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Robin Lemmen Jul 2018
When you smile I come undone the threads of these carefully picked out lies start falling apart and it scares me to give in when for so long these wounds have kept me busy and occupied so I did not need to worry about living life too constrained with keeping them clean hung up on survival my rearview mirror guiding broken bones set on mending energy spent tired eyes shut life, passing by.
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
No strength of nature can suffice
To serve the Lord aright:
And what she has she misapplies,
For want of clearer light.

How long beneath the law I lay
In ******* and distress;
I toll'd the precept to obey,
But toil'd without success.

Then, to abstain from outward sin
Was more than I could do;
Now, if I feel its power within,
I feel I hate it too.

Then all my servile works were done
A righteousness to raise;
Now, freely chosen in the Son,
I freely choose His ways.

"What shall I do," was then the word,
"That I may worthier grow?"
"What shall I render to the Lord?"
Is my inquiry now.

To see the law by Christ fulfilled
And hear His pardoning voice,
Changes a slave into a child,
And duty into choice.
Jack Jones Jan 2014
you've been on my mind a lot recently

polluting my thoughts
contaminating my very being
with idle inklings
and constrained affections

making everyday tasks
near impossible

I'm going insane,
but I love it.
Purcy Flaherty Jan 2018
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and the money machine.

At the turn of the century when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for common folk to reach out and tell the world something up front and personal, it meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement an epitaph a form of audio immortality ~ life mood emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(this applies to earlier storytellers architects and artists too)

A recording was a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible; a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a real point of view”; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected art to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged covered and played over and over again by artists in the form of "cover music" or become secularized, ****** and constrained by an elite clique or a commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry.
This multi-billion pound industry has made commercial success through the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound & synthetic culture to sell a product!
So what was originally intended as self expression, a historical record, an archive, a personal message, is now sold as a product containing noise, a vehicle for advertising, perpetuating a genre of nonsense, labelling and re-marketing, so much so that there is now more nonsense immortalised "more white noise" than anything else.
To re-cap ~ I Think that art & songs are a form of expressionism, and like story telling they convey moods and messages from the present and past!
If artists and musicians create more than they copy then they are saying more whilst not devaluing the work of their predecessors!
From Alan Lomax to the commercial music machine.
A culture of cover singers, blinkered snobbery and the hermetic music industry !
Anya Sep 2018
When I'm on a field
I can be free

When I'm with my family
I can be free

When I'm with little children
I can be free

When I'm with animals
I can be free

When I write
I can be free

...

But when I'm anywhere else
I'm constrained by
a cage known as-
self consciousness
social anxiety
shyness
She comes by many names
...

By any chance,
are you familiar with her?
I understand that my free situations may not apply to everyone so when you're reading feel free to replace them with any place you feel free in.
Forty Days

A Season of Grief, a Season of Rejoicing

November 9-December 20, 2014

For Barbara Beach Alter 
It is Christmas morning in Saco, Maine, where today Bett, Aaron, Emily, Thomasin and our beloved cousin Marie find ourselves gathered to celebrate our first Christmas without dadima (our name for Barbara Beach Alter).  Brother Tom writes that already in India he and Carol with Jamie, Meha and Cayden (the only of her seven greatgrandchildren Barry never held) have celebrated.  Today Marty and Lincoln join us in Maine.

This gathering of documents—notes, drafts of memorial services, poems, homilies—is my christmas present to each of you.  It is a record, certainly subjective, of grief and rejoicing.

John Copley Alter
1:14 a.m.
Saco, Maine 
November 9

Loved ones,
Barbara Beach Alter died peacefully at 2:55 Sunday morning (today).  Bett and I had the good fortune to be there for the final beating of her good strong heart.  She murmured charcoal.  The nurse who was bathing her afterwards noted how few wrinkles there were, and it is true.
For those of you nearby you may if you want visit Mom in her room at hospice this morning (until noon).  Visit? Darshan? Paying respects?
Bett and I plan to be there around 11:00.
Much love to all. A blessed occasion.
John


November 10

Matthew 5:13-19
Jesus said, "You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.
"You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
"Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets; I have come not to abolish but to fulfill. For truly I tell you, until heaven and earth pass away, not one letter, not one stroke of a letter, will pass from the law until all is accomplished. Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments, and teaches others to do the same, will be called least in the kingdom of heaven; but whoever does them and teaches them will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

yesterday in the early hours my mother died her saltiness
restored all that had through the months of her old
age and convalescence obscured the lens of her life cleaned
away so that for us now more and more clearly
as we hear about her through the memory and love
of so many people her good works shine forth in
their glory but it is to the days of her
convalescence the days of her dementia I would turn our
minds those of us who spent time with her at
Wingate long-term care facility remember that Barbara Beach Alter became
at times fierce in her commanding us that ‘not one
letter, not one stroke of a letter’ of the commandments
should be altered do you remember that those of you
and us who were given the work and gift of
spending time with Barry in those days in that condition

remember for instance how fussy she became about the sequence
of food on her tray how impatient with us for
our trespasses and violations how adamant that we look forward
for instance and not back at her how she would
say stop holding my hand and saying you love me
you have work to do o she was almost impossible
and certainly incoherent and demented in her obsession with law
and procedure fussy impatient imperious I do not forget being
scolded reamed out put in my place for having somehow
failed to do what the ‘law and the prophets’ demand

Barbara beach alter in the days before hospice in the
nursing home and hospital and even if we are honest
in the final years of her life found herself caught
up in the rigidity of her anxious desire to be
faithful to the laws and commandments of her life and
that made her at times extremely demanding to be with

amen and the epistemological confusion of course the clash between
her reality and ours it was all an ordeal for
her and for those of us who kept her company

and yet and yet through it all and now as
that ordeal for her is no longer paramount as she
dances in heaven all the wrinkles and discomfort of her
life removed and forgiven Barbara Beach Alter kept the faith
living in the midst such that those who cared for
her most intimately the strangers all professed your mother blessed
us


Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
7 Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
8 Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
9 Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
10 Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
11 Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.
12 Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.



So, brother and sister, here are my thoughts about the memorial service(s).
Let’s find a time when we three can be present; that’s the most important thing.  My life is currently the least constrained by agenda and schedule.  And then the grandchildren, recognizing that Jamie may not be able to come.  So, our work is to find our when our kids are able to come. Bett and I are exploring that with our three, each of whom has some constraint: Emily, the cost; Thomasin, the piebaking demands, Aaron school.  But we are flexible.

Much love.

John



Walking in my mother’s wake today some trees
a gentle breeze some dogs a little boy
the neighborhood and I took joy from interaction

we are at best a fraction in love’s
calculation after all heaven I realize is not
above or below cannot be taught comes naturally

as death does walking in my mother’s wake
I found new allies learned yet again not
to take myself too seriously to be caught

off guard as a matter of principle and
not to insist that I understand but live
in the midst of forgiveness


in my mother’s wake I am reading these books for
some way to continue to knock on her door Wendell
Berry he can tell me some things and William Blake
he can take me closer and I remember she described
me once as an unused Jewish liberal so I am
reading about protestant liberalism but ham that I am also
reading Carl Hiassen’s Bad Monkey and Quo Vadimus that my
daughter left behind and mythologically Reflections from yale divinity school
no fooling Denise Levertov David Sobel Galway Kinnell’s translation of
Rilke some wake

November 11

Matthew 25:1-13
Jesus said, "Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them; but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.' But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour."

this morning in the wee hours my mother died one
of the wise bridesmaids whose lamp to the end was
full she carried always the flask of oil that is
joy that is the love of the kingdom of heaven
and of the bridegroom a flask always replenished by prayer
by devotion by a humble courageous living in the midst

she expected every day the bridegroom to come in other
words and she was also one who would never refuse
to share even the last drop with somebody in need

and at the end it is so clear the door
into the banquet hall was not closed to her as
it is not closed to any one of us foolishness
is to believe otherwise to believe that the bridegroom will
not come today in the early morning in the wee
hours that is when he comes in the midst of
other plans is when he comes even when we are
doing what we assume to be good work when we
are doing what gives us pleasure our duty joy comes
then unsummoned unpredictable random even according to all our best
laid plans my mother loved so many things her pleasure
included dancing late in her life terminally unsteady she invented
what we loved to urge her to do namely the
sitting jig and we grew up with images of her
Isadora Duncan dancing with white scarves in an enchanted forest

Barbara Beach Alter aka Barry aka dadima bari nani aunt
and daughter wife missionary is now I know dancing a
rollicking boisterous jig on the shores of a lake that
is as her grandson once confided to her god in
liquid form spilly Beach of course also dyslexic executive function
compromised she was but one who loved to be always
in the midst surrounded by loved ones some of them
absolute strangers she shared her oil because for her it
came welling up from an inexhaustible source a deep eternal
well of such illumination and laughter such giddy divine chuckles

for her there was to be no exclusion she would
not find the awful idea of being one of the
foolish applicable to anybody but happily she welcomed into her
midst so many it is hard to imagine how many

so there she is now a bridesmaid dancing for joy
in such elegant clothing with such perpetual brightness

amen hallelujah rejoice


sometimes I think she pulled us all out of the
magic hat sometimes I think she knit us all into
one of her theologically impossible sweaters and then with a
wink she passes through the eye of the needle and
is gone and we are left to play in her
honor endless hands of solitaire sometimes I think we are
no more than the hermeneutics of her life the epistemology
artless she was not her heart like one of those
magical meals for her then a doxology praise then praise
she knows salvation

what is a life’s work it is like a landscape
dotted with oases and gardens for the thirsty and the
lost it is like scraping through dry barren ground and
finding there suddenly not only the theology of paradise but
such seeds your hands ache to begin the planting what
is a life’s work what has been shut for too
long opens what has been shut for too long opens

a life’s work renews itself then with death the kernel
of hope that dies in springtime sprouting is what a
life’s work becomes

November 12

John 21:15-17
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs." A second time he said to him, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Tend my sheep." He said to him the third time, "Simon son of John, do you love me?" Peter felt hurt because he said to him the third time, "Do you love me?" And he said to him, "Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my sheep.

I know my mother very much enjoyed having breakfast with
god and that the meals of her nursing home drove
her nearly crazy and that when at last she found
hospice o she again could imagine the feast of heaven
at which Jesus breaks bread with us and speaks with
such clarity do you love me more than these I
know it was questions as simple and overwhelming as this
that dominated her final days do you love me love
being  one of the last five words she attempted to
speak do you love me she wrestled in her last
months with epistemology and psychology and theology and all had
to do with whether she could answer unequivocally you know
that I love you and that she could say of
her life that she had broken bread with god we
all remember in her life those moments when there was
a great gladness an innocent acceptance of what lay immediately
in her presence now those months in the nursing home
tormented her in precisely this fashion that it was hard
to accept to be in the midst of such mediocrity
and woe to be innocent and accepting but now praise
god there she is a happy guest at the great
feast and we left behind bereft can acknowledge that she
loved god in her own fashion as best she possibly
could and do you remember being with her there in
hospital or nursing home and she commanding us to move
beyond holding her hand and saying we loved her and
to feed the sheep to do that work which will
make of this earth this here and now an outstation
of heaven Barbara Beach Alter loved god in her own
fashion as best she possibly could we remember that and
that memory is today like a great network a web
of love and inspiration o we would gladly one more
time hold her hand and say I love you but
we know also clearly I think today what the work
is to love our neighbor as ourselves to work for
peace and justice I think of my sister with her
colleagues in WEIGO and how her sisters have understood her
grief  let us break our fast together then glad for
the worldwide web that in these days is reading the
gospel of the life of Barbara Beach Alter praise god


feed
tend
feed
in exchange for his three denials Peter is given three imperative verbs
feed
tend
feed
this is the commission Jesus after breakfast on the shore of the sea of Galilee gives to Peter
twice he says feed
in the commonwealth of Massachusetts 700,000 people are hungry
1 in 6 americans are hungry
living in uncertainty about their daily bread
more than 18,000,000 in Africa
842,000,000 around the world go to bed hungry


Marty and Tom
The thinking about the memorial service is taking this slow and cautious turn, namely that we have three services (at least), one in Sudbury, one in New Haven (allowing Stan and Chuck and others to come) at First Presbyterian (with Blair Moffett we hope), and of course one in India.
The date frame appears to be somewhere between December 17 and 20, unless you have other thoughts.
The actual cremation happens tomorrow.  Lincoln, Bett, Alexis and I will attend, and then of course there is In the Midst on Friday.
Love you more than tongue can tell.
John


the thing with a life well lived is that many
people have partaken the way let’s say a river moves
down through any number of different lives all the time
sedulously seeking the shortest path to the sea to steal
a line from somebody or other meandering a watershed within
which so many of us find a way to live
our own lives nourished and for each of us the
river distinct and different white water the slow fertile meander
the delta and we say to each other this is
the composite river


sometimes I feel like a sleepwalker trying to run a
marathon sometimes I feel like a speedbump in a blizzard

an arrow in a wind tunnel sometimes I feel like

a hazard sign in an old age home sometimes I
feel like a tyrannosaurus rex trying to ride a tricycle

and sometimes those are the good days when identity is
strong like an icicle in a heat wave is strong

I try to read wisdom literature at happy hour scotch
and Solomon can’t go wrong I think and sometimes I

feel like crying

November 13

four days ago we were left alone there with your
body after your breathing ceased and the proud stubborn beating
of your heart and in those four days beloved mother
so much I would love to say to you and
share the antics of the squirrel late leaves on the
neighborhood trees music Orion the network the atlas of love
your life has left behind and all the words we
are the gospel of today and I would sit with
you there then in silence as I sit now four
days later vigilant insomniac aware that the kingdom of heaven
is not more complicated than singing than love than dancing

we are all dancing the dance lord siva teaches and
the s
I thought it right to assess some antidepressants, which philosophers are more inclined to call mood enhancers.
(This was during my foray into human enhancement, substances intended to enhance physicality, cognition or mood. Nootropic compounds concern the latter two categories.)

The most commonly prescribed mood enhancers are serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SRIs), but it takes over a week for these compounds reach their peak effect. I therefore approached them with the notion that a limited dosage might point to their character which would further manifest in the long-term. (In addition, side-effect were less likely to manifest.) These considerations in mind, I set about acquiring a few miscellaneous anti-D's.

Fluoxetine was the first successful selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI), better known by its original brand-name Prozac. Fluoxetine has an acute biological half-life of between 1-3 days. Presence of a trifluoromethyl group on the compound deserves note, I wonder what the presence of electronegative fluorine atoms add to the psychoactive flavour of a compound (subjective effects).
I administered a single dose by mouth, there was some indication of subjective character. Light serotonergic sensations and seemingly benign mood-dampening, there is a ****** towards the positive. Waking headspace relatively uninteresting. Observed hints of oneirogenesis, did not manifest in enough character to be detailed - a sort of vivid, 'pulsive wandering, more pronounced in contrast to its waking character.
Good experiment, intresting results.
Ligand     Ki (nM)   Ki (nM)
Target      Flx            Nflx
SERT        1               19
NET         660           2700
DAT         4180         420
5-HT2A   200           300
5-HT2B    5000         5100
5-HT2C    72.6          91.2
α1             3000         3900
M1            870           1200
M2            2700         4600
M3            1000         760
M4            2900         2600
M5            2700         2200
H1            3250         10000

Escitalopram is an SSRI commonly prescribed for major depression and generalised anxiety. It is the (S)-stereoisomer of citalopram. The biological half-life is of escitalopram is between 27-32 hours.
I administered a dose and thought the phenomenal serotonergicity less apparent than fluoxetine but then gastro-intestinal disturbance was noted, I correctly surmised it has a high affinity for 5-HT2C but was also surprised to find it is is quite adrenergic.
Any oneiric qualities were not readily apparent after a single dose, relatively little visual imagery which is understandable given its lack of affinity for 5-HT2A. I found this to be philosophically intresting. Mood elevation observed in bursts of conversation and as odd sensations, possible mental discomfort.
Ligand,
Recptr     Ki (nM)
SERT       2.5
NET        6,514
5-HT2C   2,531
α1            3,870
M1           1,242
H1           1,973

Venlafaxine is a selective serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor (SNRI). Venlafaxine and its metabolites are active for about 11 hours.
Initial subjective effects similar to a very light empathogenic stimulant. Perception of altered attention-span/increased reflexive response; energising yet paradoxically much yawning.
Ligand,  Vnfx      Dvnfx
Recptr    Ki(nM)  Ki(nM)
SERT  ­    82           40.2
NET       2480        558.4

Tianeptine is a tricyclic antidepressant (TCA) with an unusual mechanism of action. It is an atypical agonist of the μ-opioid receptor and has been described as a (selective) serotonin reuptake enhancer (SRE). It has a short duration as sodium salts [prescribed form] of between 2-4 hours but as sulfate this can be notably extended, some of its metabolites are active for longer than tianeptine itself.
Definitely anxiolytic, quite artificial; possible aphrodisiac. I find its opioid activity dissuading, requires utmost caution.

Moclobemide is a reversible inhibitor of monoamine oxidase A (RIMA), its monoamine oxidase inhibition lasts about 8–10 hours and wears off completely by 24 hours. Inhibiting the decomposition of monoamines (e.g. serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine) increases their accumulation at an extracellular level. It tends to suppress REM sleep and so it lacks oneirogenic properties.
Feeling of well-being, less constrained by the usual anxieties; openness. Relatively unnoticeable side-effects when diet is carefully managed. Made the mistake of eating a cheese and turkey sandwich (i.e. foodstuff rich in tryptophan), indications of a mild serotonin syndrome later became apparent. Symptoms included feelings of overheating and flushing, slight sweating, racing thoughts and anxious discomfort. A stark reminder of Shulgin's old adage: "there is no casual experiment".
Combination with a select few tryptamines (not 5-MeO-xxT) should be safe, and synergistic (perfect for pharmahuasca); reputed to potentiate GHB. However, generally it is extremely dangerous to combine with serotonergic drugs.
dmperez Jun 2016
Imminent grainy current
constrained in flight
downward
onto
a pile of past moments

                                              /#dmperez
message me for comments, concerns, conversation,--anything :)
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.                                oh, have you heard of that
the times headline?
        visas for men who force
teenagers into marriage
...
some Bangladeshi beauty,
aged 15...
had to marry a 30 year old...
god... i'm loving this
"enforced" celibacy...
      i get to see as many buckling
horses, broken jockey necks
and broken horse legs as
i might, and do, digest...
   but my ethnicity is":
vermin...
   guess a ******* **** wrote
that piece... then
his compatriot ***** 10 english
damsels... my bad...
i'm in the wrong...
                                    oops?
now you've tangled yourself
with a quasi Mongol,
                      a wels catfish...

i hate, hate, the english bourgeoise...
notably?
   because they "think" all slavic
migrants are builders!
the english bourgeoise... what's that
word?
             flagellation?
no.. stripping of the skin, exposing
the muscles... with sushi precision
of remaining intent...
     the home office turned a blind eye...
oh... are there any adherents
to the Bangladeshi culture
working in your "MI5" environment?
sure as **** there are example...

now bow over the erected excess of
a ledge, drop your undergarments -
and let's... penetrate...
    why expect ***** from the English,
given their current success
of defending homosexuality?
    see how many existential inclusiveness
you have with that,
with homosexuality as the norm...
ahem...
               so why were the asylums
abolished?
   the humanity revision tactic...
stigma...

    over in england...
someone who's bilingual is, somehow,
magically, a: "problem" -
somehow bilingualism is a problem
(unless you have a foreign accent) -
bilingualism is, "apparently",
                 schizophrenia!

well.... d'uh! it's poetics,
   i am closely associated to the metaphor,
but it is only a metaphor...
beyond that?
                 let's see...
  how you'll play along to the future...
           YE, ******'... *****!
oh wait... i'm not the former
British Raj...
                        seems the second world
war didn't start, when the british
decided to side with the Poles...
    and my fetish for using the german
tongue?
    ****... the jews received their
back-logged payments...
the Poles didn't even receive a Marshall Plan...

look... communism worked...
   for one generation...
and communism will always work,
for one generation...
  and there is a place for socialism...
it involves a one generational lifespan...
post-war dynamics...
  and that's it!
               you need socialism
in the most extreme scenarios -
notably - post civil war...
                 notably Syria...
one generation's worth of socialism,
and then people can revert back
to capitalism,
   but socialism... is a safety economic
mechanism in the most extreme
cases of it, requiring implementation...

it's effective, in a constrained time-frame,
it's actually necessary -
given the civil war...
how is a Syrian butcher, supposed
to trust a Syrian cobbler -
when mediating trust,
   with foreign investment firms?
no... socialism is an expansive
format of mediating solipsism -
to reengage the collective -
in what becomes individualism -
from a solipsistic genesis...

   socialism can't be made critical
as a competitor system...
a fail-safe mechanism...
   in extreme scenarios -
post scriptum civil war,
  post scriptum a foreign invasion
recanted...
   there is no place for capitalism
in such places...
   but it's only with worth of
exercise, within only one generation...

my grandfather is the perfect
example...
   he and his school comrades,
cried, when Stalin died...
             it (socialism) has a place
in this world...
         in the most extreme scenario...
post scriptum an aftermath of war,
whether by foreign proxy
engagement, or by internal civil
unrest...
       socialism needs to be allowed
the time frame of, only,
               but one generation...

and then capitalism can allow
equilibrium...
              
            critique of marxism always
seemed to be an "antisemitic"
critique, misplaced, while also allowing
the posit of Engels -
          
one generation -
     and then people can ease in competition -
but there has to be a mediating
time-frame, in the most extreme case
scenarios -
   civil war, or foreign military investment
in a power-overthrow...

yet capitalism still has problems...
neutral problems to me minding them...
primarily the convenience /
inconvenience of
                      the surplus economy...    
capitalism is still learning
from the clown, as to how to juggle...

you seriously can't call one system
pristine, holy, while calling another -
which has lost the status of competitor:
unholy, heretical, lost...

   socialism has a use...
              capitalism via the Marshall
Plan hasn't exactly saved west western Europe...
the nations that inherited
the self-determination of the soviet
mind-set?
     and not U.S. money?
   hear of any terrorism within
               their tribal confines?

i wish the Syrians a generational
gap... of socialism...
afterwards? as much capitalism
as the Syrians can invoke...
   but not, not until
    there is a guiding socialist generational
gap, to get them,
back to the glory of the former
Damascus.
He Pa'amon Aug 2018
"And in a funny way, the shaving of my, uh, head has been a liberation from, uh, a lot of, uh, stupid vanities really. Uh, it has simplified everything for me, it has opened a lot of doors maybe." - Stephen Malkmus, Jo Jo's Jacket

the first layer of skin i shed
was the bra

rid of the foreign metal sculptor producing a deep rift between skin
my third eye, swallowing gazes

rid of my **** , my ***** , my rack
replaced with sacks of fat and nerve and milk ducts
hanging, existing, for no one else
not even myself

the second layer of skin was the painting of the face
the concealing and erasing of imperfections, the lines of laughter of sorrow of life
redirecting attention and importance to the bow and symmetry of the lip

no longer did i have to put myself on in the morning
i woke up as i was, as i needed to be,
bare and uninhibited

my skin now breathed, and for no one else
not even myself

and then i grew another layer of skin,
made of dank tangles to protect my age,
i stopped shaving the years i'd walked this earth, shedding my womanhood

the skin grew to my armpits, little tufts of sweaty, odorous mother nature dozing in a fleshy convex nest

and to my legs, were the tangles wrapped around my ankles
preventing the spreading of the legs for every life
for not every life wanted what was not tame
and what was not tame no longer wanted to be.

my body did not conform,
for it was not brought into this world to be consumed for the pleasure of others

it exists for no one else,
not even myself

and as i was engulfed in this hairy wonder of my own body
i shed the last layer,
the shaving of the head

my brain, my being breathed
porous and exposed
vulnerable to weather and whispers

but i was all at once naked and calm,
having finally peeled away the layers of ***** over-sexualization and constrained femininity that had molded this meat sack that serves me,
a bundle of circuitry and solution balancing and bobbing on the neck

for i exist for no one else,
only myself
inspired by the song Jo Jo's Jacket by Stephen Malkmus
Preston Jul 2014
How Edison and Tesla warred
To be the first to capture light.

A replacement for fire
And an ode to the sun.

Guiding travelers
Across sky, land, and seas.

Balming my hungry skin with rays
When I’m jonesing for the sunshine.

Bringing life to what was once still
Shadows dance across glowing plains.

Illumination to our world
No longer constrained by dawn and dusk.

The power of storms harnessed
To fuel our weapon against the dark.

Transcending to be hopes beacon
Against all fear.

Miniaturized to be as small as a dot
Oh how we hunger for our light.
Short object poem from Creative Writing
Deb Jones Jan 2018
Living in the moment
Being mindful
Taking each minute at a time
Being present
Putting down whatever I am doing
When someone is talking to me
Or needs me.
Especially a child
I am making memories
They will remember later on
Especially that they were loved
The sweet sound of a child’s laugher
The music of my life
Closing my eyes and soaking it in
Pretend to be shopping
As a child laughs in another aisle
It seems rare nowadays
The hurried frazzling hustle and bustle
Laugh with your babies
Give them your time
They will return it 10 fold to you someday
Talk about your dreams
Ask them about theirs
Tell them stories
Read them a book
Love them freely
Don’t feel constrained
If they want to go shopping with you in a princess dress and clacking in princess shoes...
Let them
Don’t answer “No” because it’s easier
Listen to their reasons and give them permission
Don’t ever let them forget
You love them
Not for a minute
Not even for a minute
No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us’d,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
Venial discourse unblam’d. I now must change
Those notes to tragick; foul distrust, and breach
Disloyal on the part of Man, revolt,
And disobedience: on the part of Heaven
Now alienated, distance and distaste,
Anger and just rebuke, and judgement given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery
Death’s harbinger: Sad talk!yet argument
Not less but more heroick than the wrath
Of stern Achilles on his foe pursued
Thrice fugitive about Troy wall; or rage
Of Turnus for Lavinia disespous’d;
Or Neptune’s ire, or Juno’s, that so long
Perplexed the Greek, and Cytherea’s son:                        

If answerable style I can obtain
Of my celestial patroness, who deigns
Her nightly visitation unimplor’d,
And dictates to me slumbering; or inspires
Easy my unpremeditated verse:
Since first this subject for heroick song
Pleas’d me long choosing, and beginning late;
Not sedulous by nature to indite
Wars, hitherto the only argument
Heroick deem’d chief mastery to dissect
With long and tedious havock fabled knights
In battles feign’d; the better fortitude
Of patience and heroick martyrdom
Unsung; or to describe races and games,
Or tilting furniture, imblazon’d shields,
Impresses quaint, caparisons and steeds,
Bases and tinsel trappings, gorgeous knights
At joust and tournament; then marshall’d feast
Serv’d up in hall with sewers and seneshals;
The skill of artifice or office mean,
Not that which justly gives heroick name
To person, or to poem.  Me, of these
Nor skill’d nor studious, higher argument
Remains; sufficient of itself to raise
That name, unless an age too late, or cold
Climate, or years, damp my intended wing
Depress’d; and much they may, if all be mine,
Not hers, who brings it nightly to my ear.
The sun was sunk, and after him the star
Of Hesperus, whose office is to bring
Twilight upon the earth, short arbiter
“twixt day and night, and now from end to end
Night’s hemisphere had veil’d the horizon round:
When satan, who late fled before the threats
Of Gabriel out of Eden, now improv’d
In meditated fraud and malice, bent
On Man’s destruction, maugre what might hap
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned
From compassing the earth; cautious of day,
Since Uriel, regent of the sun, descried
His entrance, and foreworned the Cherubim
That kept their watch; thence full of anguish driven,
The space of seven continued nights he rode
With darkness; thrice the equinoctial line
He circled; four times crossed the car of night
From pole to pole, traversing each colure;
On the eighth returned; and, on the coast averse
From entrance or Cherubick watch, by stealth
Found unsuspected way.  There was a place,
Now not, though sin, not time, first wrought the change,
Where Tigris, at the foot of Paradise,
Into a gulf shot under ground, till part
Rose up a fountain by the tree of life:
In with the river sunk, and with it rose
Satan, involved in rising mist; then sought
Where to lie hid; sea he had searched, and land,
From Eden over Pontus and the pool
Maeotis, up beyond the river Ob;
Downward as far antarctick; and in length,
West from Orontes to the ocean barred
At Darien ; thence to the land where flows
Ganges and Indus: Thus the orb he roamed
With narrow search; and with inspection deep
Considered every creature, which of all
Most opportune might serve his wiles; and found
The Serpent subtlest beast of all the field.
Him after long debate, irresolute
Of thoughts revolved, his final sentence chose
Fit vessel, fittest imp of fraud, in whom
To enter, and his dark suggestions hide
From sharpest sight: for, in the wily snake
Whatever sleights, none would suspicious mark,
As from his wit and native subtlety
Proceeding; which, in other beasts observed,
Doubt might beget of diabolick power
Active within, beyond the sense of brute.
Thus he resolved, but first from inward grief
His bursting passion into plaints thus poured.
More justly, seat worthier of Gods, as built
With second thoughts, reforming what was old!
O Earth, how like to Heaven, if not preferred
For what God, after better, worse would build?
Terrestrial Heaven, danced round by other Heavens
That shine, yet bear their bright officious lamps,
Light above light, for thee alone, as seems,
In thee concentring all their precious beams
Of sacred influence!  As God in Heaven
Is center, yet extends to all; so thou,
Centring, receivest from all those orbs: in thee,
Not in themselves, all their known virtue appears
Productive in herb, plant, and nobler birth
Of creatures animate with gradual life
Of growth, sense, reason, all summed up in Man.
With what delight could I have walked thee round,
If I could joy in aught, sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, rivers, woods, and plains,
Now land, now sea and shores with forest crowned,
Rocks, dens, and caves!  But I in none of these
Find place or refuge; and the more I see
Pleasures about me, so much more I feel
Torment within me, as from the hateful siege
Of contraries: all good to me becomes
Bane, and in Heaven much worse would be my state.
But neither here seek I, no nor in Heaven
To dwell, unless by mastering Heaven’s Supreme;
Nor hope to be myself less miserable
By what I seek, but others to make such
As I, though thereby worse to me redound:
For only in destroying I find ease
To my relentless thoughts; and, him destroyed,
Or won to what may work his utter loss,
For whom all this was made, all this will soon
Follow, as to him linked in weal or woe;
In woe then; that destruction wide may range:
To me shall be the glory sole among
The infernal Powers, in one day to have marred
What he, Almighty styled, six nights and days
Continued making; and who knows how long
Before had been contriving? though perhaps
Not longer than since I, in one night, freed
From servitude inglorious well nigh half
The angelick name, and thinner left the throng
Of his adorers: He, to be avenged,
And to repair his numbers thus impaired,
Whether such virtue spent of old now failed
More Angels to create, if they at least
Are his created, or, to spite us more,
Determined to advance into our room
A creature formed of earth, and him endow,
Exalted from so base original,
With heavenly spoils, our spoils: What he decreed,
He effected; Man he made, and for him built
Magnificent this world, and earth his seat,
Him lord pronounced; and, O indignity!
Subjected to his service angel-wings,
And flaming ministers to watch and tend
Their earthly charge: Of these the vigilance
I dread; and, to elude, thus wrapt in mist
Of midnight vapour glide obscure, and pry
In every bush and brake, where hap may find
The serpent sleeping; in whose mazy folds
To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.
O foul descent! that I, who erst contended
With Gods to sit the highest, am now constrained
Into a beast; and, mixed with ******* slime,
This essence to incarnate and imbrute,
That to the highth of Deity aspired!
But what will not ambition and revenge
Descend to?  Who aspires, must down as low
As high he soared; obnoxious, first or last,
To basest things.  Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter ere long, back on itself recoils:
Let it; I reck not, so it light well aimed,
Since higher I fall short, on him who next
Provokes my envy, this new favourite
Of Heaven, this man of clay, son of despite,
Whom, us the more to spite, his Maker raised
From dust: Spite then with spite is best repaid.
So saying, through each thicket dank or dry,
Like a black mist low-creeping, he held on
His midnight-search, where soonest he might find
The serpent; him fast-sleeping soon he found
In labyrinth of many a round self-rolled,
His head the midst, well stored with subtile wiles:
Not yet in horrid shade or dismal den,
Nor nocent yet; but, on the grassy herb,
Fearless unfeared he slept: in at his mouth
The Devil entered; and his brutal sense,
In heart or head, possessing, soon inspired
With act intelligential; but his sleep
Disturbed not, waiting close the approach of morn.
Now, when as sacred light began to dawn
In Eden on the humid flowers, that breathed
Their morning incense, when all things, that breathe,
From the Earth’s great altar send up silent praise
To the Creator, and his nostrils fill
With grateful smell, forth came the human pair,
And joined their vocal worship to the quire
Of creatures wanting voice; that done, partake
The season prime for sweetest scents and airs:
Then commune, how that day they best may ply
Their growing work: for much their work out-grew
The hands’ dispatch of two gardening so wide,
And Eve first to her husband thus began.
Adam, well may we labour still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower,
Our pleasant task enjoined; but, till more hands
Aid us, the work under our labour grows,
Luxurious by restraint; what we by day
Lop overgrown, or prune, or prop, or bind,
One night or two with wanton growth derides
Tending to wild.  Thou therefore now advise,
Or bear what to my mind first thoughts present:
Let us divide our labours; thou, where choice
Leads thee, or where most needs, whether to wind
The woodbine round this arbour, or direct
The clasping ivy where to climb; while I,
In yonder spring of roses intermixed
With myrtle, find what to redress till noon:
For, while so near each other thus all day
Our task we choose, what wonder if so near
Looks intervene and smiles, or object new
Casual discourse draw on; which intermits
Our day’s work, brought to little, though begun
Early, and the hour of supper comes unearned?
To whom mild answer Adam thus returned.
Sole Eve, associate sole, to me beyond
Compare above all living creatures dear!
Well hast thou motioned, well thy thoughts employed,
How we might best fulfil the work which here
God hath assigned us; nor of me shalt pass
Unpraised: for nothing lovelier can be found
In woman, than to study houshold good,
And good works in her husband to promote.
Yet not so strictly hath our Lord imposed
Labour, as to debar us when we need
Refreshment, whether food, or talk between,
Food of the mind, or this sweet *******
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from reason flow,
To brute denied, and are of love the food;
Love, not the lowest end of human life.
For not to irksome toil, but to delight,
He made us, and delight to reason joined.
These paths and bowers doubt not but our joint hands
Will keep from wilderness with ease, as wide
As we need walk, till younger hands ere long
Assist us; But, if much converse perhaps
Thee satiate, to short absence I could yield:
For solitude sometimes is best society,
And short retirement urges sweet return.
But other doubt possesses me, lest harm
Befall thee severed from me; for thou knowest
What hath been warned us, what malicious foe
Envying our happiness, and of his own
Despairing, seeks to work us woe and shame
By sly assault; and somewhere nigh at hand
Watches, no doubt, with greedy hope to find
His wish and best advantage, us asunder;
Hopeless to circumvent us joined, where each
To other speedy aid might lend at need:
Whether his first design be to withdraw
Our fealty from God, or to disturb
Conjugal love, than which perhaps no bliss
Enjoyed by us excites his envy more;
Or this, or worse, leave not the faithful side
That gave thee being, still shades thee, and protects.
The wife, where danger or dishonour lurks,
Safest and seemliest by her husband stays,
Who guards her, or with her the worst endures.
To whom the ****** majesty of Eve,
As one who loves, and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replied.
Offspring of Heaven and Earth, and all Earth’s Lord!
That such an enemy we have, who seeks
Our ruin, both by thee informed I learn,
And from the parting Angel over-heard,
As in a shady nook I stood behind,
Just then returned at shut of evening flowers.
But, that thou shouldst my firmness therefore doubt
To God or thee, because we have a foe
May tempt it, I expected not to hear.
His violence thou fearest not, being such
As we, not capable of death or pain,
Can either not receive, or can repel.
His fraud is then thy fear; which plain infers
Thy equal fear, that my firm faith and love
Can by his fraud be shaken or seduced;
Thoughts, which how found they harbour in thy breast,
Adam, mis-thought of her to thee so dear?
To whom with healing words Adam replied.
Daughter of God and Man, immortal Eve!
For such thou art; from sin and blame entire:
Not diffident of thee do I dissuade
Thy absence from my sight, but to avoid
The attempt itself, intended by our foe.
For he who tempts, though in vain, at least asperses
The tempted with dishonour foul; supposed
Not incorruptible of faith, not proof
Against temptation: Thou thyself with scorn
And anger wouldst resent the offered wrong,
Though ineffectual found: misdeem not then,
If such affront I labour to avert
From thee alone, which on us both at once
The enemy, though bold, will hardly dare;
Or daring, first on me the assault shall light.
Nor thou his malice and false guile contemn;
Subtle he needs must be, who could ******
Angels; nor think superfluous other’s aid.
I, from the influence of thy looks, receive
Access in every virtue; in thy sight
More wise, more watchful, stronger, if need were
Of outward strength; while shame, thou looking on,
Shame to be overcome or over-reached,
Would utmost vigour raise, and raised unite.
Why shouldst not thou like sense within thee feel
When I am present, and thy trial choose
With me, best witness of thy virtue tried?
So spake domestick Adam in his care
And matrimonial love; but Eve, who thought
Less attributed to her faith sincere,
Thus her reply with accent sweet renewed.
If this be our condition, thus to dwell
In narrow circuit straitened by a foe,
Subtle or violent, we not endued
Single with like defence, wherever met;
How are we happy, still in fear of harm?
But harm precedes not sin: only our foe,
Tempting, affronts us with his foul esteem
Of our integrity: his foul esteem
Sticks no dishonour on our front, but turns
Foul on himself; then wherefore shunned or feared
By us? who rather double honour gain
From his surmise proved false; find peace within,
Favour from Heaven, our witness, from the event.
And what is faith, love, virtue, unassayed
Alone, without exteriour help sustained?
Let us not then suspect our happy state
Left so imperfect by the Maker wise,
As not secure to single or combined.
Frail is our happiness, if this be so,
And Eden were no Eden, thus exposed.
To whom thus Adam fervently replied.
O Woman, best are all things as the will
Of God ordained them: His creating hand
Nothing imperfect or deficient left
Of all that he created, much less Man,
Or aught that might his happy state secure,
Secure from outward force; within himself
The danger lies, yet lies within his power:
Against his will he can receive no harm.
But God left free the will; for what obeys
Reason, is free; and Reason he made right,
But bid her well be ware, and still *****;
Lest, by some fair-appearing good surprised,
She dictate false; and mis-inform the will
To do what God expressly hath forbid.
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins,
That I should mind thee oft; and mind thou me.
Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve;
Since Reason not impossibly may meet
Some specious object by the foe suborned,
And fall into deception unaware,
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warned.
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid
Were better, and most likely if from me
Thou sever not: Trial will come unsought.
Wouldst thou approve thy constancy, approve
First thy obedience; the other who can know,
Not seeing thee attempted, who attest?
But, if thou think, trial unsought may find
Us both securer than thus warned thou seemest,
Go; for thy stay, not fre
Jordan F Jul 2015
Constrained, I feel
Insane, everything
in Vain, my mind
being Trained,
just want to
escape the Pain.
The riplets of Time,
an everflowing Game,
nothing different,
always the Same,
a constant repetition,
Sweet Nothing is her Name.
Chris Voss Feb 2013
I'm leaving.
Less like, Peace the **** out,
more like, I gotta go.
I'm leaving the way ships are wooed by waves,
under the pretense of more promising continents.

I can see where countless hands have pulled at my shoelaces,
wrapped my arches in ribbons of origami,
left me second guessing how well holes burn through soles.
It's been a long day of finding breathing space between double-knots and bending
broken fingernails back into place;
the self-constrained chaotic embrace of something supposedly so
straight as string brings forth beckoning ghosts of
those figure-eight souls who laid themselves
horizontal
to waste their Sundays tracing the Hills
on the breath fogged side of some painted-shut window sill;
trading the promise of Infinity
for the Religion of Monotony.
Praying through agoraphobic day-dreams
raining across the night sky of their eye lids
with the brilliance of meteorites,
imagining how earth-shattering they could be
if only these tyrannosauruses would just look up.

I have come here;
Less like, conquest
more like, exploration.
--Abandoned the comfort of quaint, suburban
ruins of the American Dream, which buckled
like widows knees mid frail-voiced eulogy
mourning the death of their Salesman--
and wandered aimlessly into the improvisation of some story-book jungle,
wishing I was better rehearsed.

I have come here
to congregate with the snakes and beasts; to feast beneath
the din of carnal sin and primal instincts. I've chosen to begin jumping
from stump-to-stump like stepping headstones
in a graveyard of fallen trees, where men,
                     who grew up too quickly and forgot the importance of pretend,
                     who learned early on how to black-market trade
                              the need to imagine for something a little bit more
                                                      tangib­le,­
                     who, smiling through serrated teeth,
saw it fit to clear this wilderness for something a little bit more
domesticated.

But thank god, these brambles grow so thick!
For every hail Mary their metal tongues would lick
into the trees' skin, a hallelujah of vines and branches and roots
would erupt in confused medley,
and their finest mathematics couldn't begin to calculate
the thriving division of a place so ungoverned by logic.       
In a jungle plucked straight from storybook pages
I'll band together with these untamed brutes
--these feral barbarians and unbroken monstrosities--
to howl at the moon with the effervescence of a Ginsberg poem.
We'll forge a tinsel-town crown and take turns
playing king of Where the Wild Things Are found.

See, unlike concrete cities
The Wild of Atavism has never forgotten that
Tradition is a catalyst for change
and that nothing is permanent.
Hell, I've been having laughing contests with a mountain
because every now-and-again he will crack
A smile, and when a mountain laughs
He does so, so gutturally,
From deep within his catacomb chest that
the whole Earth quakes -- everything shifts--
And I'm not gonna lie to you right now,
I've sort of got my heart set on being a part of something so
significant.

So if you follow,
shipwrecked and mapless,
Keep your shoelaces strapped tight
and run off the infinity of double knots.
If you go looking for me, continue
past the paint chips, through
the open window;
Set your sights to the far treelines.
And don't strain yourself listening for
the laughter of mountains,
Because when that stoic disposition
Finally does crack, you'll feel it in your feet
no matter where you are.
And from the way his ridges are crumbling,
I think I've almost got him beat.
Feb 27, 2013

© Christopher Voss
John B Dec 2010
there nothing left

he says I'm so sorry

as superman eats kryptonite

it burns inside

the pain almost as bad as has been his hole life

but it's familiar

like a face you haven't seen in many years

Lois lane was shot and killed

because superman had loved her dear

and the farm was sold when Jon and Martha ran all out of years

so he sits around and wonders

hanging hollow from his fears

so he looks down at the bottles that have gathered on the floor

and calls up old Lex Luthor in a move to end the war

when he came his nose constrained as the smell of ***** pervaded

supper man gave him a gun

thanked him for the games

he told the tale from his perspective and asked lex to deal the blow

because he new he had worked for it and didn't want to take his goal

so with a bang his life was ended not a word more ever spoke

and to this day the name will still make pore old lex tear up and choke
in life I have found its your enemies that understand you the best and your friends have time and motive to just stab you in the chest (Et Tu Brute, 11/22/13)

I recited this 2/12/15, If your interested in hearing it the way I do.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GALDGfazB9o#t=25
My dreams whisper sweet things
And surreptitiously speak to me
My waking words are rote and empty
-spilling with hypocrisy
Yet their comforting embrace
Simply bring smiles to my face
Filling my mind while I'm asleep

They send messages lined with silver That vanish when I wake
To bring about a dull and listless form Who is shaping my last mistake
You see I wake in a storm
Simultaneously feeling constrained
To my bed
I can't get up while there's no filter
For the rush of noises in my head

If there's a difference between
What you know and what you believe Then why is it not as easy
To imagine my reprieve
Why can I only experience a vivid life
While I sleep
Then once again wake up
To this Fear Doubt and Anger
Choking me

Invoking me by pushing buttons
Of their endless promises
To for certain be found in youth
While my vision is livid sinning
Contemplating and pinpointing
Who too close is uncouth
You sit there and feed my veins
An explanation to your lies
With all the compromised
Washed up water
Memorized methods
Coping mechanisms
While it's your heart that remains
Aloof

Then sit there in desperation
Reiterating as if you know
The deep introspective answer
When any fool can see your wisdom
Is wrought in the vanity
Of a talented dancer

If you lost the truth of sanity
Would you retrieve it for ten cents
Or would you search inside
Before hiding from the confines
Of a necessary moment
I'd rather die or sacrifice my life
Before cowering from what's hidden
The message so raw
That counts your flaws
Like there was some proof
In what is missing

But ultimately I guess
It comes down to the small decision
The chip on my shoulder
That became a boulder
When I reached out
For my inner vision.

So while I feel so disparate and alone
In the trenches losing my senses
Will I be the hero or be the villain
Will I let the poison make me it's toy
Or take the penicillin

*Some days my life feels as heavy
As that last breath left over
From how loudly I shout
But I guess a general synopsis to you
Of how I sometimes feel inside
Is a decent first step to waking up
While I'm down and out
I realize that a lot of lines were taken from other poems of mine. It's supposed to be written like that
Pagan Paul Nov 2018
.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.



© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)
.
Sorry, my brain is on meltdown :(
.
Annelyra Feb 2012
As an artist
I'd say I was
fairly spiritual
in some ways
I like to burn candles
meditate
and feel Frankincense
coating my hair
of a Sunday morning
and I truly believe
that my (and everyone's) soul is capable
of transcendence.
I like to believe that there
is
a soul.
But I find myself gazing
horrified
into a time-constrained void
filled with everything
that means nothing
and has no significance
just day-to-day banality
and the meaningless loveless
university 'culture'
by which I am surrounded.

The body is a temple
of primal pleasure
and I will admit that readily
but still I think I am searching
for something more
real
and if there really is
God
or divine power out there
then I want You to know that
yes, I am sort of
a party-girl cynic
but behind that is only
human fragility
and a terror of mundanity
and I get kinda mad
and sad
because I ask You to come
and repaint my life
and help me believe that
this isn't just
more shades of grey
but You don't (or You won't).

I'm scared of
meaningless
reasonless
emptiness
because love is my superhero
and they say that You're
love supercharged,
and with purpose.

So I suppose what I'm
trying to say is
I really am trying to find You
but I don't think I know
where to look.
xyloolyx Dec 2014
yet another year zero
reinventing the squeaky wheel
constrained writing just for kicks
reviving a tragic hero
tabula rasa and leaky spiel
trained for fighting prickly ******
hollowing future and reticulating splines
swallowing nature then duplicating rhymes
only a blank drawing
at a bank withdrawing
funds splashing down like acid rain
workers trashing town with great disdain
fluxing bureaucracy
with ad hoc hypocrisy
go country for old zen
and then
shot glass shopping sprees
statues with haunting verdigris
from target to target
the stupid (never forget)
airport shuttles and toxic puddles
epic riddles while popping bottles
thrusting bodies and a fruity box
alternating current and topic drift
trusting hotties with shuttlecocks
baiting adherent with basic *****
eating that dog in a bar by the ditch
bar all rowdy with many shots taken
beer hall drowsy as closing time looms
far too loudly with identity mistaken
the band had us frankly and amply forsaken
awakening in a ditch as the a-bomb booms
a thousand soldiers ready for battle
at town's end with less depleted morals
worried about the deleted portals
we buried hell well without the cattle
no more long weeks of slicing ****** meat
origins about which they should not care
oh to sell knockoffs to the rich elite
hear their yells and use an odd nom de guerre
the profit and the revenue forecast
**** on the new road
the prophet and the parvenue act fast
pill for the wet load
he had dropped the load leaving pungent smells
in the dark it glowed and lit the deep wells
launching a rocket every four hours
we encounter yet more perplexing times
measuring success with fewer metrics
punching the clocks in tall black towers
changing the locks and the warning signs
altering quarters with newer ethics
cannibals watched while we profusely bled
fine forget it forget it forget it
ingest the capsule to induce the sweat
just relieve don't botch
figure figure figure
don't bereave think scotch
ticker ticker ticker
sounded like it came from someone shady
getting beat to end with some other blend
year to date murders now about eighty
yet today's statistics lie and pretend
fudging the digits to fake the assent
so what happened last week stays in last week
all of those painful jarring sights and sounds
making it all seem to look rather bleak
kept sly with pennies and kept shrewd with pounds
on alibaba we will not delete
separated heads from dark desert towns
metropolis with millions of dark souls
lighting up papers for a rapid trip
necropolis with brilliant harkening trolls
fighting the power in order to strip
their medals that they never earned at all
writing this line here and ******* the fall
straightforward message from a plain green rod
a photographer in obscure disguise
throw him into the main canal and nod
the coffee shop looks banal with just guys
losing interest quick and wanting to dip
touching that shiny pink wide-open clip
unknown underground studded with diamonds
mind-blowing trap sounds burst from the caliph
volume gets higher and heads start to ring
they came in sequence and then came silence
waking up confused in a condo lift
taking refuge in an ugly building
just invited myself into your home timeline
somewhat sublime reciting trifling rhymes
alter rhyming scheme to eschew couplets
now fully mobile and automatic
pentameter schemes and android tablets
tents and suburbs that look quite nomadic
recruited minions for the rebellions
human microphones sans inhibitions
quicken resistance to the man's big plan
invoking the crowd to buck traditions
spell that with an accent with great élan
broken mobile phone texting hexagram
a rapid drop in communication
a postal service mailing vexing spam
token for transit lost at the station
we can no longer go back to the farm
here in the city living these last days
sounding the airhorn and the fire alarm
seahorses as fish and whales as mammals
hard to keep track here of various things
went to the desert and smoked some camels
patient zero died sounding the alert
some will paint dark scenes with exigent themes
paintings so dire that your eyes avert
inverse distance decay in the network
old flags questing through the flood and tumult
of course these rhymes make them go **** berserk
losing sight of sites that house the occult
refusing to eat and wanting to drink
these words resonate with all those who think
utopia fell soon after completion
never understood humanity well
rationality ends with deletion
all the fine stuff just goes to *******
humans emitting alienating vibes
they form foul cliques like pups from putrid tribes
three ships all wrecked up in some unknown land
divulging harsh things and eating raw food
far too many times getting shunned and booed
had all my writings fully blocked and banned
still no dumb luck yet after x decades
recalled old friendships that have long decayed
more constrained writing that will make them groan
some will even see the trail left behind
writing all of this mostly in e-prime
punctuation-free zone made just for fun
lighting dark alleys with a mobile phone
some get all the love while others get none
***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****
ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch ditch
glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch glitch
kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch kitsch
stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch stitch
twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch twitch
yesterday's blunt stunt went to the gutter
no regrets no threats no whatever man
just like autechre and that song flutter
forget the police just rave on til dawn
**** how darkness has lasted this **** long
ominous songs here still pumping along
exponential sneers and the obscene scene
existential fears lit up with benzine
socially-accepted narcissism
honest thoughts here treated with cynicism
forget all -isms / go back to the scheme
spending days like these sniffing naphthalene
won't dwank to the masses or kiss *****
temperamental peers can go live that myth
experimental stage done and over with
(pause)
*
* *
*

✝ gone to a higher place ✝
jonchius Sep 2015
checking potent aftershock
observing seismic anniversary
checking another tremor
resuming constrained writing

annexing hidebound constituents
hugging incoming eschatologies
fighting pervasive insomnia
battling invasive fatigue

damning incompetent fools
awaiting furtive escape
abandoning corporate wasteland
summoning celestial syzygy

detesting spaghetti code
protruding riparian dolphin
establishing unilinear escritoire
glowing cybernetic cynosure

avoiding eternal invisibility
supporting valued customer
performing lexical gymnastics
scrooping notification sounds

restoring usual happiness
glorifying darkwave fanfares
collapsing old relationships
raising ambient awareness

defining wolf people
propagating yesteryear's spectre
achieving hemispheric virality
testing weekend legerity
installing iron curtain

propagating today's spectre

developing niche audiences
transmitting abstract propaganda
disappearing thought experiments
overusing various condiments

double-checking hyper-real emotions
rubbernecking celestial explosions
observing splendid holiday
exploding volcano day

erupting bucolic mountain
disrupting hectic shouting
perfecting suggestive triptychs
checking festive pyrotechnics

drifting across multiverse
regifting glossy paperwork
writing six-lined hexagrams
liking two-toned instagrams

recalling pygmalion sculptures
brawling tatterdemalion cultures
"rambling corporate shill
rattling rapid prosody"
"battling hamburger hill
ambling hundredth library"
"sensing ideological schism
pending guttural neologism"

glowing verdant background
foreshadowing palmyra takedown
developing geopolitical mess
geminating quasi-couplet stress

"hugging cultural diversity
shrugging irrational adversity"

distancing spooky raindrops
avoiding potential burnout
implementing lexical databank
approaching crash-scene sudser

becoming increasingly selective
escaping tyrannical bureaucracy
perpetuating cut-throat capitalism
purchasing contrived happiness
incorporating chance elements
relaxing rigid structures
reheating your retweet

holding theoretical design
smiling beach life
scrutinizing eternal simulation
rushing artificial apothegm
annexing facetious document
freaking creepy centipedes

writing neural structure
congratulating yestreen's warriors
encouraging seatbelt usage
boosting abstract setting
sensing frivolous ochlocracy

keeping hypothetical metropolis
blurring metaphorical æsthetic
scrutinizing computational festival
memorializing towel day

raising six-fingered paw
eternizing fragment schedule
liking subtextual repository
quoting quintessential quidnunc

finding ideological style
disregarding their slovenliness
planning spatial factoid
spinning glacial ellipsoids

enjoying eternal spreadsheet
deleting repetitive tweet
awaiting festival lineup
gainsaying unethical startups

observing turgid experiment
contemplating conniving contrivances
enjoying dynamic project
dropping two-toned simulation
finding harmonic space
finalizing warring cavaliers

detecting enigmatic apathy
retrieving potential exchange
meddling middling muddling
baking hypnagogic pizza

spinning galactic dinosaur
building trans-pacific partnership
finishing theoretical mission
giggling agog googlers

crashing atypical tessellation
cherishing precious hexagons
proliferating western lottery
cretaceousing funkaholic skeletor

blurring turgid gallery
cancelling tsunami warnings
extemporizing incoherent neologisms
transmitting harmonic rave

gliding black hawks
hiding quacked ducks
archiving animated light
googling moonbow imagery

ignoring relatable messages
observing unfinished world
generating optional content
continuing exponential growth
May 2015
Stefan Smith Oct 2015
You should get an Abortion.

It's for the best.

Your life is a wreck,
and you shouldn't want to
invite a child into your mess.
You're eighteen and homeless.
That's too young
to deal with all of this.
You can barely keep a hold
of yourself,
A kid would just make it worse.
It's time to just accept that.*

Those words were once meant for you, mom.
But, for some reason
you didn't listen.
You ignored their logic
and chose to battle through the pain.

You didn't give up.  
You fought on.
Got a car, a job, an apartment,
and a way out
of all the things that controlled you.

You didn't give up.
You knew you could be a better person,
and a worthy parent.
Because instead of being
constrained to your past
You used each mistake as a lesson
that slowly started to give you strentgh.

You didn't give up.
You believed in yourself
When no one else did,
and formed your own
path which,
inch by inch,
lead you farther from your fears
and closer to that moment
when you were able to sit
in the auditorium
and watch me graduate with the words
Thank you Jesus
ringing in the back of your head.
(I know they were)

You never gave up,
and look at us now, mom.
Look where we are.
It's a miracle.
We conquered all the odds
and ignored the logic.

Because you never gave up.

I want to be like you.
To face my trials
without any fear.
And when they tell me
to just give up.
To accept defeat.

I won't.

Because you didn't.
#pro-life
Helen Feb 2012
Fall surrendered, snow fell, and Ruth’s mother bought a blanket for her daughter’s seventeenth Christmas. It wasn’t a very expensive or spectacular blanket; it was extraordinary only in the fact that it hadn’t been picked mindlessly from a Christmas list but had instead been chosen lovingly and thoughtfully. She knew her daughter was forever chilly and would love the blanket’s fleece side, and she laughed to see that it had snaps just like the blanket she herself had spent her evenings cocooned in when she was Ruth’s age. So she wrapped the blanket more beautifully than the other gifts and set it gently under the tree.

The sun stretched, adults yawned, and Ruth opened her mother’s gift on Christmas morning. At the sight of the blanket, her grandmother’s eyes welled with memories of Ruth’s mother, looking almost identical to how Ruth looked now, wrapped up in her own blanket with the snaps. Ruth admired the gentle color of the blanket’s slick side and stroked the fleece side against her check before setting it on top of the rest of her gifts. She thanked her mother enthusiastically (she’d always been acutely aware of her reaction to gifts in front of their givers) and laughed good-naturedly at her grandmother’s hovering tears before hugging them down her face.

Naked trees shivered, frost iced the landscape, and at her mother’s suggestion Ruth spent the winter with the blanket layered beneath her covers. She nestled beneath it every night, but felt guilty when she couldn’t love it any more than anything else she had in her room, and she never snapped it around herself as her mother had done. She’d tried to wear it like that the day she was given the blanket, but it had made her feel uncomfortable and constrained. So instead she slept with the blanket spread flat beneath her sheets through that winter and into the spring.

Spring sprung, flowers bloomed and Ruth bounced for a moment on her toes before diving headfirst into his eyes. The weeks passed for her not in hours and days but in giggles and kisses, and she was surprised when her usually analytical, suspicious mind released her heart and allowed it to love recklessly and entirely. Making her bed one giddy morning, Ruth stroked the soft, fleece side of her blanket and then the slick, smooth side, and she thought of sweet picnics and stargazing from quiet hilltops. She folded the blanket and kept it in her car in preparation for any such spontaneity.

The moon beamed loudly, prom streamers fluttered, and Ruth danced with him wildly. Her classmates all felt just as immortal, and everyone laughed and spun and anticipated together. When they finally left the dance, Ruth’s body was still coursing with the night’s excitement, intoxicated with young love and the bright eternity that stretched before her. He brought her to a small hilltop where she spread the slick side of the blanket against the grass, and the two lay trembling there beneath the stars. Finally, he wrapped his mouth and his heart and his body around hers, and her innocence leaked slowly onto the fleece.

The moon slid drunkenly behind the hills, birds began to wake, and Ruth flew home on her own audacity, leading the dawn behind her. In the dim light, she noticed the garbage can her father had brought to the curb the night before, and she decided to spare her mother the pain of discovering the once soft fleece now stained with rebellion. Quietly, she lifted the lid and dropped the blanket inside. Its snaps scraped loudly against the can for an instant, but then the morning quickly swallowed the noise. By the time the lid banged back down, Ruth was rushing back to the house, her blanket already forgotten.
Nigel Morgan Apr 2013
It took him a week to master thought-diversion. He would leave home to walk to work and the moment the door was shut it was as though she followed him like a shadow on snow. If he wasn’t careful the ten-minute walk would be swallowed up in an imagined conversation. He had already allowed himself too many dark thoughts of tears and silences. He saw her befreckled by weeks in a light he had only read about. She would be a stranger for a while, a visitor from another world (until she gradually lost the glow on her skin and the smell of Africa became an elusive memory). He was frightened that he would be overwhelmed by her physical grace enriched by   southern summer and the weight of her experience, having so little to offer in return. So he practised thought diversion: as her shadow entered his consciousness he would divert his attention to China of the Third Century and what he would write next about Zuo Fen and her illustrious brother.

Sister and brother Zou gradually took on a fictional life. This he fuelled by reading poetry of the period and his daily beachcombing along the shores of the Internet. He built up an impressive bibliography for his next visit to the university library. Even in the Han Dynasty there was so much material to study, though much of it the stuff of secondary sources.

One morning he took down from his library shelf Max Loehr’s The Great Painters of China and immediately became seduced by the court images of Ku Kai’chih. This painter is the only artist of this period of Chinese antiquity to be represented today by extant copies. There was also a possible original, a handscroll in The British Museum. It is said Ku was the first portrait artist to give a psychological interpretation of the person portrayed. Before him there seems in portraiture to have been little differentiation in the characterization of figures. His images hold a wonder all their own.

As David looked at the book’s illustrative plates, showing details from The Admonitions of the Instructress to the Palace Ladies, the world of Zuo Fen began to reveal itself. A ‘palace lady’ she certainly was, and so possibly similar to the image before him: a concubine reclines in her bamboo screen and silk-curtained bed; her Lord sits respectively at right-angles to her and half-way down her bed. The artist has captured his feet deftly lifting themselves out of square-toed slippers, whilst Zuo Fen drapes one arm over the painted bamboo screen, her manner resolute and confident. Perhaps she has taken note of those admonitions of her instructress. Her Lord has turned his head to gaze at her directly and to listen. Restless hands hide beneath his gown.

        ‘Honoured Lord, as we have talked lately of flowing water and the symmetry of love I am reminded of the god and goddess of Xiang River’.
       ‘In the Nine Songs of Qu Yaun?’
       ‘Yes, my Lord. The opening verse has the Prince of Xiang say: You have not come; I wait with apprehension / And wonder who makes you prevaricate on your island / When I am so splendidly and perfectly attired in your honour?
       ‘Hmm. . . so you favour this new gown.’
       ‘It is finely made, but perhaps does not suit the light of this hour’.
       ‘Let the Yangzi River flow calmly, / I look for you, but you have not come.’
      ‘I gaze at the distance in a trance, /  Only to see the grey green waters run by.

        ‘Honourable Companion, I fear you feel my mind lies elsewhere . ‘
       ‘I know you ride the cassia boat downstream.’
       ‘Indeed, my oar is of cassia and my rudder of orchid’.
        ‘I fancy that you build a house underwater, thatching it with a roof of lotus leaves . . .’
       ‘Well, if that is so, drop your sleeves into the Yangzi River and present the thin dress you wear to the bay of Li.’
       ‘I am in awe of my Lord’s recall of such verses . . . I love the Lady of Xiang’s description of the underwater house . . . with its curtains of fig leaves and screens of split basil.’
      ‘But will you send me all the spirits of Juiyi mountains to bring me to your side . . . will they come together as numerous as clouds?’
      ‘My Lord, my nose perspires . . .’
      ‘I offer my jade ring to the Yangzi River / and yield my jade pendant to the bay of Li. / I gather galingale fronds on an islet of fragrant grasses, / still hoping to present them to you. / If I leave, I might not have another chance. / So I’d rather stay here and linger a little longer.’
        ‘I gather the powerful roots of galingale / hoping to offer them to you who are still far away. / If I leave, I might not have another chance. / So I’d rather stay here and linger a little longer
.’
      ‘Even though your nose perspires and your ******* harden . . .’
        ‘Kind Lord, you have taken the wrong role in the dialogue. Surely it is the Plain Girl who gives such advise to the Yellow Emperor.’
        ‘And I thought only men read the Sunujing . . .’
        ‘You forget I have a dear brother . . .’
       ‘With whom you have read the Sunujing! . . and no I have not forgotten . . . he sought permission to travel to the Tai mountains, some fool’s errand my minister states.’
         ‘He may surprise you on his return.’
        ‘Only you can surprise me now.’
       ‘My Lord, you know I lack such gifts . . . I hear your sandals dropping to the floor’.
      ‘I sail my boat ever closer to the wind / and the waves are
stirred like drifting snow.’
     ‘I can hear my beloved calling my name. / I shall hasten so that I can ride beside him.



She seemed so child-like in that singular room of the garden annex. Her head had buried itself between the two pillows so only her ever-curling hair was visible. Opening a small portion of the curtains drawn across the blue metalled-framed French windows, he gazed at her sleeping in the dull light of just dawn. Outside a river-mist lay across the autumnal garden where they had walked yesterday before their tour of the estate. Unable to sleep he had sat in their hosts’ kitchen and mapped their guided walk in the rain, noting down his observations of this remote valley in a sprawling narrative. On the edge of moorland it was a world constrained and contained, with its brooding batchelor-owned farms and the silent legacy everywhere of a Victorian hagiographer and antiquarian. As he wrote and drew, snapshot-like images of her intervened unbidden. She both entranced and purposeful in a physical landscape she delighted in and knew how to read. Although longing to lie next to her he had sat gently for a moment on her bed, feeling the weight of her sleeping form move towards him as the mattress sagged, his bare feet cold on the stone floor. He placed his poem on the empty companion pillow, and returned through the chill of unheated rooms to the desert warmth of the Agared kitchen.


Lying in your arms
I am surprised to hear a voice
That seems in the right key
To sing what is in my heart.

After so many dark
inarticulate hours
I,  desperate
To express this love
That drowns me,
Suddenly come up for breath
(after floundering in
the cold water of night)
to find there were words
like little boats of paper
carrying a tea light,
a vivid yellow flame
on the black depths,
floating gently towards you . . .

Oh log of memory
record these sailing messages
So carefully placed, rehearsed,
Launched and found complete.

Knowing I must not talk of love,
Knowing no other word
(feeling the shape of your knee
with my right hand),
knowing this time will not
come again, I summon
to myself one last intimacy
before the diary of reason closes.


Zou Fen often wrote about herself as a rustic illiterate, country-born in a thatched hut, but given (inexplicably) the purple chamber at the Palace. As the daughter of a significant officer of the Imperial Court she appears to have developed a fictional persona to induce and taste the extremes of melancholy. Otherwise she is mind-travelling the natural world from her courtyard garden, observing in the growth of a tiny plant or the flight of distant bird, the whole pattern of nature. These things fill her rhapsodies and fu poems.

As a young man Zuo Si had wild flights of fantasy. He imagined himself as a warrior. In verse he recalls reading Precepts on the Art of War by Ssu-ma Jang Chu. With a scholar’s knife he writes of quelling the barbarian hordes (the Tibetans) in their incursions along the Yang-tze. When triumphant he would not accept the Emperor’s gift of a title and estate, but would retire to a cottage in the country. Then again, as a student scholar, he describes failure, penury and isolation ‘left stranded like a fish in a pond, without – he hasn’t a single penny in his account: within – not a peck of grain in the larder.’ He was never thus.

Like all good writers sister and brother Zou were the keenest observers. They took into and upon themselves what they saw and gathered from the lives of others, and so often their playful painted characters hide the truth of their real lives. David looks at his dishevelled poetry and wonders about its veracity. He always thought of Rachel as his first (and only) reader; but what if she were not? What would he write? What would his poems say?

*I lie on my back in her bed.
On her stomach, her arm on my chest,
She props herself against me
so that I see her face in close up.
She gazes
out of the window

I don’t think I have slept at all,
My own bed was so cold.
She warms me for a while.

All night
I’ve been thinking
what to say to her,
and now I am too weary
to speak.

I am in despair,
Yet I ache with joy
At having her so close.

I wish I knew who I was,
What I could be,
What I might become.

A voice tells me
that such intimacy
will not come again.
up
up
up
they did rise
the skirt lengths
in the sixties
were
up
up
high

the stock market
was in step
with the high skirt lengths
it powered
and surged
up
up
high

the outlook back then
had a light of boon
bright and positive
was the tune

fast forward to 2008
the outlook at that time wasn't too great

the stock market fell
there was an air of doom
skirts were more austere
in their length of gloom

money was tight
the hemlines more restrained
the world of finance
had become more constrained

stock exchanges
and
skirt lengths
have cyclical phases
one year
they
rise high
the next year
they're down
on a flat lining lie
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Dec 2019
PEACE ON EARTH
AND HOW TO ACHIEVE IT

Turning the World Right-Side In

By

Tod Howard Hawks



PREAMBLE:  All we have is our little planet, Earth. For the vast majority of my life, I have thought, “What would it be like to have Peace on Earth?” But for only two, maybe three, weeks every year, usually around Christmas, I would see the phrase “Peace on Earth.” But after Christmas, I would not hear or see that sanguine notion for 11 more months. The longer I lived, the more this  annual ritual bothered me. At Andover, I had studied European history. At Columbia, I had majored in American history. Over time, I increasingly came to the realization that in both prep school and college, I had essentially been studying about wars on top of wars and their aftermaths:  millions and millions and millions of human beings being killed. Then, when I got curious, I used my computer to find out that, according to many scholars, only a little over 200, out of roughly 3,400 years of recorded history, were deemed “peaceful.” Humanity, I concluded, had a horrible track record when it came to effectuating “Peace on Earth.” And during my lifetime things have not gotten any better. That’s when I started thinking and writing a lot about what you will be reading below.

SPIRITUAL ECOLOGY:  There is one land, one sky, one sea, one people. The boundaries that divide us are not on maps, but in our minds and hearts. John Donne was prescient. Earth is as impoverished as its poorest Citizen, as healthy as her sickest, as educated as her most ignorant. If we pollute the upper waters of the Mississippi, then ineluctably we shall pollute the Indian Ocean. If we continue to pollute our air, the current 7,500,000,000 Citizens on Earth will die. All species will be accorded the same concern and care as Citizens. The imminent threats of nuclear holocaust and catastrophic climate change we need urgently to prevent. This is the truth of Spiritual Ecology.  

CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH:  If we can wage war, why should we not wage peace? Nations are anachronistic;  therefore, there will be none. There will only be Earth and Citizens of Earth. Each Citizen will devote a sizable number of years of her/his life to the betterment of humankind and Earth. All military weapons--from handguns to hydrogen bombs--will be destroyed, and any future weapons will be prohibited. All jails and prisons will be closed, replaced by Love Centers (see below). Automation and other technological advances will enhance the opportunity for all Citizens exponentially to realize their potential, personally and spiritually. There will be no money. All precious resources and assets of Earth will be distributed equally among all Citizens. The only things Citizens will own are the right to be treated well and the responsibility to treat Earth and all its Citizens well. All Citizens will be free to travel anywhere, at any time, on Earth. All Citizens will be free to choose their own personal and professional goals, but will do no harm to Earth or other Citizens. All Citizens will be afforded the same resources to live a full, safe, and satisfying life, including the best education, health care, housing, food, and other necessities throughout Earth.

LOVE:  The only way to change anything for the good, for good, is through love. Love is what every living creation on Earth needs. Love Centers are for those Citizens who were not loved enough, or at all, especially at their earliest of ages. Concomitantly, they act out their pain hurtfully, sometimes lethally, often against other Citizens. Citizens who are emotionally ill will be separated from those who are not. Jails and prisons only abet this deleterious situation. Some Citizens in pain may need to be constrained in Love Centers humanely while they recover, through being loved, so they do not hurt themselves or others. In some extreme cases, Citizens may be in so much pain that they remain violent for a long time.  Thus, they may need to be constrained for the rest of their lives, but always loved, never punished. In time, Citizens, when loved enough, will only have love to give, and the need for Love Centers will commensurately decline.

EARTH:  In 1948, Eleanor Roosevelt chaired the commission that wrote the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. UDHR, with some updates and revisions, will serve as the moral and legal guidepost for Earth.

GENERAL ASSEMBLY:  To honor and remember the former nations on Earth, one member will be elected by Citizens from each of these former nations to serve a one five-year term as a member of the General Assembly. In succeeding elections, Citizens currently residing at that time in areas that were formerly nations, will again, in perpetuity, vote for one Citizen also residing in that area, for a one five-year term as a member of the General Assembly.
  
FIRST VOTE:  The first vote of all Citizens will be to establish CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH. Majority rules. All Citizens will have access to  Internet voting, as well as access to cell phones and other types of computers. Citizens will have her/his own secured ID codes. Citizens will have to be 18 or older to vote. Citizens will be encouraged to bring before the General Assembly all ideas and recommendations, as well as any concerns or complaints, which will be considered and responded to promptly. Citizens’ ideas and recommendations will be formed into proposals drafted by members of the General Assembly. Citizens will vote on these proposals of each month during the days of the following month. Citizens of Earth will be Earth’s government. Members of the General Assembly will be facilitators who will work with millions of volunteers. There will be no president of Earth.

ALLCOTT MOVEMENT:  If the multinational corporations that now rule Earth do not abide by the outcome of a majority vote in favor of CAMPAIGN FOR EARTH, Citizens of Earth will instigate the Allcott Movement, a one-at-a-time mancott, womancott, girlcott, boycott--hence, Allcott--against each multinational corporation unwilling to relinquish control of its global business and give it, and all its assets, to Citizens of Earth. Citizens will continue the Allcott Movement until all multinational corporations have done the same. All personal and smaller-business wealth will be converted into resources to be distributed equally to all Citizens. All proceeds in excess of what’s needed reasonably by each Citizen will be saved for future generations. No violence of any kind will occur during the transfer of these resources. Citizens will take these steps because they are the moral, the right, steps to take to save all living creations on Earth, and Earth itself.

PEACE ON EARTH:  Wealth is not worth. The mansuetude of loving, and being loved, are. When love is your currency, all else is counterfeit. Citizens will be able to go about creating their own happiness that is built on love-based personal relationships and professional activities. No longer will human beings be able to profit from another’s pain. Indeed, profit will never be seen on Earth again. With love at the center of being and living, there will be no more wars, no more dictators, no more corruption. Finally, there will only be Peace on Earth, forever.

Please forward this commentary to Secretary-General António Guterres after you have made a copy of it for yourself. Thank you.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks

A graduate of Phillips Andover Academy and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.

todhawks@gmail.com


(Please share this commentary with others.)
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet and human-right advocate for his entire adult life. He just finished his first novel, A CHILD FOR AMARANTH.
Whom does this stately Navy bring?
O! ‘tis Great Britain's Glorious King,
Convey him then, ye Winds and Seas,
Swift as Desire and calm as Peace.
In your Respect let him survey
What all his other Subjects pay;
And prophesie to them again
The splendid smoothness of his Reign.
Charles and his mighty hopes you bear:
A greater now then Cæsar's here;
Whose Veins a richer Purple boast
Then ever Hero's yet engrost;
Sprung from a Father so august,
He triumphs in his very dust.
In him two Miracles we view,
His Vertue and his Safety too:
For when compell'd by Traitors crimes
To breathe and bow in forein Climes,
Expos'd to all the rigid fate
That does on wither'd Greatness wait,
Had plots for Life and Conscience laid,
By Foes pursu'd, by Friends betray'd;
Then Heaven, his secret potent friend,
Did him from Drugs and Stabs defend;
And, what's more yet, kept him upright
‘Midst flattering Hope and bloudy Fight.
Cromwell his whole Right never gain'd,
Defender of the Faith remain'd,
For which his Predecessors fought
And writ, but none so dearly bought.
Never was Prince so much beseiged,
At home provok'd, abroad obliged;
Nor ever Man resisted thus,
No not great Athanasius.
No help of Friends could, or Foes spight,
To fierce Invasion him invite.
Revenge to him no pleasure is,
He spar'd their bloud who gap'd for his;
Blush'd any hands the English Crown
Should fasten on him but their own.
As Peace and Freedom with him went,
With him they came from Banishment.
That he might his Dominions win,
He with himself did first begin:
And that best victory obtain'd,
His Kingdom quickly he regain'd.
Th' illustrious suff'rings of this Prince
Did all reduce and all convince.
He onely liv'd with such success,
That the whole world would fight with less.
Assistant Kings could but subdue
Those Foes which he can pardon too.
He thinks no Slaughter-trophees good,
Nor Laurels dipt in Subjects blood;
But with a sweet resistless art
Disarms the hand, and wins the heart;
And like a God doth rescue those
Who did themselves and him oppose.
Go, wondrous Prince, adorn that Throne
Which Birth and Merit make your own;
And in your Mercy brighter shine
Then in the Glories of your Line:
Find Love at home, and abroad Fear,
And Veneration every where.
Th' united world will you allow
Their Chief, to whom the English bow:
And Monarchs shall to yours resort,
As Sheba's Queen to Judah's Court;
Returning thence constrained more
To wonder, envy, and adore.
Disgusted Rome will hate your Crown,
But she shall tremble at your Frown.
For England shall (rul'd and restor'd by You)
The suppliant world protect, or else subdue.
The Terry Tree Aug 2014
You stole the fire from the sun
Your winged manifest expressed
Brings purity to darkenedness

You bring with you a light loved one
To shine on earth in loveliness
You stole the fire from the sun
Your winged manifest expressed

Your feathers fork-like have become
You soar with ease and happiness
To free us from our loneliness
You stole the fire from the sun
Your winged manifest expressed
Brings purity to darkenedness

A swallow nesting on our home
Will teach us to be swiftly heard
By using wisdom with our words

In gracefulness you deeply roam
With eyes of every Angel bird
A swallow nesting on our home
Will teach us to be swiftly heard

To rise above is to be shown
That life can often be absurd
And if emotions should be stirred
A swallow nesting on our home
Will teach us to be swiftly heard
By using wisdom with our words

To be objective is the key
Perspective must not be mundane
The spirit cannot be constrained

Distance will help you see clearly
The answers that will soon explain
To be objective is the key
Perspective must not be mundane

Create a loving energy
That's easy for you to maintain
And you will reach a higher plane
To be objective is the key
Perspective must not be mundane
The spirit cannot be constrained

With knowledge of divinity
Guide us dear Swallow as we grow
Enlighten us to what we know

As days pass by forgetfully
We misplace insights we behold
With knowledge of divinity
Guide us dear Swallow as we grow

The song you sing of trinity
With holy magic you bestow
All Saints and Gurus overflow
With knowledge of divinity
Guide us dear Swallow as we grow
Enlighten us to what we know

© tHE tERRY tREE
Poem | Written in iambic pentameter | Comprised of three stanzas: a tercet, quatrain, and sestet
Well once I've seen such a quite sea
It went off and yet I see no fee
Everything sees it, much like electricity
They discover something with an awful deed

Feels like being eaten alive, they want to be free
Tender lives,  though not much like your teeth
Nearly cared, the cracks are meant to be as seems
Confused from the city, forgone all current dreams

Something of static manipulates how I'm keen
She saw me, looking terribly afraid
Curved lips, something familiar I said
How troubles it was, she must've seen
I'm really drunk I'm sorry
Derrek Faraday Oct 2018
New mildew mania, oh man-of-war
Live by the letter, and **** for the car
The dreamers, constrained by the fog they can’t see
I uttered this song in Breakaway Alley

A wandering blonde in the restless air
Their kids, half-afraid that they’re halfway to nowhere
Think what you may, they are not in a trance
Wield what they say and you’ll find that you dance

Upon every row, lies a flag waving by
Apartment gravestones kissing up to the sky
Now, must we try so hard for fake jubilee?
The happy ones live in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is on the run

All the country crows, they’ve committed a crime
Each of their wings, flapping mad out of time
To fly with such freedom yet stay so cloudbound
Cacophonous sounds fighting for our own ground

The buds only look up for leviathans
To take them to the realm they misunderstand
To pity the fool that does not try to flee
We sit on our stools in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has emptied the guns

The youth do not stir at the visage of hell
There is no romance in the streets’ calling bells
And while we may treat such a threat to be shown
The dagger of a mind is dull while unknown

The ravaged pretender spoke of the Romans
His gauntlets of gold, earned from fate’s happenstance
To escape his blood, he would face down the sea
The velvet hands shook in Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley is due to be shunned

The eye of childhood feared the forgotten paint
They lay, unencumbered, on secular saints
The falsified folly in full leopard print
The troops in their trollies with pockets of lint

The radio is silent in time’s aging vice
We hear and don’t listen, bats spliced with mice
But maybe, you will see this sweet harmony
Remember the words of Breakaway Alley

In Breakaway Alley lies the sun
Breakaway Alley has finally gone

When the baby screams for the first time, aged five
Will it lament the loss of its life?
When the kids rear for a solution wherever you go
How much will it take to say “God, I’ll never know”?

Remember the words of Breakaway Alley
It’s not all you see, it’s not simply me
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
England played today, what a ****-up grandiose style, glass bottle like hail flew down on Marseilles, water-canons, all kinds of crowd dispersers, true grit on the former great, now belittled, nation-state in d' hood reduced to a pitch with 20 idiots running around kicking about Charles' 1st head, and too fidgety skeletons tagged to A.S.B.O.S. tags playing puppets in a rectangle... i stopped watching the match for a cigarette break, the free-kick went in, Saturay, Tesco closing at 10pm, i took to wearing an Australian Open t-shirt, i've never seen so many funerals drinking a beer on my way home - prior it it was all gorilla chanting and Tarzan... i only learned of Tsar Putin dipping his ***** in the **** of Crimea a few minutes later.

your typical Saturday night, next door  neighbour's
trying out an alt. Y.M.C.A. with disco funk,
i guess it spreads easily this day, feel the grooves
or lined Rodin - ape-**** up my *** -
music so loud coming from my neighbour's canopy
i should be asking for canapés - after all Euro 2016
kicked off, scarf-hooligans of Moscow made
Marseilles home-turf , two Brits at the draw
in hospital, faces kicked-in, real bulldogs,
asthmatics at the end of it - conversation turned into a tour
of the Cairngorms or the western outlets...
a lot of Scottish impromptu with **** **** freckles!
gee ginger! aye fucky ***** ****!
Anglo users love interchanging the vowels for emphasis
to differentiate geographic regions -
but this one book review got me -
entitled ***** state
by a feminist -
the ugly child abusing father is a punter -
listen, if it were't for prostitutes i'd be a priest
7 years in, acne on my Richie, one ****** in,
kiss on the mouth several times, hell, the guilt trip,
poor boy poor girl, skin cream lubrication,
talk of doctor's appointments, ******* a *****,
i'd get the Scandinavia model if the girls weren't fickle,
the hand is hardly a plastic surgeon of the female
genitalia ***** - bony M... you must be talking
about ******* - ***** M...
Jesus no more the son of god than the patron saint
of prostitutes... the poor guy feels the aches of touch
while the rich boys sushi off a stripper in Billions...
i don't have strong dialectical encouraging to dispute
or discuss - i too am too blame, ask my dermatologist...
so my neighbours threw a party,
on the set-list?
Cheryl Lynn - Got to Be Real; Oliver Cheatham,
Get Down Saturday Night; Edwin Starr - Contact;
and then the one off from One Direction - History -
the DJ suddenly experiences the jitters neurotically
changing songs before they finish - midwestern horror,
Ohio or Iowa hammer masscare, excerpt from
Pink Floyd's anti-fascist anti-educationalist march,
dangly on the Cenotaph -
persona qui umbra-grata (person agreeably welcome
as a shadow) - yep, me and the ex_machina routine...
i know the feminist argument smocking pipe handy
clean for more pages, but ever hear a ******* ******
or laugh with you? if i didn't use up the profession
i'd be the buying type abusive father forever,
who the **** needs **** trips when the moment can please
twos? i'd be up against a Cosmopolitan Magazine Quizzes...
the "perfect boyfriend" types, later coverage in
psychological advice columns... but wait...
all that ******* advice about something being indestructible
in us, about us, beginning with this keen appeal to
atheism already defaults a logic behind the essential
characteristic of the existence pertaining to a psyche -
by destroying god we also resolved to more easily disqualify
the in-destructibility of the soul,
constrained, a study of noumenons, with logic application,
as if with the omni- prefix to the non-essentials of god -
logic destroyed the compatible qualification of soul
ownership, reduced, it gave us the advent of prayer
and the necessity of a god, rather than our selves,
via souls - something without deductive parameters to
cursor and pre- of the experience quickened to
argument with dis- and later -qualificatio;
the кaцaпс fought with Mongols... you think there's
a fair bet for your hooliganism in Marseilles?
well... it all boils down to two identifiers of nationalism:
parade with the royal family near St. James' park
or gut a pig in the south of France...
Wales will not bow this time, given that they're
not getting paid for their national pride dribble,
they'll ******* up... make more adverts with your superstars...
strange that, well, America has idiosyncratic sports,
i never understood the cheese-ball of oval either to the throw -
yes, baseballs makes more sense than cricket,
but you have to understand rugby before you
start crowdsurfing your *** in nappies -
the high expression of nationalism is so Joker-faced
with the Windsor ******, nationalism and a king never match
up to how Mao or ****** would have it...
and the alternative is football hooliganism...
i walked for my whiskey and beer just after the 75th minute,
along the way i met so many funerals, donning my
Australian Open T-Shirt... well, you, know,
a different type of spectator sport - i heard the rabbis
of the oval where deemed cricket tourists when kicking
a penalty through the H architecture -
cricketers are tourists, oval jerker-offs are Wallabies...
Australia in the Eurovision song-contest... oh yeah,
i'm mad... mad about Abba.. Matt in Memphis,
an Eve Cassidy moment, Sia's chandelier cover-up,
the truest form of plagiarism - the cover is better
without all the computing morphings...
oh sure, i could play the dating game...
9 years in and i had two authentic ***** in my day...
one was a black single mum who took me back
to her flat in Stratford, dragged her baby girl from the bed
to the floor, and her baby son, didn't want me to
penetrate her, tucked my **** in between her thighs,
i stopped, was woken by her son in the middle of the night,
took him and laid him on my chest and we fell asleep...
so yeah, prostitution is ALL BAD... coming from a theorist
who hasn't experienced the drudgery of lives "unexpected"
via eventualities akin to Chernobyl... given that the most
paranoid nation scared and scaring others concerning
a nuclear holocaust is the only one to set two off... two!
Pearl Harbour was an army attack on an army base...
what the Americans did was just a very quick Holocaust.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~

"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~

the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits

dear brothers:

tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a  
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!

men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of  who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey

yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away

to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of  Pablo Neruda's words:

"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"


fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
November 7, 2015
4:50 pm
nyc/nl
Sjr1000 Aug 2014
The dawn was no longer coming
The earth was no longer spinning
The horizon frozen.
We had moved into the deep chill
of our lives
The deep chill of our love.
Stone cold granite silence
Dancing around each other in
slow motion rotation
eyes like arrows
eyes like mirrors
words silent daggers
breath like icicles
held and panting,
volcanic eruptions seething
beneath the surface,
choreographed
hurt and rage
posing
feigning
covering up,
boiling blood
in
this frozen silence

civil, constrained, polite.

We turned around
walked away again,
alone
again,
with nothing changed
and
nothing said.
AnnaMarie Jenema Oct 2016
Weeaboo.
Owning this geeky word was not something I immediately understood.
Coming from a school where geeks were castaways,
with Otaku and weeb being even worse terms than that.
But now she, who loves video games, and cartoons
- a geek herself, dare I say, -
calls me a not only a weeaboo,
a term revered here,
but a failed one.
Many references I lack to see,
My circle of watched media is constrained,
me being the picky geek that I may be.
The simple act of putting on fluffy ears that I deem kawaii,
She takes as the action of a 'furry'.
I rarely see memes, something that not only geeks look at,
but social media as well,
yet she acts as though it lies within the domain of otakus.
Saying ohauyo, tadima, or even simply arigato,
gives me a snide reply of, "freaking weeb"
Making pebbles into boulders is her specialty.
~Christi Michaels~

Dark Shadows of My Soul
Memories finally revealed,
Yet always known.

Arches set deep within stone
Labored creake of hinges
Massive wooden doors
My breath, heavy just moments before,
quiets upon the entering.
Dark Shadows of My Soul

Three steps down,
Entering the majestic room.
Domed ceilings. Stucco stained
with colors from long, long ago.
I walk towards windows.
Tall, deep n' narrow overlooking My Realm below.
A knowing. A deep seated
rememberance of a life once lived.
Dark Shadows of My Soul

Secrets, locked away in gilded boxes..
Vessels holding unspoken truths
Trap doors leading to dungeons
concealed beneath intricately woven rugs.
Taste of the air. ****** breads,
roasting meat.
Acrid smoke wafting from Soddy hearths
Dark Shadows of My Soul

Raven ringlets cascading.
A waterfall down my open back.
Pearl woven braids
adorn the crown of my head.
My ******* constrained.  
Rising...cresting  
With each breath.
Brocade and lace lay gently
across my hands, kissing my fingers
My neck long, regal. I hold posture of a Princess.  
My full skirts sweep and polish
these stone floors from time till eternity

Will begin the journey.
Delve into this sordid past.
Facing, long at last  
Deamons. Lies of Old
Embracing now
Dark Shadows of One's Soul



Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels. All Rights Reserved.
#ilovedoinglines
Quote from Barnabas Collins,
the Motion Picture: Dark Shadows.
Starring: Johnny Depp, 2012 originating from the
T.V. series Dark Shadows (1966-1971)
  Barnabas Collins, a 175-year-old vampire from Collinsport, Maine. Having bridged the centuries, he has been both an adversary and an ally to his extended family members over the course of several generations.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I loved Ireland. Felt one within the Castles. This peice, though originally a challenge, fulfilled the " Dark Shadows of My Soul"
Vivian Sep 2014
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
***, bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Lilywhite Jan 2019
irreprehensible state
becomes constrained
and ridden with angst
incomprehensible dealings
with endless halls
and no ceilings
drowned out
by the sound
of silence
I cannot speak
for one must look within
to find their peace
otherwise
faced with fate
brain overload
we detonate-
forever yielding
and there;
never revealing,
it remains
lying in wait
within the maze
to take us back
from whence we came
July 26, 2011

mushroom meddling

— The End —