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DAEJR Apr 2014
Dye the ***** water with contaminates:
                         Blue #1,
                                                  and Sucralose, too.

Bend over to spray
                         the rotting road-**** with perfume.

Perfect the recipe
                         for what was fleshed and fruited
                                                  from animals and plants.

Photoshop the starved and diseased
                         with smiles
                                                  and beautiful bodies.

Clothe the *****
                         with lingerie, with heels,
                                                  and with stones.

Paint the roses red.
                         We paint the white roses red.
                                                  We’re painting the white roses red!
Julian Apr 2020
Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.
Used some neologisms
King Bacon Oct 2014
Once upon a time, a long time ago
There was a little boy with a grimy flow
I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday
And this is what I heard him say…….

He say **** like, he be like….

Ah! and I'm a ******* biter
The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya
You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers
Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva
I go so hard when I'm flowing
So cold my flows frozen

I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean
And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion
But dam, those explosions are so slow motion
So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees
Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between
A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D

Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly
I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious
A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes
Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish
Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it

Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates
I damage this establishment
They enacted bans on urban camping
If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is
Happily on mattresses
is Nov 2015
i know of his hazel eyes that are a map to his soul if only you would look deep enough.
i know of his wide smile that could mend a heart that has been shattered into one million tiny pieces.
i know of his brown hair
that carelessly lays atop his head.
i know of the intense sadness that contaminates all of these beautiful things.

i know of the emptiness that engulfs him and the dry blood he conceals beneath cloth.
i know of a side to himself that he keeps locked away, the key buried under a thousand rocks only to be revealed when his barely-breathing heart is completely alone.
i know of the sleepless nights that are filled with memories of unkept promises and the tears that forcefully fall from his frustrated eyes.
i know of the thoughts that overtake his mind, continuously haunting him.
i know of the fear that controls his words and overwhelms his heart.
"no, i don’t know him. i just know of him."
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
One evening with a few friends in a borrowed minivan, we got a flat tire.   Changing the tire was so complicated (like PhD. complicated), we finally had the owner of the van drive over to finish the job while three other men stood and watched.   This poem came out of that night.



I think you become
a grownup
the moment,
the very second,
you realize at
some very, very
early age,
you have
limitations.

Perhaps not quite
a total grownup,
mature like,
but some
irreversible threshold crossed on
a life long voyage,
a descent of no return,
a Checkpoint Charlie crossed.

You will never be all you
want to be.

Some will disagree.

the day of maturation,
they'll claim,
comes on that day,

when clouds
of different shapes
call out your name,
raining saturation
of responsibilities,
(feed your family, son).

you
initial your acceptance
by quenching thirst by
drinking 'free' raindrops.

ain't arguing,
the when exactly,
for this highway-journey has
so many rest stops.

But
when your body
cracks with disappointment,
harvests the bitter knowing
that
can't,
means there will be no defying this truth, now self-evident:

there are somethings
you ain't gonna ever be,
or never be able to do.

here's the rub awful.

the street called
Recognition Rue
is the longest road to
a dead end
you are forced to travel,

and the cruelest part
of this joke is
you rue the day
and the next day
and the very next day,
when, each time,
the Dead End sign
moves along all by itself,
another block or two,
with you following,
behind by a
block or two.

after awhile,
you cease to curse,
satisfied with the certainty of discontent
you and your
bag of tools,
cannot have every,
will always be lacking,
the precise instrument
to do
every job right.

half good is likely
your total best,
so sadly shuffle along
at the bequest of
the little voice insisting, whining,
have to, gotta go...

You
want to jack me up
on a cross of
protestations,
words like learning,
and
promises to teach,
no limitations,
words that overreach
and hint of
lesson recitation.

I can't change a tire
but don't give a ****.

this is not how
I measure my self worth.

the sadness that prevails,
that contaminates my brow,
ain't mastery of survival skills
likely I'll never need again
don't need your
complementation/approbation
of what I can,
or rants
why I can't.

For nothing will ere exceed
the exasperation,
chest ripping
agony of frustration,
that one single poem
worthy of saving
has ever,
nor will yet,
never, will
leave my fingertips.


It is
forever detained
in the prison of my limitations.

now that's worth
acknowledging,
now that's worth asking
now that's worth
answering -

why, why, then,
grown up you,
keeps on trying,
surely sure,
that looking back
regretfully,
is useless,

(and you have heard
the lock click thunderous clap of:
"sorry son,
your presence is...
not needed,
no worries, we won't
ask you to do
when better
surrounds us everywhere").

Answer is:
that it is worth trying,
writing,
a poem about why,
I can't change a tire
and it don't matter,
just so I can say
to myself,

*I'll never be all the way grown up.
D Conors Sep 2010
The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.

The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!

The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.

He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!

The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.

He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.

The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****,
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.

In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.

With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.

The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.

Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is *me.
D. Conors
August/September 2010
Duncan Leugs May 2013
The peaceful river does not sleep
but carves a road that runs so deep.
The silent waters trickle down
and calming lullabies do sound.

The peaceful river does not cry
though soaked with tears and never dry.
A lonely journey leads it home
to oceans wide with drowning tones.

The peaceful river does not anger
no wrath contaminates the martyr.
Temptation does not flow to sea
does not hold the river free.

Instead the river feeds the soul
weaving life where're it flow
breeding hopes for future fruit
and wiping clean the ash and soot.

Humble savior of unclean soil
without reward despite its toil.
A ceaseless flow of blessedness
The peaceful river of forgiveness.
Sylvene Taylor Jan 2014
the world.
filled with pools of water and washed away regret. but so deep with regrets and fear of the fore coming.
the world. with trees of beautiful green and red roses too dont ever seem to bloom in the eyes of the people for the continuation of constant world war three with our physical appearance.
the world. with trees that stand as high as our worries and grass as sharp as the pain that lingers within, it seems so easy to wake up at the crack at dawn and take our good time to paint a smile and carefully dot our eyes with the plastic of the worlds personality. but the world
is so beautiful-so pure. the water so crisp and clean.
until the touch of fingers contaminates the beauty within, shreds apart the trees and crumbles the structure until there is
nothing
but insecurity.
we paint our face and dot our eyes so carefully to reach that so called perfection
but the definition of perfection in most of our hearts put it perfectly: "Perfection is a disease of a nation"
one that we have all caught and seemed to not find a cure. it goes rapidly through our body spreading so fast and clenching on to the brain until it calls all the shots as if we are the robots and it is now the controller.
you see, there is nothing but insecurity.
you might be able to air brush the blemishes and bumps that creep into our skin and sprout so grossly, but,
you cant air brush personality.
Jack Feb 2014
It is within this rock I sit
Encased in regret, solidified guilt mortality
Hurt friend’s tear drops etch’d
Dead for all sense and purpose
Shifting on ancient sand’s sorrow
Blistered by dire gale forces breathing
Stoic between cracks in the lies
Weathering at rapid paces of mistaken footsteps
A mausoleum of loneliness
Branded with hot iron’d deceptions
Deafened of heartbreak earthquake tremors
Hammer and chiseled contaminates
Crushed bits of worthless rubble
Scattered in anguish’d apologies
****** by stupidity…

                            ...dust on the wind
Laurel Elizabeth Nov 2013
He is my least favorite vegetable.
                                                   
                       No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
Boiling-
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.

when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.

I fry him, striving to remove the  
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility

I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism

I must instead attempt
to comment
(arduously, fraudulently)
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
every.
serenity.
The Rotation:

I’m hardly awake in these passing scenes. Each breath I take seems a moment too late to catch my rest, and as I debate what really relates to these hidden dreams behind the sky and what’s within my own eyes. There’s not too much to say as I spiral from the clouds straight to the sound of rushing water and fluid memories they don’t quite flow as softly as they should. And I’m hardly awake in these glazed over days but their value still remains and all I can hope to make is a smile on the clock that just keeps ticking away as I gravitate towards the moon but soon That won’t be too far away and I can barely see my life from here and I’m sure it’s what it appears to be but so suddenly my mind drops and climbs these endless mountains chasing the wind head on, Two steps forward four steps backwards but either way I’ll arrive to the other side of this great circle. And what should the path matter to the destination and why should the visit be all that remains.

Is it so strange to speak so softly to a lion or roar so loud to another, whom other then you've loved? But that’s what I witness and that’s what I hate, but I’m hardly awake to change a fate that drips on down from the rooftops filthy and diseased, as far as some perceive it. Encouragement no longer creates the convinced, but furthers the doubt and in-circles the back of my eye lids as every narrow hallway fails to take us to broader horizons. And what should the path matter to the destination and why should the visit be all that we remember.

I’m at the point where I should have something to say or show for it, but I do believe I’m entirely over it. Left as empty as I began and it’s getting hard to stand. But the depths have not quite got their man, as I’d like to think I’m hatching a plan from these run down streets to the corner of the ring I continually find myself in. So let’s begin another round around this town I’ll take you to it, a place where I once could sleep. But that’s been long since buried in the rubble floating through these skies slowly homing in on me a little weaker then gravity.

As if only to delay and antagonize me further. These rumbles keep finding new fights. And I feel no shame because there isn't much blame for me to claim, but what if I could have. I often stray and stay hidden away within myself and when asked about it all I just can’t seem to stop the fall of these footsteps when they slowly lead away and its not to long after I find beauty in this exotic normality plainly seen but entirely hidden sifting through this trouble floating through my memories slowly homing in on me a little weaker then gravity.

A Wandering Eye:

And I've lied to you, I do believe in love, it’s just never enough.
These hands I swear have worked to long and not to hard. But the earth beneath my feet moves to rapidly, and the scenery keeps my plans far from my own hands. And the distant lands I’d like to see seem to keep growing further away, but there’s no end to my resolve. And dignity no longer holds its own as what I see around me limits the prospect of my soul, as one spoiled drop contaminates the rest, and also the best.

These quiet streets, they whisper around me, about the winter nights I wander on by. I’m not searching for any signs, just wondering where my home has gone.
I won’t speak about love, nor does love speak of me. It’s not that I've given up, it’s only that I dream much more hopeful,
And I know there’s only a few more years left for all of this. Will she love me then? This city she’s leaving and I’m swept under the rug wondering where my family of friends may be. I play these perfect futures like feature films and guard them like a dragon its treasure against these awful waves of grim but inevitably I fail, I can no longer hold onto these childish fantasies seeing the mold growing over them all. And it limits the prospect of my soul, as one soiled word contaminates the rest, and also the best.

The Devils soul is not deep enough to haunt these vivid dreams maybe he’ll find a way to force his own hand straight through my comfort zone. And pull me on back to these treacherous shoals were I may run aground. But I’m not sounding any alarm at least these abandoned islands leave me free. I hear so often that a man who views the world the same in his youth as he does in his commanding age has wasted all his time. But should you not yearn to be correct from the beginning? Are we all simply due to inevitable and wasteful change of thought. Are my actions yesterday of less value to my mind of tomorrow? What about the stars I used to gaze so deeply into will I only see them through a haze of emptied and defeated dreams? These roller coaster rhymes don’t consistently connect, and I’m wondering where the actuality of reality comes into play. When all I realize is that I feel so young although I am old in heart.

And I don’t mind the rain it helps wash away the stains I've left around myself. But when you’re fooling everyone to be a simple man it’s hard to care for the land that keeps you standing. And I still only dream of escape from the future I’m building, this island paradise to most now becomes my prison, and the gate keeper has long since passed without relieving his keys. But every time I punch these concrete walls my blood soaks through their roots and seems to weaken them for a moment, but I’m to bruised to try again, I’d prefer to sit and pretend I’m starving, watching what I could or couldn't have slowly become harder to grasp. Like the spoon they now force feed me with. I’m a man but feel no stronger than a language-less child. Unable to properly voice my will. And though I seem so young I am old in soul.

Anxiety always seems like a new experience never the same as it was. My body trembles at the quakes of its most powerful moments, and the increasing variety of my own created stress presses heavily down around me as if I’m sinking in the darkest depths, but I only feel my heart crushing and my lungs panicking, desperate and tear driven to find an end, where my head can rest. I can no longer follow these maps around they seem so out of date and I’m so out of place, this concoction of emotions keeps changing and I can’t keep up with the ingredients. These small talks are drawn much further out to what I need them to be but only within my head, and whoever was lying beside it in my bed never got much through it. And I don’t feel there was much to it.

It seems inspiration escapes me, I used to believe there was a fine line between hatred and depression but I more often find they collide under the pressure of a day better to stay outside of my head. Waterfalls are seen as beautiful, awe inspiring, and powerful. But as I look at those rushing tears dashed against so many rocks, all I see is the loneliness of a river by name forced to a path it can only bend so far. And I forgot where I was going with all this, and I’m not sure that it matters since the words I spatter only travel so far when you’re across the world. And these thoughts are minimized to avoid regret. I often stumble into traffic unaware nor do I care that I’m only living in my head, and whoever was screaming through it, didn't stick to it, And I don’t feel they couldn't do it.

Simple is hard:

I always know when the hour passes but almost never when the moment will last. And running through this haze I seem to have lost my place in the race, but what were the stakes. I can’t break this pace as I’m marching steadily on trying to avoid these shakes from the earthquakes that tremble along with me. In my latest dream I sank my flesh into the fangs of a nightmare where I’m at that point when you can’t pay attention to a song anymore, you hear the theme and scream for the melody but it always ends so suddenly in a foggy daze and you can’t recall the names or why they ever mattered.

Everything is broken, there were so many other words here. But just like everything else they were shattered and lost, and left me tattered, torn, and here. Things that were supposed to rhythm and make sense of all this, things I know are there in my brain but I can no longer reach them, they are such a blur, an outline at best. This paragraph once mentioned the daze of a man approaching the plate of life without a single clue of what team he's on nor does the crowd recognize the numbers on his jersey. It related to the haziness mentioned before but no more, it is dead just like every single part of what I think is my soul that I've poured into this, although enough of its memory remains to tease me with encouragement to try again. I apologize that I have failed to bring my words to you in one piece, they are still so fragmented. I can't even form a rhythm, I used to at the drop of a dime, and that’s the best I can come up with.

I wanted to continue, I wanted this to never end, like the thoughts of love and truth that we all so desperately chase. But we know all too well that everything is circumstantial. And I suppose my never ending hunt for the truth is an uphill struggle against the landslide of change that in itself is the only guarantee of this limited thing called existence, a hegemonic existence at that.
This poem was originally going to be a life long poem where I added a few sentences every week, but as fate would have it. My computer crashed several times in  row and I lost a page or two and could only remember so much of it. So I wrote the last page in reflection of that event and decided that was a perfect fitting for the end of a self acclaimed master piece.
I hope you enjoyed it! I've never gotten the chance to perform this poem.
Andje Sep 2014
You still hurt me
Even after 'our' end

[I cover my eyes every time your stare
Contaminates my thoughts


You'll never say
What you've thought
What I am
What you think
What I'm not

*And I don't really care
[I'll rewrite it]
This unresolved ambivalence

Contaminates a dubious sense

Of accents yet unknown

And of unbridled words yet unspoken

Where one becomes haunted by circumstances

Bequeathed to a virtuous iniquity of discourse

Whose fabrication of appearance binds deception

Yet transforms human misery by conscious and unconscious

Deployment of illusions were words are those energies

Given free rein and perform a fecundity of speech  

Defying as it does so semantic predictability

And brings dissolution to normality

The first born UNICORN
Vaughn Fritts Jun 2016
A far off rumble, like a premonition,
Disturbs the quiet urban biosphere.
Soon, flashing, scattered thunderstorms appear,
Depositing an icy ammunition.
A domed volcano wakes from long remission,
Explodes, contaminates the atmosphere.
The sun retreats behind a ****** smear
And all the world submits to dark perdition.

For weeks the crumpled vegetation limps
Along and feeds on fallen carcasses.
The battered monuments to progress fall

And Wall Street übermensch, now useless gimps,
Assemble near their ruined businesses
And ponder why their profits tend to stall.
Sharp residual, a residue.
Built up animations yet to come
to life, by the movement of limbs,
words, energy, actions.
If not to empty them, at least to
mock myself in a mirror,
watch my image come to life
upon the ground. The last vestige,
silent perpetrator, a shadow
more direct than aversions
to practice in speech what will
only idle; sleep while
waiting for the now to become
never, to bleach clean the war
torn attrition no one could ever
listen to.

Just another panic attack,
as the surrounds of peripheral
color themselves darker than
the center of attention,
my disheartened hope makes
focal point, reference point
numero uno.
There can be no growth forward,
when emptiness contaminates, like
a spill upon a slate counter top
of a soul. Super absorbent, no fiber
can clean the mess of this, this
story untold.

Still, many versions exist,
have existed.
Written, copied and kept
as sacred script. The letters,
the poetry, the books, the
pleading lost vesicle; words
written by blood, birthed by
deepening scars, covered by a sincere
heart.
Cutting along the edges,
remembering to stay within
the lines, just make sure you're
gone, completely cut out.

Chased in perpetual silence-
watching the steam circle,
then dissipate, a taunting of
my attached heart floating,
rising, disappearing above my
cup of coffee.

I like to think I drink it for
its energy inducing pleasure.
I can now rest assured I drink
it for the memories, the
memoirs, the voices, the
fidgety way I can distract myself
from retracing the incident all
the way back.

Conscious enough to know I
must rise above the toxicity.
I just feel sometimes,
"I can barely breathe!"
Why my God?
Why does it feel like my words,
my sincere want to again
be me falls helplessly,
empty, uselessly upon the
deaf ears, the handle of my steaming
cup of coffee.

Half empty, half full,
when it comes to coffee this
psychological tool doesn't
feel too relevant.
Tepid now, do I warm it up?
Do I throw it back?
Do I get a refill?
There seems so much more
I must trace through the
tunnels of thinking.
Beep, Beep, Beep,
start- murrrrrrr-
I topped it off, then warmed
it up. Looks like another long
night of soul searching, open
desk top windows, and
reminding myself I don't need ****
to get me through this.
Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeep!

I've concocted a beautiful new
image. One I have not the
artistic capability to reproduce,
or audacity to bring to life.
But my words, my coffee,
will be both the art, and the muse.

A skillfully drawn eye.
An eye in all its symmetry,
eyelashes, eyelids, tear duct,
pupil, coloring;
green if you're asking.
From the edges fingernails have
buried themselves just around
the eye, and have already
begun tearing backward.
(presumably, there may need to be
the structure, or knowledge
of a brow.)
Blood has begun running.
Some of the blood has formed
channels, tracing the well worn
path of natural tears.

The streams culminate at the
base of the eye, where droplets
are forming.
Below this eye, their destination.
A journal, a notebook lay open,
the title at the top reads
"Insidious Vapid Amor"
A pen lay diagonally in
orientation across the page.
To the right, or left depending
on the artistic rendering,
preference, a cup of coffee.
The page, the rim of the cup, the pen
are spattered with the droplets
from above.
But in the coffee rises
the conical effect of a droplet that
has just crashed against the
surface tension of my coffee,
anyone's coffee.
-One last sip-
but not a coming goodnight;
chased in perpetual silence,
while my empty coffee cup reminds
me I'm empty too.
Ian Cairns Apr 2013
An inadequate interpretation
preserved in crooked craniums
contaminates the minds.
An embellished episode
dissected by firm fingers
falsifies the hearts.
An unacceptable attitude
and irreversible invalid anecdotes
poison the people.
RyanMJenkins Feb 2013
The winter outside is cold,
But the pale skin pales in comparison to the ice in peoples' hearts.

We're deprived of organic necessities and forced into community peasantries,
That rely on the institutions as much as Wal-Marts.

Historical facts are often masked by watered-down history books.
What if I told you the facets of your life
Are managed by murderers and crooks,
That **** the livelihood on all who're deemed below?
They've all the world-wide power within their grasps,
Yet to none other than blood will they bestow.

The media's mediated control over our minds,
Refusing to let you grow and flourish.
Throwing pesticides on what you choose to chew,
Yet we tend to believe we're well-nourished?

The sky has been taken over, with contaminates and missiles.
Confined with egg shell on our feet,
Because we've chosen to blindly oblige government officials.

The relationship is similar to that of scientists and lab rats.
We put our best efforts in for a minuscule piece of cheese,
While they make money off of you while producing more as they please.

So maybe we wanna follow our dreams,
And earn degrees to ensure that* We really are Somebodies,
...Then fall into a dark debt hole for doing so,
Barely able to find jobs in the fields we gave our whole.

..Then we rush to the polls..

High on promises and a "better America",
Forever blinded by the Right and Left paradigm
That you don't realize those you've been arguing with are right there with ya!

This regime we're under, it's been said, follows a model of the Roman empire.
The Revolutionaries that exemplified love, justice, and courage,
Are being picked off to this day, and you still think I'm just here to conspire?
Well there's an opening now, I'm gonna take it
And spread truth against all those that forsake it until my body is to retire.
I may go down without a blaze of glory, but I won't be known as a liar.
If you don't take a stand with me, know that you too will fall prey.
Invest time into knowledge and self-awareness,
So that one day peace and honesty will find a home in the land of the brave.

This world's a brutal business, manipulative and cold.
But it can't compete with the heat emitting from my soul.

We are one, help each other thrive, all while having fun.
The conscious revolution will emerge, before our time here is done~

One love, that's all the ranting for today
I hope peace is with you, Namaste.
I am a dragonfly,
An individual predator to parasites,
Harmless to others,
Gorgeous in spitting distance.
A demon’s saliva is phlegm,
Not the devil’s darning needle,
Strong like rock,
Courageous in summer,
Happy as butterflies,
A symbolic haiku.

I take advantage of Nature’s breath,
Infinite oxygen.
Breathe in deeply.
Notice the pulchritudinous colors everywhere.
Exhale the black and white within.
Yearn for pure silence.
The wind is a timeless whoosh,
Like a transparent soul,
Relieving as it flows through,
Exposure to freedom.

I share this calm scenery
With railroad tracks
And endless meadows,
Left for the feeling of living,
Though pollution contaminates beauty,
Formed wastelands,
Gardens of cacti,
Terrain of mines,
Many holes in Earth,
Ragged scars in us.

I see the fluff of treetop fields,
Look softer than cotton,
No uncomfortable ground.
Buoy above the blue green sphere,
A stroll across clouds,
Walking on water,
Travel over plains,
Wet trees and grass,
Possibly a neglected heaven,
Created gentle dimness.

I pass the eerie black shadows
As if they were people.
Keep heading towards brightness.
The only light to shine,
Connected with character.
Slowly turn around.
Capture the clouds with vision.
Divide sunlight and darkness,
Standing in between okay.
Both elements clothe a being.

I stare up at a blocked void
Into the covered sky,
Squinting sharpened sight
To reduce holy light.
Eyes repetitively flinch
From precipitated raindrops,
A drug on my whole tongue,
Refreshingly cold,
Purified euphoria,
Lovely side of weather.

I let the sun hit washed face.
Hide flooded eyeballs.
Faintly perceive radiance
Through burning eyelids.
An ambient song in mind.
Warm skin reflects heat,
Absorbing vitamin D,
This ray of effulgence,
Brightest star now my shade,
Caught up in it all.

I will miss rainy mass and Sun,
November environment,
Magnificent sunsets,
Illuminate past strands of hair,
Autumn brown view enough.
After Moon comes and goes,
Rise upon us again so we won’t die,
Long-lasting inspiration.
Alive is all I feel now and later,
Together as one with God.
Eyithen Apr 2023
“Post a time when you were at your lowest but no one noticed”
But the thing is when I was at my lowest, I never hid it, at least not in the long run
I let the blood from my struggles pour from my eyes,
It runs down my arms in vein-like trails and seeps into the creases of my palms
It runs down my fingers, filling the whorls and arches of my prints
Every touch contaminates and floods
I spread it on the surfaces, smearing and painting with red: startling like a cardinal in snow and thicker than wine
At times I regret being so open, thinking I should just keep things to myself
But that would be to go against my nature
To go against my deep desire for those I love to know every single intimate part of me;
To see me at my weakest.
Maybe it’s because there aren’t any secrets then
It’s just me showing the world that when im strong, im strong,
And when I’m weak, I’m weak.
I suppose I don’t feel the need to hide how I'm feeling or what I am going through.
To hide it would be far too much work
And I don’t have the energy to hide.
i considered it a sneeze
more of a natural expulsion
of that which contaminates the spaces
between our mustaches and our medulla

no
something ejected and the room paused
most placed aside their drink
snuffed their cigarette
to see if you would pass away
smooth

chuckled
thats what you did after
and we breathed a sigh of relief
some glad that you hadnt seized up
others glad they didnt have to leave yet

either way
thanks

i wont buy you a triple meat again
I'm sitting alone in a crowded room,
people talking all around, sharing smiles
laughter and joy. Yet all I can think about
is you.

You, you, you, you, you.

You're like a poison that doesn't want to leave my mind,
it contaminates me, one bite and your venom seeps into
my open wounds and makes me suffer
the agony of thought.

Thoughts.

They never end, the what if's never decease,
and every morning I don't want to awake
into another world where I know I shouldn't have
anymore hope.

Hope.

It's lacking in my life, like a balloon flying upwards
toward the sun, your eyes make me change what I think
over and over your words don't seem consistent
with that look.

That look.

That look that tells me you have so much more to say
more to give, more to offer, more to propel,
yet your words speak cowardice, over and over get
out of that little bubble because I've jumped out of mine
because you forced me to pop it and now I'm
a fish without water.

Without water, without hope, without dreams
but I can't stop my dreams and my hope
that my subconscious gives me every night
over and over and over again with you and I
don't know what I dream but that when I wake up
I see your face and when I go to sleep you're the last
thing I think about.

You're the only thing I can think about.
Concentration lost.
i had to get these feelings jotted down before I left my house
DeepOceanKisses Aug 2013
I'm tired of breathing the same air as you.
This energy contaminates my vibe.

I'm tired of speaking to a ghost.
Your presence is invisible.

I'm tired of wearing masks to hide myself.
I'm ashamed of my unseen scars.

I'm tired of being alone in my darkness.
I can't converse with humans.

I'm tired of walking for nothing.
My bones became too weak.

I lost you because of my mistakes.
I lost me because I tried to change.
You lost me because I'm not the same.
We lost us because we were too tortured.
~Anne
The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak
If we continue this way, the future is bleak.
Be ye drunk with the spirit
Here we are drunk with whiskey.
Sensuality burning hot even in sleep
With corrupt minds open to sin
She walks in and contaminates
With venomous eggs hatching death…
I wish the flesh couldn't inspire me to lust and boast myself when high or drunk.
Vivian Ienello Dec 2013
The vibrating feeling you get when in a trance of contentment, where nothing contaminates your brain, with false allusions of what to be. You hold selflessness within your heart and soul, where debility is non-existing, just sitting out of the ring. Where the roots of bitterness are snipped, because the branches were begging for mercy as to they were betrayed. You smile towards the sun waiting for infinity, and a gasp from reality. The meaning of life lies between your eyes, maybe you see it as a disguise for self contentment, but just accept that it’s happening, and you shall be happy .From the beginning of time to the gates of hell, this is where we all dwell.
Chuck Dec 2013
Snow beautiful snow
Falling to the Earth
With purpose to cover
The filth and ****
That contaminates the world

Snow beautiful snow
Why must you melt?
A river among a stream
forecast only myriad of dream
when early dew easily derived as mad
while peace here is now our dream
with thinking that imbed these orchid pastels
once weight did keep it from debt only seemingly then
but the river quay abscond many hats to wear again
while canoe does display this garden wall
with a dream of a lifetime so it's shone
when into darkness finding a rainbow
and each river there a quay did find a reeve
for contaminates as water must goldenly flow
as their sustenance can keep evermore alive.
Reeve is a Canadian magistrate.
Marshal Gebbie Feb 2012
I Warrant that thy lack of care
Is bound within a hard restraint,
Bound within thy calloused fist
To disavow convention’s taint.

I Warrant that thy steely eye
Hath fixed upon the prize of yore,
Hath disregarded consequence
In disinterring mankind’s law.

I Warrant that thy wall of pride
Hath steeled thy arm of self regard,
In keeping thy  momentum’s rush
From dissipating conscience hard .

I Warrant that the breath thou breathe
In  staling air of all contrite,
Contaminates the very heart
Of those who roar “Seig Heil” to *****.

I Warrant in the dead of night
When phantoms stalk thy peace of mind,
Incineration souls aflame
Might cause thy yellowed  teeth to grind.

I Warrant that through centuries
These ghosts shall ride thy spirit hard,
And man shall weep in horror when
He looks upon thy cruel regard.

Marshalg
Warrantor to an indiscriminate other
24 February 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Pavel Popov Jun 2016
this is not a free country
pick a place on the globe
they force the laws upon us
US - free people of the world

i am not free to do as i wish
says the man i have never seen
my freedom to act, my free will
taken away by the sinful machine

i should be able to say and do things my way
as long as none else's freedom is taken away!
in a world full of art, love, hope and God
will not be any jails or psychiatric wards

look, the elctions are staged such a cheap act
who cares who gets picked? same outcome, facts
keep paying taxes guess what the money is for
there are more wars going on than ever before

they show you suffering show you pain
through your eyes right into your brain
some are addicted to the "news" from the box
it contaminates your mind, worse than drugs
people don't watch it, what's there to see?
just violence and *** on TV

they create a show out of sinful things
rappers now days call themselves kings
how dare you say that how dare you think?
your throne is a myth get off of it quick
think about chess you have to protect your King
you're playing for the system? not gonna win!
God reigns over All, his rule is supreme
i check! my pawn turns into a Queen
Francis Sep 2016
I am woeful of decisions that have once been made.
Fallacies clouded the judgment of my heart that I have shamefully been unable to detect.
An instant sensation of remorse, contaminates the mind as euphoria failed to fulfill my sadness.
How could one experience joy kicking love to the curb on an empty street?
A division of the conscience uncertain of it's conclusions,
But it being too late to repair.
The uncertainty eats away at this divided conscience for quite a stretch.
Dreaming the dreams of the love once lost,
A love lost by my own hand.
The thought of victory when feeling such relief,
But feeling blue at the relief when finally occurred.
Reality had too lost it's way,
On the road of which I am paving.
Cue that sweet, miserable sound of the miniature violin as it penetrates the heart I seem to have broken.
Her heart was once mine and I treasured it so,
But comparing the pieces of them shattered on the floor would be asinine,
Since hers are more difficult to retrieve.
I'll always hold on to that remorse for as long as my hands can bare,
But will finding love be as simplistic as running from it?
A place to search for it, I won't know where.
Remorse can be painful, even after a period of time.
Samuel Garcia Oct 2016
I love the love at the bottom
The way the roses blossom through any problem from the concrete
Oblivious to defeat

Never cared for a silver spoon
As long as the love around the dinner table was true
All the loot, can care less
All the amount of money in the world can amount to emptiness
Without the people you care about to share it with

No matter what Caucasian, African, Hispanic, or Asian
There was always an appreciation
Every day survived was a graduation for nobody had to face cremation
Lack of communication is what is waiting at the top
When material begins to get heavily involved
Relations tend to be lost

Materialism contaminates thoughts
Being more worried about what we just bought rather than who we are
Look at a reflection of yourself and realize who you have become
Always remember where you came from
Jack Jan 2015
~

It is within this rock I sit

Encased in regret

Solidified by guilt's mortality

Hurt friend’s pain and sadness etched

Dead for all sense and purpose

Shifting on ancient sand’s sorrow

Blistered by dire gale forces breathing

Stoic between cracks in the facade

Weathering at rapid paces of mistaken footsteps

A mausoleum of loneliness

Branded with hot iron’d weepings

Deafened of heartbreak earthquake tremors

Hammer and chiseled contaminates

Crushed bits of worthless rubble

Scattered in sincerity's anguished apologies

****** by stupidity…



                                        …dust on the wind
Aztec Warrior Nov 2015
Walking With Basho**

Note: These haiku (hokku) were written after
reading a book of Basho’s ‘travel logs’. It contained
many of his best and well known poems and prose.

#92
under the old oak
I watch squirrels
chasing their tails.
the oak ignores them.

#93
A breeze ruffles green leaves
as Wrens sing a symphony-
perfect harmony.

#94
I travel in the
company of red guard youth-
we want the whole world.(1)

#95
rushing rivers and
deep gorges block our advance-
great challenges ahead.

#96
Spring blossoms beckon
we smell their sweet aroma-
birds chirp approval.

#97
traveling this road
strewn with shadow and hard ship,
we dare scale great heights.
#98
rain and wind harass
the rabbits fur and spirit-
he sits stoically.

#99
scared of its shadow,
a frog leaps from its lily-
silence is broken.

#100
a burning man looks
at the desert’s dry land scape-
he paints large cacti. (2)

redzone/Aztec Warrior 8.20.12

(1) Red Guard were youth during the Cultural Revolution in China
under the leadership of Mao Tsetung and the genuine revolutionaries
in the Chinese Communist Party. They made revolution within the revolution
inspiring millions world-wide and preventing capitalist-roaders from
seizing power for 10 years. When Mao died, these reactionaries seized power and today we can see the ugly horrific exploitation and oppression the masses of Chinese face again today.

(2) Burning Man is an art festival in the desert of Nevada that began as an expression of creativity and defiance of the prevailing American culture.
But like everything in this society, it has been corrupted into a festival
where buying and selling once again contaminates. There are though still some aspects of the open art and creativity that remains.
Love this notebook....
The soft wind yet breaks on my cheek,
Its frigidness does my heart keep,
Inside its breath and wantings weep,
I lost everything in the haze of sleep.
-
Upon a drifting willow's bark,
I spied the sights of twisting arc,
The ax that had here made its mark,
Had morosely torn the tree apart.
-
I found there that nothing may change,
Yet everything has something to gain,
The profit in sales of wilting and pain,
Has lead to self-proclaimed "insane."
-
Footprints in sand with tide washed away,
Echoes enchant the hive mind, astray
I walk only to get through wretched today,
Tomorrow holds no reason to stay.
-
Love contaminates the air I breath,
Infections break in my head and seethe
How does one follow this revolting creed?
I know not this virtue, it escapes me.
-
No folly of mine found in books of lore,
I'm not kept hero in tomes of yore,
I remember naught of all before,
And I lay down to die in the awaiting shore.
-
Bitter and relentless does my heart scorn,
That I wish to remove it and flesh betorn,
That my hopes may bring sickle to corn,
That I pray for mourning's distant morn.
Macy Opsima Dec 2015
I hear the drops of rain crash against the roof of my home and poetry started to run among my veins. Each raindrop that hits the streets outside my house is yearning for me to write about you. And I’ve told myself that I will never write a single sentence about the boy who left wet kisses around my collarbones then burned my skin with his saliva that contaminates white lies. I promised myself that I will never write one more word about the boy who I’ve spent time teaching endearing phrases from foreign words in hopes that he will say those phrases in thought of me but I stood around the corner as I listen to you say those phrases to someone else.

Now, look at me. Writing about you again. The booming of the raindrops on my roof empowers my hand to move and write your name in this paper. The petrichor intoxicating my brain as I lose control of myself. And here I am realizing that fact that I was born to write about people who never gave a single **** about me.
twitter: @saturnedup
tumblr: asphodelles
Brian C Sep 2015
So much of me is him.
I tell people that endlessly,
Until the words lose meaning,
Until I lose myself.
So much of me is her.
I tell that to anyone who will listen
To my sad, sad story.
But when does that end?
When do I stop being with someone
Without morphing into them?
Without giving them the freedom
To dig up what is there, and to replant
The garden that I have grown for twenty years?
Before I met you, I was me. I walked, and I talked,
And I thought. I thought, and I felt, and I loved.
I loved before you. And now I hurt. I hurt beyond
The usual sting of disappointment because
So much of me is you.
I see you in me daily, like a drop of red wine
In a glass of crystal water.  Spiraling, spinning,
Twisting until it contaminates the whole thing.
You color my habits, my actions,
My words, my thoughts, my emotions.
I tug at the thread, and it unravels into you.
You think you’ve cut the tie?
You will never severe this bond
Which I labored so hard to build up.
I am not a loose string to pluck, and
You were never that for me.
I cannot shake you; I cannot free myself.
How could you wind around me so tightly,
Cut into my bones and leave your mark
Like the aftermath of some beast’s jaws?
I cannot separate me from you. This is
What you’ve done to me. This is
Whom you’ve made me.
This is me.
aar505n Dec 2017
Sacred Soul stuck in a profane Body
Insane Id inflicts anguish on scared Ego
Man finds trouble with doubled nature
Both Angel and Beast want what's best
But both can not be satisfied at once
This division against ourselves
Can only offer suffering in our lives
So man does the civilized thing
Obliged to be sad inside and depressed
And represses those impolite appetites
That contaminates consciousness
"How can we belong entirely to ourselves, and entirely to others at one and the same time?"

— The End —