I was supposed to be distracted from by just existing with such a name. My friend walked up to the bar, leaned against a stool and ordered something sweet. She asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head no. After a few minutes of small talking with her, and watching her sip at her watered down drink, I noticed a young man walking towards us. The bar was dimly lit, and I couldn’t quite make him out but I sighed and turned towards the bartender.
“*** and coke” I hollered out to the man. “Pour heavy!”
I stayed facing the shelves of drinks, the different bottles organized by color and type. Whiskey, Tequila, *****. Suddenly, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and with a deep inhale, I turned; expecting some man with sleeked back hair and a bad tan to be facing me.
Instead, it was Elliot. Staring at me, standing inches from my face. I took a step back into a bar stool, and fell into a seat.
“Ellie” he said, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile for a moment too, but then I quickly wiped it away as the bartender slid my drink to the right of me. Before I could do anything, Elliot placed a few dollars on the counter.
“You don’t have to -“
“It’s fine”  He continued to smile widely.
I looked around the room for my friend, she was across the room playing darts with some broad shouldered man. I took my glass, placed the straw on the counter and gulped down about half of it in one drink.  
“Happy Valentines Day” he said, almost sarcastically following the statement with a slight laugh.
I felt myself smiling again and took another gulp. The bartender definitely poured heavy. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, and I clenched my teeth. I could tell Elliot was trying hard not to laugh.
“Would you like to dan-“
I bursted out laughing.
“Dance? Oh god, please. Don’t do this Elliot.”
He stared at me widely for a moment. “What are you so afraid of Ellie?”
I scoffed, and shook my head, taking another drink I responded
“I’m not afraid of anything”
He blinked at me, then ran through his fingers through his hair and breathed out loudly.
“Is it me?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this, or what he was really even asking. I stumbled on my words, stuttering. I finished my drink, and set the glass down on the counter.
“Another?” he asked.
“No...” I paused. “Thank you”
He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away.
“Ellie...Let me-“
I interrupted him and shouted out “space!”
He looked puzzled, then chuckled.
“What?”
“I’m afraid of space”
“Space....? Please elaborate.”
“Like the sky, and the planets and the stars and ****”
He laughed softly. “And ****...”
“Think about it. We have no idea what’s out there. We have no idea what’s coming for us. We are so small, comparatively.”
“So you believe in aliens?”
“I believe in possibility”
“Anything could happen.”
“Exactly! Right now, as we speak, the sun could explode.”
“Or, aliens could invade!”
“You’re really stuck on the alien thing.”
“It’s a possibility”
We both sat in silence for a moment, his eyes felt heavy on me. I stood up from my stool, our bodies were almost touching.
“I’ve got to go see if my friends OK.” I said, glancing over at her. She was still playing darts with the broad shoulder man. He had his arms wrapped around her, ‘showing’ her how to hold the dart now.
“She looks like she’s doing ok to me” Elliot said with a snicker.
I didn’t argue.
“What’s your last name?” he asked.
I shook my head violently. “Look, Elliot. You seem-“ I stopped and thought of how I wanted to finish my sentence, but before I could, Elliot grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“Ellie. I’m just a man. I’m not some comet coming down or some alien race a million light years away. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
I took a few shallow breaths, my heart was pounding. I tried pulling away, but Elliot just pulled himself closer to me.
“You said you believe in possibility. You can’t deny the possibility of you and me.”
“I...”
He reached up, and tucked a hair that was falling down my face behind my ear then stepped back, letting go of my hand.
“I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to help you conquer your fear”
“Oh?”
He grabbed my hand again and pulled me towards the door, I looked over to my friend, but didn’t fight him.
“She’ll be okay.” he said, still tugging me.
I followed him out the door and down the street. We stopped and hailed a cab, as one pulled up, he opened the door for me.
“Get in.”
“I don’t even know you. You could be taking me to some wear house to **** and ****** me!”
“Ellie. Don’t be so dramatic. Get in”
“Where are we going?”
“To the moon.”
“And back again?”
“We’ll see. Maybe once you get there, you’ll never want to leave.”
“It’s a possibility”
I stepped inside the cab, and so did he.

------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------


Once we were in the cab, the rush of excitement I was feeling in the bar and in the street had faded. Elliot handed the man his phone, which had an address written on it. The cabbie put the address into his GPS and started the meter as he drove on.
“So are we taking the cab to the moon? Or are we just taking the cab to NASA and then a spaceship to the moon?” I said sarcastically, my voice breaking from nervousness. Elliot put his hand on my leg, and sat back into his seat without saying anything.
“Who’s paying for the cab Elliot?”
He continued to be silent. I turned at stared out the window, I noticed the cab was taking us out of the city and I began to get a little worried.
“Can you please tell me where we’re going?” I asked quickly. I looked back at Elliot, he was sweating.
“Elliot? Is everything OK?” His eyes were shut and his breathing was heavy.
“I’m afraid of things in motion.” he muttered softly.
“Isn’t everything in motion?” he opened his eyes, raised his brows and then smiled at me.
“I mean, the world is always turning and we’re walking, or breathing. So we’re moving, no matter what-“
“Can you be quiet please?”
I looked back out the window again for what felt like a long while. Finally, the cab stopped in front a large abandoned dome like building in a town I had never been in. Elliot was quick to exit the cab, and circle the car to open my door. I stepped out, Elliot paid the driver and the cab drove away.
“So you ARE going to **** and ****** me?”
Elliot looked at me, and took my hand.
“I’m sorry about in the car. What mean by things in motion is like, cars and trains and planes and...” he paused, “and ****...”
We both laughed.
“I knew what you meant. I’m sorry if I was being difficult.”
He gave me a look and I nodded at him. He took me by the hand and led me closer to the building. We reached a door that had been boarded up.
“This doesn’t look like the moon...Or NASA...”
“Ellie. Do you trust me?”
“I...I don’t really even know you so-“
Elliot pried back at the board, slipping into the building through a small space and pulled me inside with him. The room we stepped into was a circle, and in the center; a large telescope.
“Does that even work?”
He squeezed my hand, then let go. Approaching the telescope, he stepped up a small set of stairs to a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and a few moments later, I heard a whirring and a low rattle followed by a deep sound. I felt a slight vibration and suddenly the roof was opening above me, exposing the night sky. On this night, the stars were bright, and the moon was full.
“Come here” Elliot called out from near the telescope.
I started to shake only slightly at the sight of the sky above me, I felt frozen and tense, as if I couldn’t move. Elliot made his way down the stairs and towards me.
“It’s okay Ellie.” he said, reaching for my hand and guiding me towards the telescope. We stepped up the stairs, and he stood next to me, still holding my hand as he adjusted a few things, looking in the telescope, then at me, then back through the telescope. He turned towards me, nudging me.
“Go ahead.”
I looked at the giant metal telescope, and shook my head.
“I really appreciate what you’re trying to do here but-“
He put his hand on my lower back, and pushed me towards the telescope.
“Just look.”
I put my face close to the telescope, an
r Aug 2016
I have compared my love
to the lazy, the no good
and to crazy girls of the past,
to my first truck, to a spell,
a moth and a bottle, to the hell
bending moon, if you could tell,
and to a Captain - if not a ship,
and to ways you'll come to know
too soon, but I have never, ever
compared my love for you.
Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Comparatively speaking,
It's grand to live
In Canada.
It's as free as one can get,
Comparatively.
We have one hundred percent
Control over our destiny
And our bodies:
That is,
Until we near the end.
Then,
Our government decides
How we die.
I suspect they want to know
That I'm one hundred percent
Disposed and dispossessed.
Vote "YES" for doctor assisted suicide.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
they (yeah, the paranoid pronoun, esp. in how it's used for abstract coordinates, concretely? conformists) decided it was easier to fill a psychiatrist's gob with my presence, and for psychiatrists to pay the mortgage with someone who they termed schizophrenic, forgetting the fact that the person in question was bilingual - odd how humanists confuse bilingualism with schizophrenia, maybe a coin flip later and we'd get biphrenic? that's pushing it, but it just might work to describe an atom evolved into a human form... basically in two places at the same time: confederacy of archaeological theology - and by being in two places, behaving differently in each stated sphere of observation... that's it though! theology translates as archaeology in science, excavating the designation of the argument of the spider and the spiderweb, the perfect yoga instructor, one position fits all... because scientific positivism is dead... it's dead... we're experiencing a transition into scientific negativism, mainly because there's a plumber's conundrum of a blocked fact-machine... which turned out to be a fat-machine... we're just hearing the same ****, over and over again.

i never knew it, but when humanism was born
it came across the challenges of
Darwinism (Aristotle's footnote),
with all due respect for humanism
though,
             humanism gave us
the most apathetic formulation of
any faith at all...
and do you see a rebellion happening
anywhere concerning this?
i see a bunch of ****-naked Amazonian
nomads singing the huh? huh?! song...
esp. when they see safety-hats and
tractors... me? i live in the
outer suburbs of a Greek city-state...
when you're walking down the
street and see a bare chested driver
of a tractor, and a loser (me) drinking beer
while the police pass by in their cruiser
and don't give a ****... well...
welcome to the Fe (iron) Fe Fe feral land...
(almost a sneeze, but not quiet)
metro-****** pinkies anywhere?
no... root that **** into your brains
you urban wankers... stay there,
rot... keep up the debauchery of
Beckton's recycling centre...
oh sure, keep the theatres open,
with Simon & Garfunkel applause of song...
like ballerinas and fat operas needed
an exercise regime...
Darwinism is brutal enough,
it's brutal, it's not pretty,
looking at it from a creationist perspective
you'll only get brutality from it,
only an Zimbabwe born englishman would
care to champion it... oh look!
a monkey ******* a ferret!
i cried today... my female cat was inspired
when a squirrel started doing gymnastics
on my garden fence, one paw tucked against
its chest... i haven't seen a squirrel in my
garden for a while, i've shown her a hedgehog
once, but a squirrel? try catching a squirrel!
it's like catching the ******* of a mosquito
wearing boxing gloves... or Zeno...
i cried my eyes out, by a squirrel...
acrobatic rats that hate throngs...
the simplest of things bring the greatest of joys,
and a consistency in thinking about
death make the simple assurances of mortality
so much more appreciated...
of course i think about death... why wouldn't
i? so this homeless man has a tent...
they're dragging them in, he says:
i haven't done anything wrong...
the military-industrial complex isn't secular at all...
psychiatrists are the complex's priests...
they're looking for subjects to ensure they earn
while giving oral *** to pharmaceutical companies...
and that's the *cul de sac
truth -
no, wait... humanism's religious doctrine is
Darwinism, can't deviate from that,
keep a kettle and a sun on the same timescale,
i'm Caribbean lazy though...
you with beer and joint, me with beer and another
and another beer and an Apache echo impression
of echoing-yawn,
we have evolved past mating calls of animals...
all we have are warring calls... la la la for simplicity...
or in verse of new Zealander Haka:
                           ****, have no funny lyrics...
where was Darwinism when mating calls became
subtle and we exchanged mating calls for warring chants?
where was Darwinism then?
you telling me i have to own a watch, a mansion,
a nice car and enough money for a child's private
education to make one at all? pretty subtle
and all the more less colourful... you can ask me:
where was god when the Holocaust happened...
i'd reply: where was a decent joke?
apparently Moses died from laughter...
now i'm stuck with having to proof read
the first print of my book... that's going to be
agonising... i hate rereading my work...
and aren't we in a standing still position,
on an escalator, or the journalists are gullible,
i mean they're worse than pigs, they're eating
regurgitated facts... they're the ones that always
end up saying: if it ain't broken, break it...
that's their magnum opus fixation, and
the recycling bin... that's what they're there for,
i bet you a hundred quid that Putin's tears
would have turned into diamonds if they fell
on St. Basil's onion domes...
all these ****-incubating-real-emotion
calculators of the English parliament are worth
a psychiatric sketch show... punchline?
you ain't ever ever getting out, ha ha!
Darwinism is cruel, and people sort of like
the whips of a static history, sometimes they come back
to the 17th century and make a television program,
sometimes they have a chance encounter
to cite something from the only century that can
be experienced with anatomical dissection skill:
namely the 20th, or to be accurate, the 2nd half
of the 20th century... most of the time they haven't
the foggiest about history these days,
they're either electron-clouds of electron-orbits,
ping-pong between these two conceptions...
they're always pro-neutral (proton-neutron
centre) - and indeed the tetragrammaton invested
in Ke$ha... ka-ching! sz sh sharpener of wit...
got to love tactical pop, or the caveman ontological
obituary of buying alkaline batteries...
i bought alkaline batteries last year,
which technically makes me a caveman...
compact disks make me a caveman...
books make me a caveman... i'm a ******* caveman!
drag my woman by her hair...
what a great Darwinism provides,
we're all comparatively stone-age...
i love how we just made all history between that
into cf. snippets, and how the caveman attitude
is supposedly a ****** pill to supercharge our
attitudes into beastly thumps and gurgles and
elbows up the **** thrills...
Darwinism is cruel, Darwinism is currently the
theology of humanism... but once upon a time
the religious aspect (or in humanism's behaviour prescription)
was ascribed to one hour on Sunday...
now we're sorta stuck in a church, 24 / 7...
now we're all our own ritual makers...
we have the holy communions of buying a certain
type of coffee in a shop, or it's called curry Friday
and Saturday takeaway randomisation,
gathering the ready-meals Sunday to Thursday...
everyone having the busiest of lives...
if religion is dead, then i must be a nun.
i don't think Darwinism actually attacked theology...
some people are proper pranksters with
the notion that Darwinism attacked theology,
some get to play Jesus in some biblical theme park...
what i think Darwinism damaged, primarily,
is history... if journalists keep spanning
historical references from here & now and
that greatest ontological excuse: caveman once,
Chanel model no. 2, we'll surely sell many
more shaving equipment tools and sanity pills as we go
along into 24h / insomnia society...
me? i'm out... i'll be keeping my imagination
honed toward the Faroe Islands, along with my sanity.
John Stevens Sep 2010
Author:  Kristen Stevens
Current mood:  frustrated

Anthony got a firetruck Lego set. The packaging says "ages 5-12". It also makes the claim "designed for easy building and instant play." Now I know he's only 4 but he's smart and not that far from 5 comparatively. I on the other hand am 28. Well outside the parameters age wise. Yet, this smallish box of tiny toys baffled me for over an hour. I have the directions, I've dug through the pieces, and am still mystified on occasion. As I'm searching for yet another microscopic piece of siren or whatever it was, I'm thinking..."5 years! I can't see any 5 yr-old sticking with this for this long without losing his mind. Then Mom would take it away because of the temper tantrum and never gets built. This is stupid! Where did that tiny loopy thing go?...etc" What part of an hour is "instant play" do they not own a dictionary? I could tell them.

Then once it's together, somehow Anthony keeps taking the windshield off. He's not  actively disassemble it. He's just rolling back and forth on the floor going "whoo-whoo!" Lego's the most touchy toy on the planet. Maybe he'll get some more when he's 15.
Sunday, November 01, 2009  
From my daughter, Kristen's, My mY Space, unloading about Legos.
It is missing pieces and will never be together again.
Mike T Minehan Aug 2018
At the risk of sounding sexist
I’d like to pay my highest respects today
to the girl at my accountant’s
with the beautiful *******.
Usually the only things that jiggle there
are the numbers on the ledger,
but today a couple of numbers
stuck out for me to admire.
She knew it all added up spectacularly well
as she bent down obligingly
and pointed out where I should sign
and showed me what I needed to see.
She knew and I knew that
capital gains and expenses
were comparatively insignificant here.
Saucy insouciance was the obvious upside.
Of course, I shouldn’t have noticed,
but then I'm afraid that's what happens
when you’re more
of a ******
than an entrepreneur.

Mike T Minehan
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
the ontological basis, comparatively
with what the people think when too many
politicians exist due to centralisation
of government, with so many parliamentary
members paid a wage yet still so aloof
that they have no eagerness for local
governing of things: we all know the Orwellian
metaphor of pigs by the trough:
cabbage and porridge, we all know the joke...
but when the zeitgeist of the populace is
plagiarism and ******* you must surely
admire politicians... they feed the people
facts slowly, instead of feeding them
carbonate ***** of wheat to bloat the chickens'
stomachs, they feed them breadcrumbs...
politicians delay matters so much so that
conspiracy theories arise...
for indeed people are not so much critical
of politicians, but of the number that emerges...
esp. those not schooled in sophism,
but rather schooled in unnecessary observance...
there is more to observe on the streets outside
the palace of Westminster than there is within in...
the lawn Mohican on Churchill's statue
with a pink lipstick around his face
and Caduceus revised Baphomet on his walking
stick... how i prescribed myself headphones to
create an artificial cerebral buzz-maker
each time i hear the blood sizzling fizz...
without everything being too quick or too immediate,
politicians are delayers of things...
they want the schoolroom banter to take place,
they're the ones unafraid to make and poke fun at
each other, sophism is intended for that...
philosophy takes offence too easily, hence it's
dangerous, it's limited to public engagement
because it's intended for individualisation of circumstances:
whether you end up homeless on a street
or ordained a palace and a crown;
you can't describe philosophy in five minutes
in the same way that you can't limit politics into
the same confinement... zoologically speaking it's
necessary for a lion to be kept in a cage as long as he's
being kept in it as a glutton who frequently sleeps
because he's well fed and doesn't dream of lamb-shanks
but instead of  being Simba (a Disney character)...
politicians delay and provide dietary requirements
of what the public ought to know... they're
like dieticians, they give you a dietary scheme of things,
because so many of us are prescribed duties
it would be madness to suddenly tell you:
Martians visited us last December, we need to
throw away our workman's utensils and go and pray
to them for free food and unlimited electricity;
in this sense i can't disrespect politicians,
i just think that an excess of them in Parliament is
what's fuelling a public disgruntling...
but the thing is... the politicians that people are disgruntled
about are not those in the mainstream, they're
not from the centralised "celebrity" batch of politicians,
they from local governments, and their presence in
the centralised house of commons is really disgruntling
to the public in most respects...
either way, admiration for politicians slowing it down,
disrupting the sharing of facts so that we
can accept our functions without anarchistic boredom
being awoken like some Godzilla...
in terms of facts i want to be a Columbus,
on my own initiative... i don't want to be a ******* turkey...
wanting to be a turkey breeds conspiracy theories...
in a torture chamber you just here: 'but they fed me this!
but they fed me this!' 'and you were stupid enough
to mistake facts for propaganda? catch the surf, ******!'
wanting to be a Columbus means you don't care
to own a plasma television and a Ford Mustang.
People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.
topaz oreilly Dec 2012
I love the natural evilness of Monkshoods
their dark blue hypnotism,
but if contained and recognised
there unlikely to be of any threat,
unlike people of course
of whom you could say where
not naturally evil
merely acquisitional -
with all those fault lines that runs from that
headstrong and running on empty,
said the poet as  the nuclear laden train
passed by the suicidal rail line.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
a.

227.9 million years away
                   (mars)                   heliocentric model
i.e. away from coordinates (0,0), i.e. the sun

b.

149.6 million years away
                      (earth)                         "               "
etc.

c.

    standard metric system, alternatively
                        this is the geocentric model emerging
i.e.        one day on earth is equivalent
           of a day and forty minutes on Mars...
  we don't have access
                     to a heliocentric model for this
primarily because of the coordinate of the sun
being (0,0), in Kantian symbolism 0 = denial,
therefore the sun cannot encompass day,
or night, hours or minutes...
                             you cannot apply
the relativity of days comparatively being different
on Mars or on Earth using the heliocentric model...
              
      and to think, all it took was for nautical directions
being blessed by the movement of constellations,
        and that phrase of mine: where's Copernican east?

            we're all shouting at the ****** project,
it's either who write the best concentrated plagiarism
of the masses for the visual effects,
          the glued together parts of iron and oxygen
tanks... or who can write the words behind the images
well enough to capture the imagination
        and shift it elsewhere...
oh believe me, i am living in a 48 hour week,
    i'm not writing science fiction,
                       i'm on earth, but this isn't earth,
it doesn't require a measure of distance,
   but still the figures stand... so i might as well
toy with them and get some bogus answer...

d.

what does life constitute on a "planet" that consists
of 48 hours?
                     today i put on something warm,
the cold finally got to me,
                          i'm the butterfly while a hurricane
rages on elsewhere,
                              quantum humanism some call it,
because the physics never really inclined itself
to treat human emotions well enough -
                    just today,
as i peered into the day's sky -
                     the moon and the sun shared the same
blue horizon -
                           in the summer the moon has the
tides - and keeps them at bay, calm,
         but when autumn and winter come,
and the earth tilts - the moon looses the grip on
the tides in the northern hemisphere -
hurricanes in the west, tsunamis in the east,
              storms at Greenwich meantime -
the time of day? when the moon engages in
profane acts with day, appearing and stunning
insomniacs into coherency, as if asking:
            so if i am being given a very quick
and less romantic sunrise, and esp. a less
romantic sunset, by seeing the moon closely aligned
to the sun during the day:
                 am i seeing the nightly delights of
the southern hemisphere, and if so,
            is that to the east, or is that to the west?
i am guessing it's to the east... for i am seeing
the night in the southern Pacific continent -
              i am seeing their night
                          for the moon has transgressed
its boundaries, and left the northern waters
ready to rebel under the polytheistic guise
complimenting the spacious orbs -
                       when order and monotheism of
the north during spring and summer...
         then Poseidon's upheavals with the watery
rebellious graves during autumn and winter:
or how Hades persuaded his two brothers to
pay due and meet with the Titans in Tartarus:
to thus form a pact against the monotheistic concept:
for the soul of the ancient Greeks said:
                shame be unto you, brats,
for shunning the religion of your forefathers!

e.

indeed the 48 hour day, two days and two nights,
or more precisely: three nights and one day -
sooner or later they'll push the clocks back,
a man will go to sleep in the dark,
   and catch but a glimmer of a day - then too
thrown into the darkness: a 48 hour day on a planet
involves three periods of darkness, and one
period of daylight - and if they said Alaska was
torture... here is a man engulfed alone in it.

f.

strange to think that 78.3 million years between
Mars and Earth only add 40 minutes more to a day...
           as ever, the non-uniform suggestion of gravity,
take but one step on that soil,
                           the curse of the astronauts on the moon:
and then invite the poets of the cult of the moon,
the emblem of the moon that's Islam...
                              an then wait for the consequences
and the ***** dreams of those people and their children...
               even the Atom Bomb seems to have
been forgiven by comparison -
                                but never the moon: or the death
of childhood - lunar crown shattered -
                              death of storytelling for children
some might say: 1001 minutes of advertisement
before Cyrus starts weaving a web of entrenched
consumerism - not even the Belgian fields
and their world war 1 trenches could have provided
such a status quo to continue...
            to continue...

g.

so do i multiply that figure by something?
78.3 million years disparity -
                        times the time difference?
i.e. 78.3 multiplied by 40 and added to
the distance from earth?
            λoγος - no!
                                 what's the distance from
starting coordinate (0,0) to the earth? 149.6 million...
      and mars?
227.9 million...
                                      which means 78.3 multiplied
by taking away the negation symbol due
to the double-negation coordinate that the sun is
(timeless and without space-affirming
                  timing to our necessary comprehension
of the day to day) - meaning the distance
of the planet with 48 hour days (three nights and one
day) is 313.2 million years away from the sun...
               Jupiter stands at being 778.5 million years...
and that's a kept in ****... a gaseous giant...
                 so the distance is plausible...
but like i said before: first comes logic,
which splits into rationality and irrationality -
                      but irrationality still uses logic -
      we all know that irrationality is not reasonable -
          but it is ably-reasoned-with
           or can succumb to some variation
                     of the illogical -
                                              namely illogical rationality:
as in passing Platonic theories down the ages,
or succumbing to the Freudian psychoanalysis -
fashion is simpler, cruder -
                                               it cuts off the missing
points, it desecrates the shrines of famous names
and does the grand thing of keeping everyone
hooked in, rather than out of it nostalgic -
       no one is really winning either side of this point.

h.

and this is really what two beers can do to you
to relax after living on plant H-48 -
                     no yoga teacher can tell you that ***
gets better when you pay alms to this world -
         the yoga fakes are making enough dosh laughing:
*** is good, where there's a billion of them,
not a scattering of what i call the real reason
why we evolved to be so numerous:
     cancerous libidos, or overblown libidos,
   and a knack at ******* each other off - which just
says: keep 'em coming!
                                    and they expect people to really
be awe-stricken when you have such nice names
in biology: chlorophyll and enzyme and hydro and
aqua... and for all life to begin with a big bang?
    i thought you couldn't hear astronauts scream
in space?        or maybe that big bang was just
       a big boo - because aren't we **** scared?

i.

American politics has cracked with this presidential
election, the real dynamic is out...
           it reminds me of
the trinity of ******, the brown-shirts
(Sturmabteilung) thugs leader Ernst Röhm
and the man that replaced him:
               Heinrich Himmler of the
less thuggish and more professional murderers'
brigade the (Reichsführer Schutzstaffel) -
you see, i actually have a better attention span
when i live on H-48... did you notice
that neither of the presidential candidates mentioned
the literature in their debates?
one said: tax evasion, the other said: emails!
but these two sly foxes are toying with the whole
process... they're citing the literature...
   tim kaine and mike pence are the geniuses behind
the scenes... you have to give credit to them...
                it's the ingrained discussion -
the gospels -           it subconsciously will even convince
black voters (of a certain age) to vote for Trump,
regardless of his blunders... which are like ******'s
blunders even though Eva Braun has Jewish heritage
(as seen in one documentary on channel 4) -
                    and you know they're running the show
because they only have one debate...
         that's how important they are...
                       did you ever care to watch a
Ingram Bergman film twice? or three times?
i don't think so. once... and then the butterfly is gone,
gone gone. i'm not here for the entertainment -
American protestant-ism isn't European,
                          it's ultra-Catholic -
                    oddly enough, not in terms of all
the iconic symbolism - that's scaled down -
       but the message is profoundly Catholic -
the two men cited the literature - they're
not thugs, they're not blundering rhetoricians like
the two puppets in their hands...
                        they're the power brokers
or what in England we call the kingmakers -
   i'm not into conspiracies, just the obvious things -
****** had a funny moustache,
          Trump has a funny haircut -
J F K was handsome L B J wasn't and was furious
when Marilyn sang the birthday blues...
                   Gerald Ford is the founder of the Mafia...
Nixon wanted in... oops... didn't happen...
                    ever since Ford it's been playtime after
playtime and no one doing the arithmetic on lives -
               well you know, a washing machine
breaks down, you get a new one...
                  but something came up at the turn
of the 21st century, no one expected it -
this is where i only ascribe one conspiracy:
                                         you can't miss it,
it's blatantly there on the geographical map,
S.A. and that beautiful ornament flag with a pretty
sword and Arabic calligraphy...
                             i'm not wetting my appetite with
these words... it's just common sense -
                money is something that provides the
trans-valuation of all things: it's what the alchemists
were always hoping to find, but it was found
so long ago that it didn't matter how childish they
thought they could be: thanks for paracetamol
though...
                                     what's actually the most
mystifying aspect of this is how there's an ingrained
desirability of a status quo:
      you can have a coin with Rex's head on it,
and no matter what the base metal is,
it will still devalue something more precious
                     and increase value of something more
precious...               it happens in the art world
with the artist being recognised posthumously
                                for the object of his work,
but nothing beyond that...
                                              and since it is painfully
obvious... the question is...
                     do you challenge the status quo
                                          or do you consider yourself
a unit of qua                 -
                                   and that's an open question,
if a question at all...
                                        it's because i have left the
exciting part of this poem,
                                    gravity pulled me down to
planet H-24 (otherwise known as earth), and i see
all this ****** misery...
                                       and i think...
even though my life on planet H-48 can sometimes
feel like torture - i know that i'm in control of
certain perks on it...           and all because i decided
to travel there, with one missing clue as to
why it took me 2 years to escape Heidegger's Alcatraz -
            and why i decided to go back in...
      after reading the previously mentioned book
i realised i was given the key into something else,
           kaleidoscopic even -
worded physics, worded chemistry, worded biology,
  not the physics of equations, or chemistry
of electron-migration diagrams in organic reactions,
or biology and its oops after oops and
a boxing match with theology -
                                           i even considered
buying the Alcatraz in English... but that would
make no sense...
                         given the already bilingual dynamic
being established...
                                     as Dante chose Virgil
to wade through hell... you too must also choose
the one companion, and reject all others...
               and if Heidegger chose Aristotle
i must choose Heidegger - and would i say that
my grandfather was a bad man for being a
communist party member? do you think
a small town boy gets sold the highest form of
Versailles intrigue that culminates in
the Siberian gulag? they got you spinning that old
housewives' tale like a dodo doing dodo
                                           rather than being dodo.
ln Jul 2014
Boeing 777
MH17
17/7/14.

“ Most of the passengers had no race,
But today they gained a nationality.
Today, we are united in grieve. “

Tragedy struck again,
One strike after another,
One blow after another.

Today, we lost 295 people,
Out of a grand total of 7.046 billion people.

To an individual,
The figures may mean nothing,
Comparatively.

But as a nation,
This was a hard one to accept.

How do you digest the fact that
295 people lost their future,
Overnight.

How do you digest the fact that
295 people are gone just like that.

How do you accept the fact that
Your country is falling apart,
Slowly,
But surely.
Profitis Ilias

Zefian brought the Toxota and Pezhetairoi arrows; they were sovereign moldy points of the Bronze tips of the Taxota Archers and the Falangists. That in turn from the high sky formed a great pinwheel when the great dimension shone from the flat equinoctial sky, bumping the chins of Kaitelka, the dealer of the Parthenon lost, which rang the great bronze pine, and kilometers in length forming the makro koelum of Patmos; with vertices of the Pythagorean canon of Polykleitos. A large horizontal "V" was seen from Aorion's falling acrotera, projected in a bronze mega bolt coming from Betelgeuse's armpit, and forming a sidereal Vee, launched by the hunter Aorion from his constellation. This would be architectural form and Pythagorean canon-mathematical for purposes proportional to the Mandragoron. They fell from the four arrows that Zefian launched, from Crete that approached the contravening of Apollo, and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points. Thus they began with two first sagites that are placed in the arc string, each one belonging north-south trajectories and the other two that were again violated with the eastern arc, to shoot the east-west arrows with southern magnetism limits. Three bolts are deposited in the canon of Polykleitos, and in the reticulum of the Pleiades that Aurion pursued.

The first two were Taxotas:

- North: Vóreios (Zefian Boreal)
- South: Nótos (Austral de Borker)

The last two were from Pezhetairoi:

- West: Dyticá (Sunset of Leiak)
- East: Aftó (Equinoctial of Kaitelka)

A - Zefian Vóreios

In the intertestamental of these egregious Pythagorean calculations, they stood out in the Vernacentricus, or extra automatism of foundation of the points to refer geodesics for the lifting of the Ultramundis Vernacentricus. From the Vóreios the Zefian canons are inter-testamented, which uses Horcondising forces, following the northern one of the Nothofagus Obliqua, essentially in the fungi of their trunks that paraded along the paths of the iterated populations of the Ezpatkul Forest; who was a servant who had remained from the last diaspora of the horcondising transmigrant by Joshua de Piedra, patriarch of the Orthodox mountains, and from the cordons of the Ambrosiella Ceratocystidaceae fungi, with a large proportion of the Ambrosia Mercurial, and of great influence from the fungal fungi, provided from the Legacy of Vernarth in Zefian to demarcate the northern boreal or Vóreios for the purpose that this Ezpatku, with its prominent Augrun or Gold teeth turned all the borer beetles demarcating the Vee of the Vóreios throughout the Horcondising region, bilocusing it in the borers of the Encinas de Patmos, with such frenzy... !, that from there they would extract the force of the Mapuche north winds from the Meli Witran Mapu, starting with the Pikún-kürüf North wind, first two arrows of the Taxotas, and South Waiwén, of the Pezhetairoi, of the quantum of transmigration of the sub-mythology of the Horcondising – Panhellenic. Then the Puelche that drags the borer beetles with more force to lift the uprising fungi of the Mandragoron by the East vertical, to culminate with the Lafkén-kürüf.

Zefian had enough time to mediate the ratio of Polykleitos to Ezpatkul. This Kanon or Canon will be of great relevance for the topography and survey of the temple, knowing that we must emphasize the perfection of the basal measurements, and the acrotera that will be suspended in the sensorial iconography of its forms, and in the star Betelgeuse giant with red blood cells, for the morphology of their own three-dimensional bodies, towards a comparatively human paradigm of Gaugamela anatomy bled in his pectoral, from here the Templar base of Megaron or Mandragoron began. Its size will be colossal but more ergonomic; it will be to redirect visuals of the Orion Belt, from where the fourth and last Zefian arrow was already on its way, to join the other three remaining from the Cretan *****, for the entire front of the façade Principal. The chromaticity will be sulfur yellow and red blood cells, both dependent on complementation with Cinnabar, and on the raised bodies of Court V of the Helleniká Necropolis in Kímolos. Under vileness or absence of light among the darkness, or of the apocryphal light of Evil, in contrast to the robust equanimity of light, and partisan shadow of Saint John the Apostle, for the hegemonic good and the incorruptible vision of him.

The naturalness made the world apologetic, and the immune defenses of the polish textures, invoiced proportional mathematical measures ibidem of the Hommo Novis, and of the Geometric Pythagoreanism for a body seven and a half times, starting from the base of the feet as the base of the plinth or frieze, until reaching near the capital that exemplifies the chin, before reaching the cornice, highlighting the figure of the capital with the front of the proportional ligament between the trunk, and the columns duly. Here the seven-headed Kanon of a David will declaim the measures of the psalms, counts in degrees, and sighing dimensions. The kinetics was earth towed by towing carts in tetra bronze arrows, which balanced the unbalanced balance and harmony of the created whole. The symmetry of the transverse poles was muscled to make kinetic centripetal in the inertia of the bolts as the faint glow of the canon rays struck. The stone of the mound was made of the sustentacular, and Vernarth's counterpose when the Himathion was tried, appearing disguised and in composing. In this way the movement and position of the muscles and of the figure in general of the human temple are portrayed, when pressing the third arrow of Zefian it adorned the consecutive cardinal points; in this position of the myriad, and their forces widened the line of sight of the Vernacentricus, dispersing the oblique line in forty-five degrees that would join with its right counterpart, in the middle of the radius that joined the central point destined where the fourth arrow would fall.

Zefian falling from the Belt of Aorion, destined to embed itself at the intersection of the next full moon. The volume of naturalism resembled the directive of Polykleitos, but it was far from his figurative geometric conception, being conceptualized by an intertestamental tendency of sub-mythology, and the Duoverse, which in turn was condescending of morphology by reestablishing a prehistoric figurative, which tended to be reflected in the similarity of an anachronistic contrast of the original morphism of the aesthetic universe, being retransformed into a sub-mythological Duoverso.
Vernacentricu
B Young Feb 2015
I
I am him, the man seeking solitude
I am him, the boy annoyed afraid and hates being
Alone
A flea, fleeing man traversing
fleeting moments.
Burning away oil, soaked fleece.
North Face coming home feels more and more of a disgrace
North Star
I want to follow that sweet shoulder with that
brainwashing
LOGO
LOGOS save me logo log logarithm love

My jacket pulled over her legs
freezing she says
shivering chills
Withdrawal, hence we are en route to the corner to get well.
sitting silent and innocent (comparatively with the deranged driver).
in the backseat as this driver drives lives nowhere and the only place we all want to go
everywhere
all at once
into oblivion we go sullen eyes and veins soaked with ****** and *******.
I am him  
the man looking in the mirror with disdain
I am him
The man afraid of what he sees.
Maybe dolorful colorful Colorado can save
Him.
This is my Howl
This is my Purge
save me save me
save
me
me
I fear of Art becoming dead to me
If fear of God dying to me
Dan is dead
II
The neighborhood is dim
snow falls
I smoke on the porch
5 years before
what you just read
Dan is still alive
and as I smoke on the porch
snow falls
I watch the people
commuters
college
professors
middle class
lower class
intelligent
stupid
rich
poor
white
black
doctors
trash man
*** heads
junkies
young girls
grandparents
my community
America
These people enclosed in there cars on their faces just
regret
anger
disappointment
I start to wish there was something I could offer them
but I have nothing myself
only
fog of dreams in my head
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
half my horse was owned by a cowboy
with a lasso,
and half of it was owned by an apache
without the Huns' innovation of stirrup -
which was how Rome was conquered,
the Huns were standing
while the Romans had their testicles
smacked too hard against horse spines
for scrambled eggs.*

bob dylan makes purest sense
on a train,
heading from st. pesterburg to moscow,

anything else is called a cameo worth rendition
to clock in a chicken's clucking,
not that it was going to be bland throughout
comparatively alike beef, but unlike
comparatively chewy like squid rings
deep friend with onions...

i'm still up for raw herring and tartar steak
rather than an l.s.d. trip, i need the day
than pulverising colours in hyper-geometries
asking whether a leaf shape would be
assertive via the ****** addict's nodding
to what's a black hole in comparative venture
a similitude of tropism...
here comes the nod, here comes the vote,
here comes the nod, here comes the vote vote vote.

no, i mean, i have all the time in the world...
i was with an appendix that pretended to be an ******,
******* ****** kin, and ova like spermatozoa.
i get that german socialist nationalism didn't
work but built a vein / artery network of the autobahn
(arteries the motorways, veins the st. clement close,
culprit gardens, bypass avenues, etc.)
so will the other intervention be workable
e.g. gotta love ol' walt whitman?
am i about to **** statue of liberty's ****
for the sake of capitalistic nationalism working?
everywhere you go it's little america, mid-west america,
about as much cultural diversity as all the aardvarks
in the world on steroids put together...
i go to italy i'm in little italy, a suburb in new york,
i go to paris i'm in little paris, a suburb in boston,
i go to beijing i'm in little beijing, a replica chinatown
everywhere...
the same aardvarks on steroids started to snort up
the ants as a new feeding mechanism
leaving the tongue to lick their genitalia and ****...
the way i see, there's only one resolve,
go nowhere, dig into your vicinity,
make the villages big, Big, BIG....
don't go down the route of tourism,
everywhere is the same, the only change is
price-wise... which is odd that we're asked
to speak like abstracts, use all the pronouns
available, but avoid using nouns referring to ethnicity,
start the bleaching process, globalisation
doesn't allow such nouns as african,
or american, or european, globalisation just doesn't
identify with noun usage... it's all about abstracting
a syrian an african a european into compost heaps
of i, you, me, we, it, they, them...
identify beyond this realm... and you're in the troop
of supposed trouble-makers.
I hate people who trivialize any sadness.
If they're suffering, why should they be mocked?
You answer for me.
Don't tell me they're implying
They're suffering is greater than others
Or that they're intensifying
The flighting emotion that need not be exaggerated
Because you don't known their pain,
Get an insight to their thought,
Accept their pain into yourself--
Yes you have suffered, none can deny that
But if you don't respect the man
Comparatively weaker, or sound
How can anyone respect your position?
You are a parasite,
Lost in the host
You feed off sadness
You know it's a drought
Yet you remain cynical
So simple in your name.
Your life is filled with hollow anguish
You'll never learn in time

And in my dread
I know you are me...
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
as with any plaster work, or draping muscles and bones and
organs in skin - i knew i reached a zenith of some sort:
forever introspective, that chance momentum
that never reaches a museum of retrospective
finalised banalities -
and with that's happening in America,
i get a chance glimpse into that part of the world
so bogus, so *****-like, so haphazardly
put together - the chance to see the rats (artists)
jump ship and head to Tangiers, Paris, London
(for the pillars of the movement to come,
London especially, but might i suggest Edinburgh?
the capital of the offshoot that's to come
from Scandinavian novels?) -
i wouldn't suggest heading to Prague -
or Budapest - never to tourist hot-spots, obscurity is
what you need - Edinburgh out of season,
then the theatrical circus isn't there -
***** poetics: poncy monologues and Annabel
art-house flea markets... but that's the beauty,
flea markets in France, charity shops in England...
but i did exhaust this one musical avenue,
i dropped the ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ - it got boring after a while:
all that charged up mythological feeling -
the way we always wanted: myths to feel with,
to eat, rather than the sterile scientific facts...
i've learned enough to later ditch them,
even a Professor of Chemistry will have a postcard
of Edward Hopper's painting by his desk,
that window to view the world that doesn't
necessarily encompass sun moon and constellations...
how anyone would be foolish to scrub off
some inspiration from such things bemuses me,
the lowest of the low of poetic expressions is
sung to things that manage too much: the moon
and the sea tides, the sun and the seasons and
phototropism - it's a double edged sword...
only from one art to another do we get to see
our labourers of attention, else the same old deficit:
god... who in his glee took offence at anyone
having more awe-inspiring sense to please such
things... no alone can you master contemplating
both the beauty and the utilisation behind such
objects as a single man... however well...
it's impossible... you're sharing the bronze platform
with those that simply wrote of the shallow
beauty, and those that found these objects
were not simply aesthetic, but meaningful in
the machinery of things... it was never up to
us to find that electric genius of combining the aesthetics
with the machinery as one...
for in that sense god is a form as fraction
of 9/1, 8/1, 7/1, 6/1, 5/1, 4/1...
the fraction of wholeness... a complete set to start with...
man has already proved the limit as a fraction
with the base 3... 9/3, and that didn't really end well...
at best man is composed of a fraction base of 2...
by sharing the world through marriage to a woman,
or through a learned devotion, a crumb of what a woman
is, a philia (love) of his interests, a soloist voyage...
some just say: you will either take to being faithful
to philology and yourself as its devotee,
or you'll take up a wife... oddly enough chemists are
defilers of marriage having any purpose other than
to distract... but as i said: you can rarely write
decent things when trying to admire celestial spheres...
more ambition comes from the distraction of the zodiac
"prophets" and astrologers... a poem about the moon
is just a poem that is levelled with a poem
about a dustbin... but hey... Top Cat lives in the dustbin,
Neil Armstrong bopped along the lessened gravity
surface... but which is easier to acquire for a smile?
Benny... cue the violin theatrics of lamenting to a comic
end.
well... we have to juggle each other's impressions,
taking at hacking the raw meat will not give any of us
medium-rare barbecue steaks marinated...
taking the moon as something else is: nice...
and you know how nice things end up as... as tacky
suburban *******... if you're going to tackle the
thing with all the rawness... i'd first spend looking
looking at that thing of your attention in a graveyard...
just to get the feel to the idea: well... my fellow daisies
sniffed from the roots up would probably have
said something sulky similar.
but it's like that, you get to exhaust certain musical avenues...
i'm currently at a period where i have enough
stash of jazz records to rekindle my interest in it...
on today's menu? the real McCoy (McCoy Tyner,
Joe Henderson, Ron Carter and Elvin Flynn -
Flynn makes his mark, even though not the star
of the album, Art Blakey has a match) -
then onto the tragedy of Sonny Clark with his
cool struttin' alongside Art Farmer, Jackie McLean,
Paul Chambers and Philly Joe Jones...
i must admit that after watching the film whiplash
my ear-buds staged a coup to move from a certain
type of music into this... and even though
i already said that the climate in America at the moment
is very a second attempt at a Beat movement...
it's very much different... i guess jazz makes all the sense
in a pure urban environment...
jazz and urbanity, the hipster parties where wine flows
like poetry and people get to do their wild marijuana
******... but Bukowski changed everything
by bringing a taste of the classical into the scene...
it feels just like that these days...
there's no jazz on the radio...
going back to watches and radios, mono-utility things
that are the glamours of the inoffensive cluttering of a room...
no digital screen... the radio position at the back
of my head, behind me, the little fly-eye Rubik cube
ahead of me...
that's the odd thing with coming with jazz these days...
it's like Bukowski in the shadows of the beat movement
back when it was the beaten track...
so i said that jazz and urbanity are perfect partners...
well... take jazz from an urban environment and put it
in a outer-suburban environment, in a place
about 30 minute walk from farming fields with bulls
and horses... foxes the thieves rummaging in people's
trash... and... as classical music took to
teaching us the language of celestial bodies,
Holst... in this kind of environment jazz does the same...
jazz becomes equal to classical music with celestial
bodies... i'm just wondering if there are enough
instruments to arrange the solar system...
Mercury the Trumpet...
         Venus the Double Bass
Earth the Piano
                       Mars the Drums
Jupiter the Tenor Sax                                   (comparatively,
                Saturn the Soprano Sax                using a Holst
                                                           ­        schematic, the reverse,
                                             yet citing Jupiter, not as a planet,
                                           well, the bellowing voice of paternal fury)
Uranus the Clarinet
                                           (takes sheer magic to play that thing)
so that just leaves us with an Neptune as either
   Alto Sax or Trombone...
but that's how jazz morphed since it last came across
poetry... someone stole it from its urban environment
of busy streets and ugly manners and quick quick snappy
and the millionth time i could compare it to a spontaneous
encounter with someone in a bar... jazz lost its cool there...
people said the same thing about jazz
as Kaiser Joseph II did of Mozart... "too many notes"...
translate this urbanity into an outer-suburban environment
and put it against that kind of backdrop?
well... personally, there are just enough notes in each piece...
you looked outside the window? you could hear
a **** from a mile away and no tree would even sway
in nodding approval even with a galeforce wind slapping
them... jazz lost its synchronisation with the urban environment
it emerged from... but in so doing, it managed to mature
like good wine on the outskirts of large cities,
where it literally became the only thing that could ably
make a Kandinsky moment from semi-detached houses.
NEWSFLASH... what is this concern about art being
subjective? i don't see where these arguments go...
i thought art was about revealing the intimate,
not revealing the objective shallows of a method...
of limited scope like any philosophical systematisation...
if Christopher Columbus ever did things
objectively he might have discovered Lisbon or the Canary Islands...
art can't be objective... trying to argue that art is
"only a subjective" expression... well, if it was to be
a "greater" expression objectively, an artist would
walk into an art gallery, take all the paintings from
the canvases, and turn to the public and say:
now let's see your subjectivity, otherwise go ponce
off the art critics to take something they said to your
date about how: the light contorts the features of expressions
blah blah blah blah blah... the point of art being
superior as a subjective vehicle is so that i can feel someone
else's feelings... as opposed to thinking someone else's thoughts...
art is the sensual, not the premeditated dogmatic funeral -
which all philosophers attend: they're objective to the
point that they're afraid of having a personal attachment
to their outputs - they will hardly ever want to invite
a criticism of their objectivity, because they're such emotional
paupers - they fear criticism of their subjectivity to such
a point, that you can simply look at their pronoun usage
strategy, they really do use these words like kings -
but when Mozart is criticised by the Kaiser... he thought
nothing of it... he actually thought, nothing of it,
perhaps his vanity was wounded, but his virtue wasn't...
which is why he remains with us...
for the fatal wound incurred is not that of virtue,
but that of vanity... and true virtue is unafraid of criticism,
there's this cognitive blockage that enriches the
heart and leaves the mind blank... the sort of blank
that accommodates the Pyramid of Vanity:
bishops, priests, doctors, kings, queens, portrait artists,
Versailles... such things are so ****** void of anything
but scare-mongers, sycophants, leeches and finally tourists...
for whatever you take from the realm of Hades,
there's a stamp-duty on each precious element from that
realm... each thing is stamped: worthless...
you couldn't extract penicillin from Hades...
changing gold into a ring is worthless if such symbolism
of a union of monogamy end with the ring being
nothing more than a thing disputed over the divorce settlement.
jo spencer Jan 2013
I am floundering in a new identity
often praise is irksome
it comes with a cost,
so subliminal I'll become, rudderless,
I voyage, comparatively
as a torrent is to stimulating.
Akash mazumdar Sep 2016
Who said you're not in my life,
you are not important to me,
I know from past we talk less comparatively,
But it doesn't mean trust and friendship content is reduced,
Our friendship survived from severe communication gap attack that we both knew,
We are carrying this relation because ,
We know that rude talk and gestures will not make us,
who we are what we are really from inside,
So our efforts will make the bond better,
Ego is not a part of our personality which is **** bitter.
Peppy Miller Dec 2013
This fish bowl I'm in
I am a speck on the bottom of it: I am gullible
Mom tells me I'm special: That's not true
It was all a ******* lie
papers I produce are mediocre
comparatively:  I  don't do jack ****
they make art: speak beautiful words
compose music: research human trafficking
discuss what the person is: what god is or isn't
look into the depths of what it is to be alive
configure ways to improve their environment
discover and decode molecular diffusion
unearth social constructionism
link biomechanics to psychological transfer
is this wall red?
do you think it is red?
is this vein blue?
do you know why it is blue?
is this cup green?
do you care about being green?
is this person yellow?
how is this a historical conflict to be yellow?
is this plaster white?
how can we transform the white?
That's right, now everybody go change the world
dive down to the depths of human evil
your letter of recommendation will get you
real
deep
however I,
I will not even get past the glass
the bowl is too shallow
I figured out bull ******* a long time ago
but not well enough to understand things
It was more one of those move your fins
and then some how you will be able to breathe
That's what happens when you spend too  much
time
inhaling the wrong things
you sink
Elizabeth Halaas Aug 2014
Can a disease be a pet peeve?
This one can.
It has taken over my family and torn them apart.
It has grown inside of people I love,
Tormenting, restraining, and suppressing them.
It adds a higher level of suffering,
So that my bad days are comparatively fine.
My sufferings don't count
Their sufferings count too much, making them
Dangerous
I worry about the things they will do or say
I worry about their safety
I worry that they'll always feel this way
I can never escape this disease inside of people around me
I will forever have to be the strong one
The one holding it together, so they can fall apart
What happens, if I fall apart?
I feel alone, and afraid
All because of some stupid disease.
They claim I can lead, that they can look up to me.
That in a time so bleak, it's nice to see someone so strong.
I am a very weak person.
I am fragile.
My immune system is shot.
Any passing pathogen is free to stir me up.
My walls are cracked and peeling, they are a poor defense.
I've lost control over my feelings, and nothing makes sense.
The world ends every day, yet, I remain in tact.
I'm a cockroach scuttling through the motions, taking orders from rats.
No one seems to think about the life of the insect, that putrid little pest,
After the fact...
After the blast, conflict is presumed to have passed,
But life is not as we're taught it is in History class.
Sure, I can survive; I've gotten by.
Haven't I prevailed over all of the ants and all of the flies?
Still, I wonder why...
Why? wonder...why?
I don't feel like I've tried?
At points on the line I thought I had died, or at least wasted my life.
Still, I stand here, watching the others pass by.
Expressionless faces filled with blood that's run dry.
The only reason I'm not floating on is because my hands were not tied.
I'd have drowned with the rest of them if it weren't for where I lie.
The ground on which I was born is comparatively high,
Though the guilt instilled upon me is pushing me lower to the scene of the crime.
Their lungs filled with water,
Mine with wasted time.
With feet barely wet, and my knees still dry, the guilt presses harder...but I still haven't tried.
If I am strong, then this world must be wrong.
Oh, so wrong. And for how long? How long must a man pretend to be a king when he is Kong?
My legs trembling...twitching...I can barely move.
I've been broken, burned, battered, and bruised.
Don't look up to me as if I peer down on you.
My friends, my enemies, you're all becoming confused.
If it is my help you seek, I'm sorry, you fool.
Can you not see? I am no better than you.
Daniello Mar 2012
suspected of being
problematic, one is a
common
but
questionable
model, and an
adjustment
may
be
required
to address all
the nonsignificant
differences—
how
they
nonetheless constitute
important arbitrary
criterions
for
equivalence

the significance test
based on
observational
data
is
susceptible to (errors
of) interpretation
over the
question
at issue
namely, do
case differences
arise
because of
exposure
to a comparatively
small sample
or
because
of
another variable?

Exposure can be
only mediated
by
crude
estimates
and so may be
misleading
during
the
forming
of the hypothesized
model of one
that describes
the
association
between exposure,
bias, and
the variables,
and
reconciles
difference
with equivalence
significantly.

The model provides
little information
that is
incontrovertible
but
the results suggest if
adjustment for the variable
makes no
substantive
difference
ignore it

but if your knowledge
indicates the
adjusted
variable to
be preferable

then prefer it
Kewayne Wadley Oct 2018
Tag
Maybe tomorrow
I'll admit that I was joking.
Comparatively walking forward.
Pretending I saw what I couldn't.
The rustling of leaves,
Allocation to how far the fall.
The optimism of smiles.
After all, I've know this whole time.
When & where.
Deliberately stealing glances.
The second, third, forth
Consciously known that you'd find me sooner or later.
My role through the renewal of perspective.
Maybe tomorrow you'll forget &
I'll joking walk up to you.
Smile and say "Tag, your it!"
Knowing that you've been it this whole time.
The rustle of leaves growing louder.
Having known that I revealed myself without a word
Connor Reid Apr 2014
The Assignment
The stitched gauze blistering upwards
Warts & ***** matter slithering up the arm
An enigmatic stench of mortality
Solomon in scrubs
A Djinn infected with humility
Wandering for what
Digging up a severe lack of confidence
Entombed with proprietary nuance
Dressed for an exodus
To undermine the decadence
Content, maggots wrapped in hair
Showering the idea of significance
Coiling comparatively, larvae in womb
Tetragrammaton, the seal of metatron
Electroencephalograms, gloved hands and air dripping
Formless in essence, an opaque blur

You are a child, you have no right
No right to reject prophecy, no right
No right to lead us with ink on hand
A town alive
Ushering in sinusoid delirium
The rapture will commence the rebirth
Those who seek utopia
Nor good or evil
Ordo ad chao
Consequential matrice of paradise
Lattices vibrate in sympathy
Sacrament, a doppelganger of truth
Embodied in a pool of white noise
Partials of static, collected
Rotting on my tongue like heaven's night
Standing figures of choked brimstone
******* skin into a wounded mouth
A wish house inhabited with flesh
Reflections to nowhere incubating adolescence
Jack-knifing a model of self
Into an abstract quartz of emotion
Faltering into fog, electric supplements of truth
Journals to which I find delusion

We belong here
Torturing an empty casket
Looking for acceptance, emptied happiness
Drowning in a temporary penance
Cubic zealots anchoring abhorrance
Undermine an attempt at the vessel
Wilting morbidly toward surfeiting iron
Lashed off walls like flaked skin
Encapsulating ***** in infection
meandering amongst godflesh
Bones torn from sockets
The lens to see the chandelier
Climbing into unlocked houses
Settling in amongst the precious

The smashed memories
Porcelain teeth
Pruned fingers & moulded hands
Halo of the sun
An alternative to consciousness
Stumble around the alphabet
Introduce geometry
And let madness interfere
Beothuks & Wynn
Clawing at my mind
Chapels magic, sacred
Symmetry, gentle effortless life
Rogue, effortless entanglement
Mansions painted in nostalgia
Dripping with molluscs
Heralding the other circles
Drawn in red, repulsion

Blue, reversal and probing in my mind
You're not here
Tender sugar, sacred salt
Gyromancy of soaking light
Slaves to perdition
Fingernails dipped in platelets
Haemorrhaging tension
An autumn in fog
Caution is caustic
Melting through your cheek
Revelation, concentrate spectrum
Palace hated acetate in youth
Nygil McCune May 2013
(For one)
I don't want
(to know more of)
the way seconds never cease colliding into
(something, either external or internal to)
others in a rippling shimmer of
(the consciousness, is)
moments that never possess the finality
(a divine madness of quantification.)
which we cry of to
(The Ego, who comparatively weighs)
others in re-tellings of
(self against anything not defined by)
our lives. This
(the chemical current of self-awareness,)
is a truth too often refused
(in accepting such divine madness)
from our emotional responses
(begins a spewing tornado of self deterioration)
to physical objects
(as the universe which contains self)
and our fluctuating position
(begins to fully exist.)
to them. Yet, in that
(As the universe is more fully known)
i live in a continual agony
(by constructs of the conscious self,)
which knows not the ceasing satisfaction of
(the increasingly perceived universe, which begins to outweigh)
the total fulfillment of
(constructs of self,)
a singularity of identity in space and time,
(makes existence appear impossible)
are the screams of my eternality.
Some people have trouble separating them.
SøułSurvivør Mar 2017
A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection


What you are about to read *will
shock you. Some may find it extremely disturbing. I will tell you from the outset, also, that i am quite "insane". According to the psychiatrists "******-Affective". Manic-Depressive with Paranoid features.
I will freely admit that what you will read here will sound crazy. But please read on. It may be horrifying. It may be weird. It may seem extremely paranoid. But it still interests.

It is my desperate hope that you will read. And believe me. For, my "diagnosis" notwithstanding, I am as sane as the next "normal" person. I AM NOT A LUNATIC! What you are about to read really happened. To ME. It has plot twisting tension that could be put to the credit of Alfred Hitchcock. And a psychological horror that Steven King could emulate. How could I compare my writing to the genius of those great & talented men? I don't. Because, dear readers, I did not conceive of it. It was done to me. I merely convey the technology and techniques used to make any "normal person" appear a ****** Toon of 50 mile high proportions! It exists. And it is excruciatingly painful to be the subject of it.

So why would a girl from a comparatively small city, with no seeming accomplishments to commend her, and is actually quite unimportant, be the subject of such hateful torment? What has she done? I will convey ALL of the reasons. I did play a part in it. I had a tri-fold lawsuit against a once-high-profile video dating club, who wanted to prevent litigation by thoroughly discrediting me. And I had a very virulent and hateful foe...

*The "Church" of SCIENTOLOGY.
I've decided to present my story on social media. There is NO TIME TO WASTE. There are hundreds, perhaps THOUSANDS of perfectly SANE people in the mental health system, perhaps in hospitals... even PRISONS for the CRIMINALLY INSANE who need for this story to GET OUT.

I'm probably throwing myself under the bus. I don't CARE. THE PEOPLE NEED ME. AND THEY NEED Y O U.

SHARE THIS. REPOST IT. RETWEET IT.
IT NEEDS TO GO V I R A L!!!

You will see before and after targeting photos of me on Twitter and Facebook.  The names I go by are SoulSurvivor II and Cathy Jarvis respectively.

I'm sorry,  but I must be working on this 24/7. I have no time to read or write poetry.  It is SO IMPORTANT that I get this done quickly. The "Powers That Be" WILL want to silence me. I want it DONE before that happens. Thanks for understanding!

♡♡♡ I LOVE YOU! ♡♡♡

Sincerely
Catherine Jarvis
Zero Nine Sep 2017
Oh
No
You
Don't

Won't
Need
Your
Drink

I'm just fine
I spend the long nights
In an intimate dance
Touching myself
Comparatively,
You're not interesting

How
Dare
You
Buy

How
Dare
You
Scheme

What about me?
What about me?
Fresh
KM Apr 2012
Empty words pour over one another and we bath in it
I want to *****. Pinkies crossed, keep my own blood promise.
Clasp raised hands, you're just two ******* grand.
While the empty crowds and fake personalities go crazy in the stands,
And the non-imaginary friends rally to take a stand.
Judge me, judge them until you're at full self esteem
Shiny train wreck tracks, two tons more and full steam
Ahead, altered image in your head to fit the rhyme and time before we split
Apart into the tiniest of atoms, I wish you'd shatter and splatter already,
70% water and you're still pretty **** heavy,
Though if by mass or volume remains a mystery.
Open eyes, twisted spine, take your shoes, give you mine
The top of the pond is warm, but just wait until the dark fills the lake,
And the hopping waterbugs overtake and your body is no longer your own.
Queen, **** it, King, sit on my throne,
And look at the useless fruitfulness that I have grown.
Trust you as far as I could throw a stone and it landed among the seeds I'd sown,
Silver puddle reflects to me that the you I'd known has left me all alone.
Friendship without sun drowns us in a matter of hours
***** fertilizer and weeds choke out the flowers.
And all the while this ***** dreadful night
Can taste the lightness of our fright, and be remembered as the day,
That the privlaged beggers finally picked a fight.
*******, we used to care about one another
Though I won't say we've grown up or apart,
Our dimensions seem to have warped an awful lot.
It could be that this is art in the rambling, symbolic diary sense,
But let's have some common sense, no props to those
Who cheat and repeat, force the burden of meaning on the helpless seedling.
Abstract art and children separated by a mirrored glass wall to encourage real work
And here's to the curses written inside the bathroom stall,
Embraced and erased, then forgotten years later
Memories wiped without a trace, this human race
I'll bet you can win, but I still run faster
You tricky ******* set up traps along the track
Encouraged by the sadistic master.
Paper, tin and plaster;
Save the past so she remembers the tactless *******
That was presented as a present and in the present now presents
A trickier problem than he could devise if he had tried.
Perhaps he never lied, but looked at the fingers, little miss
Scarlet tips, tried to deny but the die is dyed with fine metallic mist.
Gleaming puppy-dog eyes pour remorse, of course,
But given another pure, white sheet
Would prove even more efficient in "accidental" deceit.
So row, so row, goes the lame claim that my words manage
To stay same in your brain, gain an image of the pain and strain.
No love, never then, never again.
Continue talking, and walking apart
I'm sorry, screamed. What's that you say?
Hate and love splatter tiny red dots on the scatter plot
Flash frame, freeze for a fraction, minds captivated by action
Divide and multiply the fractions and traction,
Keeping the same, grown apart, helplessly together,
Until, comparatively, even static falls apart.
Dennis Kontoulis Mar 2015
On March 17th my doctor tells me that maybe I should spend Saint Patties Day with someone
other
than you
and I guess he doesn’t realize that you are always here
The next day the luck of the Irish isn’t on my side in spite of me being
well
half Irish
You come over and we do get lucky in our own respect
but thats as far as that goes with a satisfied smile and friendly nudge
because the mattress felt like wires and the sheets like sandpaper
with my pillow becoming a slate of stone inscribed with all the things you whispered to me under thinner, softer sheets,
I slept on our memories.
On the 31st my doctor tells me that every time I think of hurting myself
I write something with a marker on the spot of skin I want to open
So every time I think of you
my skin is covered in stanzas
and when I shower its similar to being flayed alive
but the snake which cannot cast its skin has to die
so I cast my skin every night
On the 14th of April my doctor says to turn my pain into beauty
so hes telling me to write poetry
I vowed eight weeks prior to this day that you’d stop showing up in my stanzas
but this poem has no structure
so technically there’s no rules to be broken
On the 28th of April I told him about Law Class
how we learned about mens rea and actus reius
I told the doctor how everything has cause and effect
like how an insult can lead to a fight which can lead to ******
and comparatively how one wrong word lead to confusion which lead to heartache
so you were guilty for ****** in your own right
rooms never echo until they’ve emptied
and I never echoed until you left me
my doctor remarked as much
a surly voice saying “see, son, she’s stolen your soul”
it would justify all those sleepless nights where prayers didn’t keep me earthbound
and I’m just nodding my head because maybe he’s right
maybe heaven is locked in chains
but maybe hell is a lifetime with you
but the only difference between the two are the locks and i keep
losing my ******* keys
i am the epitome of dead art
which is why my doctor cancelled our next session; he ran out of brushes.
so i was left standing in my bedroom like someone looking for a mistake on an eviction notice
confused and staring at all the things that lead up to that same moment
i had been torn from my foundations
and then you came to mind
you
whom did the tearing
but stayed innocent all the same
you made me wonder
how can you be both the lumberjack and the tree?
its *******
confusing.
and she doesn’t get it
but i dont expect her to
even though when its cloudy it just means
god is lonely without her too
as neither of us could stand to watch another sunset with her absent
believe me when i say it is more than possible to love someone so much
it hurts them
and that while love is this void somewhere in the same plain as space and time
it is not one that you want to fall into
because dragging yourself out of it becomes a chore.
i use a lot of analogies
and i think thats how poetry works
something to mediate and make home to the things that
i guess bother you
but she doesn’t bother me
i bother me
so thats why theres so many of these poems
and this might be my longest
but i just dont know where else to put my thoughts of her
my chest can only contain so many stanzas before bursting
my heart can only beat so fast
it can only feel like a padlock for so long
and i can only write stanzas on my skin for so long before i decide
they look prettier in red
Kuzhur Wilson Jun 2014
While walking hither and thither
Thinking that tonight, the world will set,
While lying , wondering what to do now,
A headache will come in an autorickshaw
The dinner will be skipped
But what stung will not be a comparatively harmless water snake
That viper will sting
during nightly dreams
Again and again
O my! I am dead!

Then ammini, lying nearby
Will cry once,
Assuming “Oh, oh, father is gone”
While I look thinking that she cried in her sleep
Lo! She will smile
Thereupon, outside,
A full moon will laugh with her

That smile is enough
To lose sleep
Then I will get up,
Go out
While I walk hither and thither
Through the full moon’s laughter,
On the Devil Tree in the yard,
A Yakshi will cry and laugh

Then I will get tired
Duly I will come inside and lie down to sleep
The world I thought had set
Will rise in the east
Then what do I do?
Was it me who died yesterday
Or
Someone else we thought of?


(Salim Kumar , An actor)
Translated by: Anita Varma.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
another day in the woods. on Strawberry ridge
looking out over undulating green hills to
the next great wall ridge of mountains. the last
morning clouds left from last night's storm
hanging in the valley mistily. the sun eventually
burns them away.

the respect between old Paul Karlsen and I continues
to exist. even though he's a Mormon and I'm a fallen
New Yorker. the work is comparatively easy, lifting
hundred pound bags, so you can just imagine what
we do other days. in fact, it's fun, especially for
young Bates. we get all white (and our lungs dusty).

on the way to and from the work site I read
in Silent Spring, the chapter against herbicides, gathering
inspiration for the upcoming controversy. in the end
perhaps I'll be fired for refusing to lay down Tordon
beads. realizing this, as I drive with Bates,
I see the dark green conifers and begin to miss them.

                                         Rocks and rattlesnakes, bluebells
and mountain daisies, grasses and cactuses, mahogany
bush, lodgepole pine and quaking aspen, lush forest
and dry sun-tortured mountainside, wind and seed
carried by wind, ants, streams, hummingbird
and hawk, deer, badger, ground squirrel, wolverine.
www.ronnowpoetry.com

— The End —