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Max Petersen Apr 2011
don't stick to anything
defy gravity
creep up the walls of glass

no heat
super conductivity
zero viscosity

helium 2
your a super fluid
and you show that

drip out the bottom
of the seemingly solid mass

helium 2
your a super fluid
and you show that

redefining how i think
about cold liquid gas
The inspiration for this poem:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Z6UJbwxBZI
Watch it. Its fascinating.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Conjunction:
a small class of words distinguished in many languages by their function as connectors between words, phrases, clauses, sentences

- the act of conjoining; combination; the state of being conjoined; union; association:

- a compound proposition that is true if and only if all of its component propositions are true.

- the coincidence of two or more heavenly bodies at the same celestial longitude.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am in a relationship.

a colorless word
a word of no clarity
a good one? a bad one?
a professional deal,
or one that makes you squeal
with pleasure or despair

without context or content,
a description of a status,
not a state,
but a quid pro quo

I prefer
I am in a conjunction

well recall the day
our orbits
more than crossed,
but synchronized,
when two bodies
began to travel
upon the same longitude
one direction
in conjunction

t'was the day we coordinated
on our mobile phone,
co-configured our future,
our calendars


nowadays,
I answer her questions
while she is commencing to think,
when her foolishness prevails,
she questions, "did you remember to..."
my answer, a question returned,
connected, constant and conjunctive,

"and what's my name?"
an answer conveying constancy

relationship
oft the farthest place from logical,
but you know that,
say I am in a conjunction
and the logicians will celebrate
the end of your lonely celibacy,
well they understand the truth
inherent in and of and about
your compounded proposition


what unimaginative creatures we be,
dispensing with beauty for factuality,
but facts are easily misread,
your fact and my fact, relationship,
the exact same fact, conveys neither
an agreement as to what that means

are we unionized, associated, or conjoined
what is the quality of
our related ships?


so
Dear Mr. Zuckerberg,
amend my status please,
post me
as being in a state of:
a) conductivity b) connectivity c) concoctive

no, none of those
capture
what we have
captured,
so let create a new state,
a new world,
using a very old world word
post us as follows,
"Nat is in a conjunction"
No swooning allowed
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
poems like these are difficult to revise let alone convene over drunk once more, but in my own interpretation, the whole understanding of it begins with a joke: what do i care if a portent was given to him, did he think he could do anything he wanted after? it’s like me caring for albert fish sticking needles into his pelvis for that extra conductivity frying in the electric chair. but the main interpretation is as follows:

well you know how the *debye length
equation reads

  λ subscript D = 1 / F x √(RT ε subscript R ε subscript 0 / 2000I)

given that F is faraday’s constant and R is the molar gas constant and I is ionic strength,

well that got me thinking in the humanities - where are the equations for the garbage heap of phonetics when κολοκύθι looses ‘appa ‘micron ‘ambda ‘micron ‘appa ‘psilon ‘eta ‘ota to simply say pumpkin? kolokythi? i see, ‘ above upsilon produces the kolokythi hence not kolokuthi; but still, where’s the phonetic garbage heap of ‘appa ‘micron ‘ambda ‘micron ‘appa ‘psilon ‘eta ‘ota? it’s in equations like the debye length, the sheer complication of losing the strict individuation of the letters... unlike in latin's do re mi fa so la a b c singalong, but with that come spelling mistakes and overly eloquent spelling of words and spelling mistakes.

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

but i lament the fact the one of the woods i used to frequent
at night was stolen by an irish cerberus
one headed shoulder height hinger than an alsatian
chasing a rabbit one night,
and the other wood was stolen by a satanic mass
of the shrieking druid.
i miss those woods with my walk of pulverisation eyed
of faked hallucinogens of the night,
i miss them and therefore i confess like edward prior harold:
the sun will not rise from the west,
but the moon will be taken from the belly of the desert
from the realm of arabia
taken as the emblem of islam and be like the sun to japan,
the moon will be that - in the west and the north -
while the crucifix imported into the northern lands
will be sent back to those thieves of the moon
in the twinned linear parallel of the sun’s antonym
with the blood eagle stongehenge -
and i’ll not be weary to say:
a king is before a prophet’s honour in his homeland
an outcast and must remain so in order
that he might not invoke a prophet's honourable
wrath in his homeland -
but should a paul come unto a matthew
then the king's wrath is invoked!
so while a prophet’s honour is sacrificed like
isaiah’s with some king and with john the baptist
decapitated with the second king’s insurrection
so too the king’s honour is taken into consideration,
that a king hoped for keeping the egyptians cosmopolitan
with greek philosophy was what moved the nation of israel,
then too a second nation shall move
should a king's honour not profit standing still of the people.
but i too wish for a favour: i forgot what it was,
but it reminded me of something that could have been
a working household with screaming children aching for
a screening of the tate gallery in a slideshow -
but to prove god all men asked one man to renounce such
guises of the futures kept with the army of bothersome parentages.
hence i to the graveyard of the place where the 18th century
met the 20th century: as they say, they were kind to the 20th century youth,
they sent them packaged to death’s clot of chatter,
and midway, in the same century, platonism was usurped
with a care for poets! imagine it! midway they asked for the poets
to come back and arrange all the grecian lettering enigmas of the
sciences and snigger and smile at the romanic fakes of the once held by troy.
but many spoke of yod alef he waw ayin he - because so much of eve
once was that no more could be of the adam who abstracted himself
into her who once possessed him, and who unto being harmed
re-attached himself to his mother with the due humiliation she invoked in him:
but once you go back you’ll forever remain a child.
this is coming from a russian girl studying in scotland...
foreigner’s fees... cheap ***** -
my only chance of a steady income was with my father roofing!
why did you leave?
why were you rich and feared the bolsheviks by not turning into a philanthropist for a bit?!
Paul Hardwick Aug 2012
Be sure what ever you do
there is a woman behind you
so use her power
so it enlightens you

you will not be just a favour
for your own pleasure
but you will become you
the one and only un-known you

so use those voces
do not keep them inside your head
when the atoms lose electrons,
forming cations(positive ions),
these ions become surrounded by de-localized electrons, which are responsible for conductivity.
Conductivity

That is Metal
Ryan Bowdish Aug 2010
There is no floor
Below the water there is sand and dust
My feet disappear below the mist
And below that is a floor of nothing.

Lock and key, relative conductivity
Separation of anxieties
Generally elementary
Universal energy
Scientific inquiry
Empirical discovery

What a bunch of crap.

I bathe in fake white plastic
I swim in silent smiles
Dionysian warfare paintings
Classical textual narrating

Fitness, happiness, soporific movies
Genial tendencies, braced for ingenuity
Waiting for a paroxysm to bring forth neologisms
That test the boundaries of scientific truth
That recapture the errant minds of youth
We could make new buildings or lose a tooth

I hold the latter higher than that
I tilt the ladder there and back
Assiduous and wont, *** for tat
All a game, a joke at that
Your domain, provoked and trapped
Impressionistic spinal taps
On canvases of green and black
All from within cerebral shacks

Wind hammers palm trees on windowpanes
Wind tears down houses, rips apart planes
Wind doesn't move me, yet seems urbane
It's so jejune, it's all the same
I'm tired and lonely, powder remains
Pink like reagents in reactive flames
Quick like catalysts jumping inane
Frontal lobes retired my brain.
My favorite piece that I have written.
What is boredom but subjectivity,
Always viral conductivity
From one and two and here and there
A way of ratifying one's personal cares.

Likes, dislikes, attractions, distractions,
Formulative thoughts and rash reactions,
Bombardment of character and theatrical woes,
And no one can say from where it comes or goes.

A view from behind the pill of bitter estrangement,
Lenses and visions of complicated derangements,
Better or worse, one subjects his collusions
With the darker abstracts of critical confusion.

So what is boredom but a lack of reason,
A hiding place behind a suspension of disbelief,
What is boredom but a condition of pondering the lack of what's to ponder,
Construction of illness rather than intellectual relief?
Me
Vanity
Me?
Me?
Heightened sense of security
Me?
Me?
Vanity
Felt through everything
We’re the echoes through eternity
Me?
The fibers snap, snap conduct
Feverishly
Sending to benevolent web
Me?
I was there it was a ******* tragedy
You remember
That day?
Vanity
Me?
We’re more important than anything
This is the turn of the century
What we do
Echoes through eternity
Me?
Heightened sense of security
Big bro
He knows everything
Me?
We know everything
Anything we find
Quite conveniently
BLIND
Me?
A sarcophagus of time
This happened before in some other land
Before we knew of this
Time
BLIND
Me?
Vanity
Me?
Me?
Heighten sense of security
The fibers they snip snap tap
Feverishly
Conductivity
But we still don’t know ANYTHING
Me?
Vanity?
I was there it was a ******* tragedy!
Why’d they take the towers away
Did it really happen that day?
To
Me?
***** Monster
Narcissist Pharisee
Conscripted pet
Atrocity
I was there it was a ******* tragedy
Why’d they take the towers away?
Must have been vanity…
I'm very very proud of this one. But hold reserves for my generation....
www.eugene-moon.com
Hazel Redwood Jul 2017
You want to see my demons you say,
Fighting daily to keep them at bay.
I daren't loose control,
For my words are powerful
A spell to be-hold.

My demons are held locked away.
For once unlocked like Pandora's box.

You want to see my demons come out you scream?
I pity you for the words unseen.
I can make you feel two inches tall,
non the less you continue to squall.
to mark my mind in agony,
The screams coming from inside.
If I let them out you will go running away.
Continuing the battle in my soul,
I look at you and loose control.
My words knifing away,
You continue to bellow.


I start to tell you.
A horrific person you are.
Using me for ****** conductivity,
Money making ambiguity.
You want me to be your slave
In many,many ways.

Once you put your hands on me,
my demons came out and backed you against a wall.
I could not breathe.
I started to fall.
The void took hold as I listened to my words.
I hate you.
In reality it was the truth coming out.
Constant anger pushed aside
My words continued to lash to the skies.
You hurt me in more then one way.
Thank Goddess my kids weren't here this day.
You told me I was nothing without you,
The only one who cared.
These demons flashed
but not in fear.
The strength I had to walk away.
For your pitiful display.
I turn around mocking you.
Do you have any clue what my words can do?
I turn to you and sadly say,
I fought these demons,
day by day.
Now the words in a continuous flow,
my anger has started to get out of control.
I started yelling
I back away.
I hate the words you say to me.
I look at you and remember
I was nothing.
So hear these words loud and clear.
I am no more your puppet on a string.
I am no more a lover,
you do not deserve me
I am no more your maid.
Go find your mummy.
I am no more
tamed.
You will live a life of misery,
You will live the rest of your days,
for love will never find you.
If you don't change your ways.
Empty and alone is how you shall remain.
Once you find happiness,
May the God's take it away.
I am not crazy,
I am a Pagan,
I believe in my Gods'
And I know you will dissipate.
For all the things you have done to me.
You will eventually see.
Like a wild horse
never to be tamed.
I look at you
and walk away.
You begged for my demons to come out to play.

Now you cry and ask me why?
Why would I say such hurtful things.
Because all you asked was for my demons to play.
Now you want me to go away.
This was written about an ex...
Thoughts
Aren't
Malleable and Ductile  
Forced  
Drawn into Sheets
Conductivity Futile
Empirically Deduced

Words
Are
Malleable and Ductile  
Artistically Moulded
Strung up Embellished Pearls
Drawn into Sheets
A Pearlescent Sheen
Empirically Deduced
" Thoughts are framed in beautiful words "
Rowan Eyzaguirre Nov 2014
Chemical dependency, with a side of intimate conductivity, followed by romantic conspiracy, turned to emotional connectivity.
without for-sought thought, proceed to three years of Hot Love turned to three months of Cold War.

Violent codependence, bandaged by hopeful commitments, failed by unchecked addictions, and annunciated by priceless resentments, punctuated by lost trust and an honest compassion.

Fight tooth and nail for higher ground, feeling faithless and unforeseen worthlessness.

Realized lack of influence, led by justified relapse, a broken heart or two and a few weeks later, loneliness earned and hopelessness learned.

Try to scramble back to the to the idea of the connection once perfect, now weathered and tired, filled with tired resentment, and unresolved disagreement.

Love & Lust, into Trustless Treason.

I will stand tall against the machine of time's toll on love, tears in my eyes and fear in my heart. Why should I back down.

And why should I not.

I would rather be trampled with suffering than choose one and regret either.

One lover's stand off.

One lover's lament.

Stuck in the middle of this heavily trafficked highway, feet shoulder width apart, stuck in concrete, committed to resistance.


-RÆ
Zefian; Butler of the greater demon, he would be forced to make the main stained glass window of the Castello del Horcondising, he will continue to put himself on the posts in each hermit tree to recruit from the horsemen lordships of the autumnal massif, towards an eternal wailing of birches in harmony. Pay attention to the words and challenges of presence in the Vernarthian Sub Mythology in Horcondising. Everything will be for the creative principle of a new world, where the materiality that will be useless on the surface, is of value and prosperity ubiquitously in any space where the human race degrades to eternity levels of consciousness.

Biological goal, codes of life, material works beyond a life that reconciles organic life and ethereal life. The evolutionary codes of life go further from the super existence, creating transformations that alternate life in spiritual memory, based on multidimensional spiritual intelligence. The consequence and serial of future ideas or captures of fruitive life,  which will be continued in storage links of gospels of remembrance, to preserve our bio-evolutionary trajectory codes. Super microscopic particles will be decomplexed by Zefián, more withdrawn from the demonicity that is rooted in our faith codes, procreating from there to our filtering mechanics of the dogma of existence, to be applied as perfectible memorization tools, allelomorphic from Tsambika to Horcondising. Creating codes of life and experiences between the creation of God and the creation of the superficial world, in such a way that between both canons, the emergent and fleeting guideline of experience contained in the threshold of death is issued. To go further away from the light itself that does not invade us with diseases correlative to the decomposition and corruptibility of the human born and steely spirit, heading towards an ethereal biological goal. .

Says Leiak: “As the spirit of the Vernarth forest in Horcondising, I have been a multi-parasitic organism in the barks of hyper-spaced oaks, beyond all vanity of large volumes of knowledge and extensions of knowledge. My possible genomes change, each time I blink for a longer time, than the short time I have when resources mutate in such a silent time, which I have been able to measure mathematically. The adaptations of nature to threatening changes also endorse the soul of plants, endowing them with the property of resurrection. The comparative sequences make the evolution of the divine being go beyond the biodegradable sequence, to the point of biological balance of constituting a new life, in the plane of selectivity proper to the particles that carry and attract towards the receptacle of a new life, under the code of a transition from one to one that is reborn in another. Each microscopic element functions as a totalitarian entity in Vernarth submythology, harmoniously linking the chaos and concretion of the world of Genesis with the world of the polytheistic worldview.

Says Borker: “My vaporous voice of the curse, guide that heralds a new one that is leading in Tsambika. Everything bad tends to resurrect in the arms of goodness, where it provides nourishment for those who need to incubate new chains of organic and inorganic adaptability, evangelized and not evangelized, because the light that carries them from the top of the oaks that I pass through the mornings, they always greet me, to proceed like Borker, son of nothing and father of nobody. Here I will be to lead together with Vernarth, the emancipation of the stagnant eco-systemic chains that are stranded in the mud of the administrative power of the supposed super intelligence, which relativizes everything and intervenes. Not knowing that the great super reason by itself recreates itself, making new chaos or riddles, overcome by itself”
Zefián says: “Originally, thousands of cells have been condemned to encompass the density of matter and life on the planet of the experiments called Earth. What is between heaven and earth is in the sub mythology of both poles. Eurydice was in the Orphic world given her romanticism with Orpheus Himself, now she is in our tracóntero, in the mask where she leads the forces between heaven and earth. Right here the Horcondising, which fills us with high associative density. Our populations have to live in the temples of evolutionary austerity and meekness, after events of three-dimensional changes, ours here in Horcondiing has already been mentioned, which is the same as now in Tsambika, for all the parishioners decomposing, but biologically mutating to reborn in a useful life reborn from the seed of sweet death "
  
The Vernarthian sub mythology is the one that perfectly communes with the genesis of the first light and sound, amplifying each other, adapting nobly with the amplitude of momentum exerted, to settle in plans of management of history in thick episodes that have not written by mortal hands in real or fictitious transition which we also conform. Each character that intervenes in the Verthian world ..., here something or someone has complementarity with all the heroes and titans that have existed in our collective memories, making them the anti-heroes or titans that still do not know each other.

Ingratia mol de petal says: “even after being purified, everything must be re-purified; we all owe it to thanks to the constant variability of the notes of the cosmos and its generation. The auras of action surpassed those that add up by thousands of years. I am a liquidator of cancer circles of carcinoma and sainete nodules”

Spermazoid fable is presented to everyone: “Serous plasma runs through the grasslands, before the supra-human count in Horcondising. We are all invisible liquid, that speaks crawling and feeding back its wounds, that do not fit with words that speak further of the rigor of well-being. As a heretical pro, he advanced in the roughness of all the ravines and abandoned reliefs, but when he advanced I do not retreat! I am more vile than time, because time passes and retraces the protozoan memory, moving me away to memories that live and are avant-garde of a mortal, but I have nothing everything. When I have these roughness, I am time and its atomic mass dimension stops time, and attached me to its extermination and nihilistic empty concavity”

Orfilia and Aranhis say while dancing: “a sylph and a naiad appear dressed in white, auguring the feminine aspect of the majesty of the elements. They dance through all the co-rugosities of Verthian sub-mythology, with the support of annulling the hieratic intervention of the spermatozoid fable, for this purpose of relativizing the chromatics of the mythological beings that made a dialogue wheel, peripatetic, even being actors having only audience of those who do not know each other. They dance and dance through all the estuaries and stands of the aristocratic families, who went more than three thousand meters to be judged by themselves, to be redistributed to the chilling of the simile *** bei Hinnom, which is at the top of Horcondising, where all the hallucinating timid flashes of all the re-born flowers of the spring of love whistle fiercely contained in the rosy tones of the Trisolate "

Trisolate: “I am and will be the great conductivity of great energy. Symbolism with a premise today to not think and know words with symbolism of speaking oak barks, where this oak says in itself (I say, later you say), the pronoun must be mutated to the sixth plane, where now we will say or that has never been heard. Only by naming the one that is no longer in the associative language of linguistic clans subject to the sixth pronoun of oaks that live and will live with the code of the language that we have never heard, but starting today if, as a point of reference already bet in the ears of the tree and not the deixis protozoan man! "
  
Vernarth says: “When I try to sleep at night resting my head on the understory of oaks, I sleep painlessly because of the vertebrae that urge to rearrange me, because the roots of his ego on the sixth plane make me consciously independent of the references of my fantasies, It will not be long before my wing comes around the metaphysical corner. Here at the Castello del Horcondising the blocks are not square, they are baldons of the memory of the natural ego, which takes the tram through which my shoes came without clothes that condition it or allow it to express itself tetraplegically handicapped, rather more validated by being trapped by the ghostly essence of oak that is never born or dies, but knowing that it has no Ego”
Vernarthian Sub Mythology
Kamblamian Apr 2015
So why do I know my soul?
My soul.
My soul,
Why do I hate you so
My soul negative plus negative
Conductivity
I don't have a soul
But I'd give you mine
You'll be fine,you'll be mine.
You'll be fine with my soul.
So dead inside the head and now i know.
My sweet soul and now ill use my brain to charge myself back up again.
Sleep little girl inside.
Now i know my soul inside
So dead so now ill open my mind.
So dead as well
So now I'm swell
So now i know nothing at all.
loss of a love
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
(1)
We cross seas with our wrists
And drown in rivers too minute
To keep our muscle afloat.
I once heard there was a time
When the moon
Bled tears of recognition for our hearts;
Now my last name soughs the story
Of women who wept
In lieu of pursuing their second beings,
Dominated by passionate blows of vulnerability.

(2)
Still today my skin
sheds your light
Only to leave me with estranged metal bonds
Whose conductivity has
burnt into dust.

(3)
Pain-stricken, I clasp you
With the contractions you send to my broken legs.
You inform me: This is Home;
I carefully murmur within,
This is a rotten home; this is Loneliness.
Yet I strangely feel glimmers of radiant energy
Shine through these windows,
Only to pass into my own holes.

(4)
I stay.
Michael Briefs Aug 2017
I.: “A strange terrain…”  

From the deep
And desiccated
Heart
Of an immensity, daunting…
Clutched by sheer solitude
And a silence haunting,
She awakes.
In the incommensurable
Night of her desert chimera,
She peers out, trembling, into
The black void of this
Trackless Sahara.

She embarks on a desperate journey
In a soundless surround.
Within a palace of nowhere
She stumbles on, bereaved,
By crippling confusion bound.
Above, a waxen moon stares
Suspended in a luminous stance.
Below, she travels that cavernous
Wilderness, lingering in a troubled
Trance.

Searching stars, of countless cluster,
Cast a beguiling play of light.
Lurking shadows and
Lunar-glow wash,
Shape-shifting,
A ghostly white.
The diamond powder glitter,
Spread out before her dashed
And bloodied feet, make her eyes
Shimmer in false hope;
This mirage of caprice
Is complete.

Her desert is a dark season
Of the soul;
She is tormented by
A scorpion’s brood of doubt
And fear’s locust-curse control.
The blistering sun of self-contempt,
With poisoned, burning breath,
Blows sands of insecurity,
Amidst a landscape
Littered with death.
A strange terrain where
Gaunt relics
Jut out like shards
Of broken clay;
Where lowering spirits
Whisper and tempt,
While heaven’s angels delay.

In this turbulent place,
Where all fall short of grace,
Her demons she must face.

II.: “A deathly fate…”

Almost petrified from dread,
Locked in a battle within,
She hears the roar of her accusers,
The devils screaming out her sins.
Before the scorching, scraping,
Acidic assault of Hell, she senses
The slippery ***** of escape.
A specter calls to her,
With sweet and
Sultry tones,
Urging a deathly fate.

This is the final,
Baleful temptation:
The impulse to give up
And give in.
To turn her faith over to the
Fury of these fiends of
Dark desolation.
The decision weighs like a millstone,
To accept the judgment of the ******.
And, as through parched fingers,
To let her soul sift
Like burning sand.
To allow them to destroy that one,
Most precious gift --
That unalloyed beauty,
That jewel resplendent --
Her Life, the wind that
Gives her wings lift.

III.: “She fights back…”

Stripped bare and exposed to
Danger -- this vortex of distress
And focused anger -- her soul’s
Crimson sap rises to the surface,
Quickened and engaged for
Priceless purchase.
Then, a voice from inside comes as
An insurgency!
It screams desperately
And shouts with urgency!  
It tells of a mission that is not yet finished;
A calling that is not complete
And bruised fortitude to replenish.
In the presence of a
Demonic challenge,
She dedicates herself to honesty and
To undimmed belief
In her God-given quality!
She makes a firm pledge
To an unflinching embrace
Of what is.

She fights back with wits and instincts.
She does not wilt from the risks but
Rears up, steeled and retributive!

All at once, the trance is broken, and the
Sadness is shattered.
Her spirit vibrates with
Power and the devils are scattered!
She now has the courage to diagnose
What is guile and what verity.
She calls forth the medicine of the
Artist’s ardor, a guide through the
Dark night to crystal clarity.  
She will embrace life through art,
In all its pleasures and
All its tribulations!
The creator’s brush and palette will
Reveal the sinews of her subject’s
Aspirations.

In this way, her scars will heal.

IV.:  “This torrent of fertile flame…”

Her painter’s cunning is born of
Her heart’s passion and
Her body’s absolution.
With the naked canvass
Before her, she enters
Into a ferment of transfixed
Delirium,
Expectant and open to the
Daemon of inspiration.

The visions come and they roil,
As a litany of colors form her bible.
Mysterious music summons her toil
As she sways to rhythms tribal.
And lights!
And shadows…
And glancing,
Ghostly figures
Come into view.
Her ecstasy foments
In unbridled explorations
Of contour,
Layered chaos,
With juxtaposed
Shape and hue.
In that precarious moment of creativity,
She is spiked between two poles.
Shedding sparks in raw conductivity,
She loosens her grip on the controls.
Her muse liquefies
Into a river of
Scalding fecundity and
Kinetic energy, thick with
Spiritual potency!  

This torrent of fertile flame
Consumes the past, the deception,
The self-denial and the shame.
All the murky dross of doubt is purged
Until purity is all that remains.…

Pure presence,
Pure focus;
A quiet core of calm
Within the storm, surrounded by
The hurling, unruly universe.  

Finally, she arrives at a place
Out of time and space,
Beyond her desert of pain.
She is self-aware and ready
To look ahead,
Unafraid.
This was written for a painter friend of mine. She got through her own desert to find her true calling and a peace that has kept her alive.
JV Beaupre Jul 2023
It's thin, it's yellow, it's HB or #2
It's a pencil with a worn eraser.
I've used it and its brothers and sisters, all my life.

Crayons were OK, but not for my airplanes,
careening across the sky,
bravely engaging Axis aircraft.
Rat-tat-tat.

In 4th or 5th grade, fountain pens were used for English and penmanship, of course.
***** things, splat-splat.
But math was always pencils.
Double digit multiplication, long division with lots of erasings.

When it wasn't peashooter or marbles or some other season,
it was hangman in the back of the room.

In 8th grade, I wrote a 10-minute play.
Subject forgotten, but it was in pencil,
pressed hard for carbons for the other actors.

In high school, another use:
Pushing my frog around with the point,
and getting formaldehyde on it.
So I sharpened it.

I moved on to doodling in class,
during the dull parts
when I wasn't looking out the window.
(Schools weren't like prisons then).

Scribbled math became scribbled algebra,
I started shading that led to watercolor, which I hated,
No precision compared my pencil.

College boards, multiple choice, filling in the circles,
special high conductivity, ultra black pencils.

In graduate school, class notes and coding forms.
School doodling becames work doodling.
Though, I confess, I sometimes used a pen.

Late in life, my  goal was to draw "real good".
Still pencils, but graphite too.
My new favorite is 9B for deep contrast.
That "real good" thing-- I'm working on it.

So put on my gravestone, for all to view
"He wrote as he drew, with a #2".
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
just a title...
   and...
      daft punk's end of (the) line
song...

         listening on some of the
tech. savvy intellectuals...

   i find myself starting to
      mimic a 2nd "nth" entity...

namely myself...
bypassing the soft tissue,
and gaining root
to excavate... bones.

the imagining of electric
conductivity of the body,
bypassing tendons...

      oyster-implant!

             how does a thing
so tender...
   be allowed to occupy
such a hard exemple of,
what could only
be considered a nest?

               zeno?!
ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
fast runner achilles
could never solve
the question
                    of a larynx,
                  "parody" of the insect
with an oyster lodged
into an exoskeleton...

                   the sense of bones...
bypasses death,
  with what's left, marginally intact...
or a endoskeletal sturcture
  making the dive, or gulp,
into fathoming the oyster parody
(with a touch of lemon juice,
and a slight grating of raw
                                       garlic)...

says the body with
an outer-feature of
                 degenerate potential...

with such unfathomability...
looking at a dead "object"...
          i will be that, one day or another...
ha!
        well **** me...
   not that there's anything ontologically
pressing to achieve a blinded motivational
tact(ic)....
guess a "bychance"
         case of ordering the ch'eep
           side order....

hauz-vine!
       ja!
                            wünderbar!
(bra bra, not barred?

                 i too thought of
fiddling with the extend U
via an umlaut (siamese pa-ra-b'oh-l'ah
                vs. [p]arabolah...
                  tuct surd p
given the subsequent punctuation
      of intact syllable-constructs...
           also V voo...
                    no, not swoon...
                            va va fume!)

telling a bad joke akin
to stripping to encompass
           walking stark naked
by
  (irons, jeremy accent):
    the shallow side of the dream-pool...

but only in english,
YHWH...
        that vowel catcher and vowel
keeper to
invoke a basis for laughter...

        as the last, resort to
        escape the confines of sanity,
and call it: society.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
well... i have to agree... with my myself: who else?
exercising the torso would be...
just fine... getting a six-pack muscular "tinge"
even better...
it's not enough to cycle... press-up your body
weight so your man-***** disappear...
but then... the aesthetic of a ribbed:
what's otherwise a cage that encompasses
all the sort organs...
body-hair... i'm not going to shave my chest hair
therefore i'm not going to shave my stomach
hair...
hell... from time to time i get an itch: wanting
to revive the use of the razor...
but inspecting the work of the Turkish barbers...
it's not a prized beard / moustache...
**** me... it's a fu manchu and a walrus
   (when did i last see a barber?
the last time: after i saw a *******...
so about a month)
                                      and a garibaldi...
obviously the chin needs hiding...

but you simply can't pull off the aesthetic
of an athletic torso
when you have bush-whack sprouts growing
over it...
impossible to do...
best to leave one area of the body soft
to allow for some: liver-boxing...
like today... 2 and a half hours...
i did the inspection of Havering...
the entire council... from Havering itself:
a little village on the tip of the "topography"...
on a hill... founded prior to the battle of Hastings...
1040... something or other...
all the way down to the village of Rainham...
just beside the A13 to the "left"
and the Thames river to the "right"...
Upminster and that other little village
beginning with A-...

every time i get on my cheap-*** bicycle
i find the meaning of life...
not that there's much life to be found:
but plenty of meaning...
if i'm this supposed 6ft category of man...
for the choosiest of women
and i have it... ahem... "rough"...
no wonder... but mea culpa moi:
i'm also a minimalist...
even if i wanted to own a car...
or a bike... i wouldn't want to...
own it: but also not... own it...
pay a tax on it... to use...
a road tax... an m.o.t. you name it...
i like owning something: by owning it...

the idea of a car is so... beside the point
of ownership that...
i simply don't want to own one...
my grandfather didn't own a car:
my grandmother always: the mantis that she:
still is... even though he's "transitioned"...
regretted how he: ****** away
a Mercedes-Benz...
me too... ol' Joseph... i'm also counting
how many i can find...
find what?
how many goldfish with no wishes i can find
at the end of a bottle of bourbon...

it suits me fine...
a life is much more worth living when...
you know that...
someone can't blame you for your shortcomings...
if were to be staged in a trial
and a woman would claim with as much audacity as
might be expected that:
i made her miserable because i had... have... have...
had... a drinking "problem":
i already had the SOLUTION!
it was drinking: it wouldn't be her redeeming
company... prostitutes are for that...

what have i inherited: perhaps all the men in
my lineage have had "problems" with women...
how much fun it is to **** one:
to be with one... i just need my mother as
the perfect example... of late: come 9pm she throws
a tantrum while i sort out the food
and help her with the household chores...
the one time i will or ever have used
Fahrenheit over Celsius...
165°C is the most perfect temp. of chicken meat...
anything above it... a memory of my grandmother
butchering a chicken twice:
it's one "thing" to **** a chicken...
it's another... to don't give it due justice
when it's cooked...
an oven cooked chicken with ******* so un-juicy
that you wish you could be eating pure gelatine...
smacker... teeth seem to stick together...
shoe-lacing of teeth on over-cooked
chicken meat...         it's an ugh it's a smacker...

i once dated a Russian girl...
she "thought": hardly... that it was some sort
of an innovation to drink cognac with a slice
of lemon...
she also "thought" that a suntan was
a signature of lower-breeding...
a suntan was a peasant "thing"...

juicy chicken *******... perhaps the skin isn't
"suntanned" enough... but at least the juices are running...
you can't butcher a bird twice...
it's enough killing it...
but not giving it justice when cooking it?!
that's... mildly: unfair...

in the supposing absence of the world:
alias for: other people...
i can't remember the last time i've had a dream...
i look at the clouds...
there's a bearded man
reclining... with a baby dragon
on his chest: puffing out smoke
into the shape of a speech bubble...
i'm bound to see such things...
since i don't dream...

perhaps if i were to dream: i wouldn't see
stories in the clouds...
i'm growing suspicious of the she-maine-****
in my bed right now...
she usually "disappears" when i light a cigarette...
eyes piercing...
i thought petting cats was
supposed to be easy! she was supposed
to ******* and do her solipsistic hair-do in purple
and peacock subtleties long before
i came around to harness the keyboard...
but there she is... eyes piercing...
like i'm about to groom her again
and go wild with her uptight **** of an ***
cycling between outer London and inner London:
yet still going back to the tested brothel!

- oh good, she decided she was implied as more
important in some "elsewhere"...
i can keep a focus on immoveable objects
in my vicinity...

closer to eternity on a bicycle than with
72 virgins... closer to eternity with 72 prostitutes...
if i were going to be thoroughly: frank...
cannibalistic outskirts: of Germany:
literally we eat our own...
since the Christian metaphors will...
simply not do...
excavate the juices... the German fringe
"movement" are teasing the questions:
literally!

i was gagging for either a bicycle...
Thurrock... the flatlands... teasing the Thames
to: hold the tide...
the German cannibals...
an unlikely project... on the fringes...
the world might blink thoroughly through
the day...
eyes open... wide: come the: NACHT...
i see you... Albert Fisch... pushing needles
into your pelvis...
for the added conductivity... blizzard...

you simply can't butcher a chicken: twice!
you can't overcook the meat!
it's not fair on the cluck! cluck!

while making a Waldorf "profanity"... i added some
poached: said... meat... reiterated... meat...
i was making a rosół...
a chicken broth... all that was missing
was the celeriac head...
celery stalks... carrots... a parsley root...
garlic... leek stalks...
fresh parsley... i had some leftovers...

the Waldorf "profanity"...
i added some poached chicken thigh meat
to the usual: mayo... lettuce...
toasted walnuts:
mind you... all nuts ought to be toasted...
beginning with cashews...
walnuts... but pecans esp.
apple & celery..
    
my heart breaks while it still doesn't find concerns
to abdicate: for the crows of via death...
"gammon": all these simple girls...
from the villages from Havering through
to Rainham...
such native beauties... lucky them...
i live two outsider roles...
not born in England: having most of my life
lived in England...
born in Poland: having most of my life
not lived in Poland: hey! quadratic!
i'm an outside either way i "will" it"
i'm an outsider in either England or Poland!
born in Poland without an inkling
to the daily affairs,...
living in England... without anything that
to be inherited as... sensibly... "their" own!

numbed by the drink....
**** serve mollusk: she's the pitch-perfect
harem piece,,,
RustyHatchet Oct 29
One boring day in the seventh grade,
Trees seemed more interesting than the English lecture when a sudden paperclip hooked my pupils, like an expert fisherman.
I was twisting, bending, and contorting the paperclip's shape into different things when
It was time to test its conductivity in an outlet.
I slowly put one end of the clip into one slot of the outlet…
Nothing.
The second paperclip under the table was like bait at the top of the water.
Upon attaching the metal, I stuck one end in the outlet and the other end in the outle-SHZSHZSHZ POP.
The outlet was destroyed
Paperclip: disintegrated
My fingers: Charred black

— The End —