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Apathy Jul 2014
The storm has gone
It's eerily quiet
As darkness creeps in
I try not to fight it.

My body is broken
****** and mangled
I hug my knees closer
My heartstrings all tangled.

My skin is stripped away
Taking my protection
My thoughts are dull rusty blades
Cutting deep, horrid infections.
Please, don't leave me alone...
Saint Audrey Nov 2017
Every passing moment
Caught staring at the blissful sky
Decorating the ceiling

Awash in the glow
Of light that hides away just out of frame
It's been burning low

Thoughts of my life still beckon, as the world takes a somber tone
But the timing is right, pulled in this effortless misdirection
It's numbing

Found myself here
Why isn't that enough...

A gilded cage. Maybe
I guess
I'd rather let the summer air drench the weathered wood
Another recessed cycle, all timeless til its over
Lie here lifeless
With nothing left to fight
Only time

This coup
A new nation
Loyal dedication
Its classification

‘Species procreation’
Prevents us from facing
A human cessation
selective mutation

It may help explaining
The reasons
But not the foundation
Or actions
We’re basing

A simplification
is “continuation”
A checkbox
left vacant
We’re chasing

We sweat
Eyes are gazing
A slight
In need of hydration
Complete excitation
Intense stimulation
Deep urges
Heart racing

By sensations

Unbounded fixation
Time no longer wasting

This capitulation
a Sanctification
****** gyrations
Hint of *******

The bedroom
Safe haven
For what
we are craving
Once out
and displaying

It all had been taken
Feeling vacant
Freed imagination
A resuscitation
Indulged depravation

A rhythm
we’re setting
The giving and getting
the bedding

All else I’m forgetting
with each other
Like entangled netting
on the same trip
In a unified heading

Now comes
the summation
A true
Smash all expectations

That lasts the duration
Loud gasp
We unlock

Filled with gratification
Written: July 8, 2018

All rights reserved.
multi sumus Dec 2018
Primed for the next evolution in Our intimacy as the taste of Your succulence still lies upon my lips

   The faint sound of the straps clicking confirming Your submission

   While nothing shall escape from Your whicked tongue as it too is confined to its domain

   For Your flesh now belongs to me and will be subjected unto my craft

   And being it is Our first time i shall be... gentle

                        Let Us begin

   So as the bees labours are not in vain
honey sweet the sting of molten wax upon tips of swollen *******...
   Forming to Your perfection

Hmmm, Beads...
    Slow and by number they prepare Your willing vessel for the upcoming paedicatio devastation

   By shimmered form and whetted edge
barbering to reveal Your plump and pulsating labium emanating  
such divine nectar and heaven scent

   A well placed smack stiffens further

   Fingers, Licked tips, Essence enticing the tongue

   Points are pressured, some by pin, a resonating growl signals your approval as i begin my descent

   Insertion immersion into Your cavity depravity is not bound and determined am i to please You

   Only Your eyes speak to me and deep be their gaze
   Deeper still the *******
hesitation between thrusts
i must!..

   The profound sound of the pounding astounding to the ears it's clear another offering will soon be presented incentive for the continuation of Our journey

   With the escalation of Your cries as thighs quake...quivering...releasing a moan of satisfaction and once again my thirst slaked

            Oh how i long to fill You
                        feel You
               by Your silken flesh
                        i confess
         it was You i wished to bind
                       now i find
                            it is i
                         in mind
                        my body
                        and soul
              with Yours entwined
                       in rapture
                     im captured
                  and so inclined

            i removed the bindings
                      ­    myself

                   emotions are felt

                          Our time
                         im biding
                      to knees i fell

    before You...eternally in servitude.

   Mmmm..The warmth of breath upon the nape..

   With tender kiss..

   A soft embrace..

  Long has it been since last ive known such pleasures

   And may long be the Love We make....
I remember kissing you and you tasted like cigarettes and beer, I was sober and you were gone.  I was gone when I was sober, his lips lingering and hand lightly under my chin.  
He made his bed and went on walks at 4am, a sleepless kind of walking.  I want you to have it all, but I can’t split myself equally in two.  
I should be writing in different languages for my degree, but I can’t even think in English.  Not in English, or comprehensible wavelengths of color and sound, synesthesia eye of a machine I look out of, buoyant vibrations and reflection of realities.  
Ettas lightly touching me as I write, ive kissed him more times in this room than my own, on made beds and hungover floors.
Clean sinks and washing dishes, these pristine undergrounds.  Sterile lighting, talking through disconnected window screens.  
i remember sinks full of blood, sharp knives, dragging the needle through thick skin, the train tracks and ghosts and abandoned places, the wind, the rage, breaking bones, neon lights and constant highs to escape all the continuous pain of seeing her.
I give myself up too easily.  Before I speak, the only thing I fear is myself, not now but in another time, losing you to my own accord.  
but thank you for everything, in continuation ----
Seanathon Apr 19
When you find it
Put your finger on it
And press it down on the table before you
All you want is it, over and over again
For that present moment of non-suffering
To continue on
And to never end
Wherever it is, in faith or not. Hold on to it for a little bit. And then let go of it once again. As is our nature.
Worldeater May 2016
Here lies a continuation of being.
View it as scenery indifferent to the weather channel.
A silent, exponential inverted sunshine euphoria
Warming the deepest letters of the soul:
U and I swaying outside linear cubic conventions corroded-
We sway like flowering Earth Resonance blooming as foreign

A toe-curling in the chest stretched intimate at the highest hour

An unconditional syncopation of the heart and mind echoing a
Design as Liquid Resonance - I am that which you are.
“I could cry solid tears. Where have I been all these years,” says

You to reflected I rippling

Never spoken, only written as an abstract entity aware of vibrations
Tethered to timeless stories never read, only felt as I and U in

Reflected them, the missing strangers with a need to be found

Twisted eyes, encumbered lips, everflowing knitted letters stuttered. Kissed. Growing from itself a rehearsed mantra embroidered pattern discord. Mythical. The murmuration of a serenade’s evil dermis that feigns thick to tooth and claw, but silences to love as the overture.

Wide-eyed, you and I are a nascent reprise of words cloaked in inked pages turning in the billowing wind.
"Read them to me."
So I read in heavy rain.
From Monday to Sunday.
Azaria Sep 2018
you move me
the way
music moves you
the vibrations
on the chords
of  your guitar
tell me how
your day went:
spilled lemonade
on your favorite sweatshirt
and 3 bonus points
on a clicker quiz
i'm not caught
in the essence of firsts
like 30 extra minutes
to kiss you in
real time
your dark features and
unfaltering movements
evolve like
the sounds of me loving
composed of your stiff-fingered
electricity and a continuation
of all the good
Osiria Melody Mar 22
Your memories, encapsulated on a memorial plaque
Your expensive smile, engraved into my mind
I thought you were all right
Your passions, preserved through my works, a continuation of your legacy
Your kindness, reverberated in this room, bittersweet aura

Every time I step into this room that was once yours, I feel like I'm one step away from Death
Every time I say your name, I feel like I'm one word away from my last
Every time I look at photos of your smile, I feel like I'm one tear away from becoming a memory
Every time I dream of you, I feel like I'm one day away from becoming distant

A distant echo of meaninglessness, for losing you is what I never wanted
A distant echo of confusion, for fearing that I'd never be good enough to make up for lost time
A distant echo of animosity, for drinking anger: the only thing that makes me feel alive
A distant echo of suicide, for I'll never stop blaming myself

You always told me that you were fine
But never told me that 'fine' lost touch with you
You always told me that you were happy
But never told me that 'happy' killed you

I will always stay strong, not for myself, but for you, who has grown—






A scene played in my mind. A mother lost her son because he died from his own hands. She blames herself each day and wants to reunite with him through death, but cannot bring herself to do so. She expends every fiber of strength within her to honor him, even if the memory of him grows distant each day.
Alexander Foe Nov 2018
He lost his job yesterday
But the bills, they just kept comin'

I feel young recently
But time itself, it just kept movin'

She lost her beloved
But the memories, they just kept emergin'

I saw my ex-lover
But when we laid eyes, we just kept goin'

He met his lost friend
But when he tried to talk, he just kept leavin'

The dog dropped its treat in the river
But when it tried to get it, it just kept driftin'

The poem tried to end itself
But when it reached here, it just kept goin'

The poet tried to find himself
But he failed, he just kept writin'

The couplets tried to find reason
But alas, continuation just kept happenin'

Time must go on, even if we chose to stay
But time is impartial. It just keeps goin'
We are insignificant creatures of this world and a slave to things like time and change. We may get taken aback by negative experiences, suffer through them and despair about them, but people move on. We may enjoy happiness and great moments, but time moves on.
But what power we have, is to write about it. And keep time inside of our writings. And to express our feelings about it.
Another Aug 2018
It denotes a different time, place, spoken word, way of mapping out the thoughts,
that those societies held collectively if not individually,
to which we no longer think in such a way, before we could ever really understand it because that era, like all of them, is untranslatable, as they say,
a dialect we are unable to exchange
so we search tirelessly for annotation
erased from the sector, history has implanted on our minds, never to hold any meaning to ourselves, because we arrived too late that change went before our eyes or perhaps too early to have taken place unnoticed, unless we try to find it somewhere in culture, we no longer can relate to as a whole, but individually.

we find that it correlates to a segment of our being, never telling anyone but ourselves that we found the place to which has gone —from the streams of living.

continuation; and such other related issues:

—unrelated shifts in time, when brought together, are without being understood by one another, so they sit quietly for a while listening without interference,
learning from difference
where they

To that place from which time came, trickling in to show us how to age, will you have been waiting...? inner–dialogues, never are they disappointing, nor a rush

quietly examining through the openings in the folds to find what lies wide open in the indigo divine

extension of before —here actually laying with my sight inverted, toward that star dimming, wavering, such is our way of living, scattering willingly for meaning, meaning, meaning
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
On a Sunday evening, the hall started to fill up.
for one of the most influential leaders
young people, full of questions about the church they once loved
reassurance to challenge articles of faith without leaving faith behind
the preacher had come to speak out against what he called lies
eternal damnation might be misleading
Gandhi’s in hell? We have confirmation of this?
God wants all people to be saved. Does God get what God wants?
The leader had rejected Hell, thereby embracing heresy.
hoped to spark a movement
faith is best expressed in deeds, not words.
we have a winner.
I’m only going to say things that I know are true.
the future of the faith belongs to skeptics and doubters.
dreaming of a world without Hell, building Heaven on earth.
Jesus will come again, to judge the living and the dead.
We disagree about the nature of this judgment.
Hell was a divine penitentiary, Hell was the status quo.
Hell was a riot of mutations—a sick parody of the natural order.
Hell was the only fitting punishment for the crime of being born
Hell was a vivid symbol of an awesome, unreasonable God,
holding you over the Pit of Hell, much as one holds a Spider
the doctrine of Hell doesn’t hamper recruitment efforts,
God is good enough to save you from it.
worry, instead, about eradicating the various hells on earth.
life beyond is a continuation of the choices we make here
God might offer salvation to dead people who failed to choose
-Who would doubt God’s ability to do that?
-Just picking  the verses I like? I think everybody is
free will means that human beings must have real choices,
judgment is God’s way of taking  human agency seriously.
choose between a personal Jesus and a perfect Bible,
some questions about the afterlife will have to wait until we get there
the mystery at the heart of creation
one more mildly spiritual Californian,
was a dissenter in Michigan.
Not a lifelong believer.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source -
Najla Jul 14
Today, I’ve dug a thousand graves
for every funeral that rose inside my heart,
and tomorrow will be a continuation
of this never-ending sorrowful funeral

And the only one
who’s grieving
your aching bones
is you,
and you only
Muzaffer Sep 23
Talk short, good make love.
It is the continuation of the short you feel when making love.
Reality of the life.. :)
Sydney Rose Jan 24
i am exhausted of my continuation  
to start over with a new person
only to introduce myself
later in the path of the two of us
to the problems i never got to solve
in my previous relations
Nat Lipstadt Sep 14
~for Sreetama Chatterjee, granddaughter of Pradip Chatterjee~

A first time grandfather observes,
“that one path ends, a new one begins”

A philosophy, an observation shared,
one that I am, in multiplicity acquainted

Sources inform me that Sreetama is
of Sanskrit origin, the meaning is
“gift of god”

how wonderful are the mysterious coincidences in this world!

For my Hebrew name,
Netanel, given to me at my birth, the meaning is
“gift of god”

Sources inform me that name of Sreetama has given you
the desire for creative, artistic or musical expression
in an original way.

I can pretend to be surprised, but who would I fool?

you, granddaughter of my friend, an esteemed poet,
Pradip Chatterjee,
who delights in you,
you, an exquisite of the small
you, so powerful already,
that he has shelved his writing,
(temporarily I suspect)
to tend to your upbringing

You, so powerful already,
you, will break his will, command his attention,
demanding, bringing out his issuance of a thousand poems,
all revealing and reveling in your mastery,
over him!

You, so powerful already,
in secret concert, listening secretly,
already composing silently, smilingly,
awaiting the arrival of your fine,
very fine, motor skills,
to grasp, own! his writing utensils,
with the strength of a child insistent

You, feeling the power within those instruments,
sparking a commencement and a continuation of
the generational gift residing in your senses

I await those artistic creature creations
most impatiently...

“the charming patience is the wait time tween your visions of
the excellence of the common, the exquisites of the small,
the delights of loss and pain translated into mercurial milestones,

छोटी की उत्तमता
[ *~ बालिका श्रीतमा चटर्जी के लिए कविता ~

प्रथम बार दादा ने महसूस किया,
"एक पथ पड़ाव तक पहुंचता है, एक नया प्रारम्भ होता है"

एक दर्शन, एक अवलोकन साझा करता हूँ
जिससे मैं भली भांति परिचित हूँ| कई गुना

स्त्रोत बताते हैं कि शब्द 'श्रीतमा' संस्कृत मूल का है,
जिसका अर्थ है - "ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद";

दुनिया में होने वाले रहस्यमय संयोग, कितने अद्भुत हैं!
मेरे हिब्रू भाषा के नाम - 'नेटानेल'

जिसे मेरे जन्म के समय, मुझे दिया गया
उसका भी अर्थ यही है - " ईश्वर का आशीर्वाद"

मुझे, सूत्र बताते हैं कि 'श्रीतमा' नाम ने तुम्हे
रचनात्मक, कलात्मक या संगीतमय -

अभिव्यक्ति की इच्छा दी है
बिलकुल नैसर्गिक और मूल तरीके से।

मैं आश्चर्यचकित होने का नाटक कर सकता हूं,
लेकिन आखिर मैं किसे मूर्ख बनाऊंगा?

तुम, मेरे दोस्त, एक सम्मानित कवि,
प्रदीप चटर्जी की पोती हो

जो तुम्हे देख कर प्रसन्न होता है
तुम, छोटी हो, श्रेष्ठ हो, उत्तम हो

तुम पहले से ही इतनी खुशनसीब हो कि,
उसने अपने लेखन को रोक कर दिया,
(अस्थायी रूप से, ऐसा मेरा मानना है)

केवल और केवल
तुम्हारी अच्छी परवरिश के लिए

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम उसकी इच्छाशक्ति को मोड़ सकोगी

उसके ध्यान को अपनी ओर खींचकर
अपनी महारत से उसके भीतर

हिलोरें मार रही हज़ारों कविताओं को
रहस्योद्घाटित होने का अवसर दे सकोगी

तुम पहले से ही इतनी शक्तिशाली हो,
तुम चुपके से धीरे धीरे सुन रही हो

तदात्म्य स्थापित कर रही हो
चुपचाप रच रही हो, गढ़ रही हो

इंतज़ार कर रही हो, समय आने का
अपनी मांसपेशियों पर नियंत्रण होने का

जिससे तुम लेखनी को पकड़ सको
सुदृढ़ता के साथ नियंत्रित कर सको

कुशलता से उसका उपयोग कर सको
एक बच्चे की ताकत और जिद के साथ|

तुम उन उपकरणों में निहित शक्ति महसूस कर रही हो,
जो शुरुआत से ही निरंतर तुम्हारे भीतर,

स्फुलिंग उत्पन्न कर, तुम्हारी इन्द्रियों के भीतर मौजूद
पीढ़ीगत उपहार को जारी रखते हैं

मुझे तुम्हारी उन कलात्मक, जीवंत कृतियों का,
इंतजार है, अधीरता के साथ, हाँ, पूरी अधीरता के साथ|

Many thanks to Shiv Pratap  Pal for his translation, advice and exquisite attention to the smallest detail.
Johnny walker Jan 19
If I a chance to travel back
through time and space to a time and a place of my choosing
It back to fifties and sixties I'd go where life was so much simpler when there weren't the pressures of everyday life we were able to enjoy growing up as
Then we moved Into the sixties new fashions bright colours pretty girls In their mini shirts could brighten one's
Time of so much change Incredible the sixties was a wonderful time sometimes think we'd be better of not moving  on with progress stayed In the sixties frozen In time well I would be
For the time I now live In there no difference
between working day life struggles I'm now retired
but there no difference Its
just the same continuation
of my working life
What was the point of those working days to retire to nothing complete and utter waste
We should never have moved on from the sixties well that the way I see It bring back the
the sixties
Just some thoughts while passing my day my feelings
Muted Oct 24
i have nightmares in white.

clean walls,
shiny, sterile floors,
the pale, blinding light
staring into me

for each click of the speculum,
each snap of latex,
there is a crack up my spine
and i am silenced

i am muted

i know
what it is like
to die.

the act of dying
isn’t the end of existence,
it is the continuation of life
after you’re gone

it is cracked lips and stuffy noses
it is wellness checks
and medication

it is romanticizing sharp objects
but flinching at the sight of blood

it is light pauses between words
to ensure that the wrong ones
don’t escape your tongue

dying is living empty.

and when i wake
from my white nightmare,

i am hollow.
hsyclara Jun 15
before a rope becomes completely cut
those delicate shreds of strings twirled to embrace in union
untwist and gradually untwine
ever so gradually
but know they will separate one day

and once it's cut it can't be undone
the rope itself can be taped or glued
for external fix
but the shreds of strings that absolute its primal state
thousands and thousands of tiniest fractions that bridge the rope
will forever struggle to find its individual continuation
will forever have lost its other half
Ken Sep 2018
When the clock strikes 7:10 in the morning
Everbody starts running
But in my perspective
Time is subjective

People walking by each other
Walking past one another
In my narrow view
There's you

As a courtesy
I nod and said "Hello"
At the back of mind a continuation,
"... my unrequited intent"
An imagery of my morning routine
The Mellon Oct 2018
Your name means many things my sweet.

Your first is a continuation of many before. A take on a name well loved.

It resembles family narrative and new beginnings,
Yet it brings back memories of old favorite books.

Though she didn't know it your middle means a lot too.
My grandmothers name, may it someday pass to you.
I'm sure she would love you, and your mother, she was a spitfire too after all.

Though she didn't mean for me to see, I love the choice and all it means to me, least I know it means something to you too.

Lastly comes Berrus, my family namesake.
We don't come from much,
But we offer all that we are.

We will put food on the table and a roof overhead and we will be
Fiercely Loyal.
We arnt known for always making well thought out decisions,
But we always try to do what we think is right.

So long as I someday get to meet you
Molly Jane Berrus.
Chapter One — In the Woods

For all I know, I could be in a dream right now, no beginnings, no once upon a time, no long long ago; and perhaps no endings, no happily ever after, no the-end, and no non-arbitrary answer to the question. Of course, no one wants to read that, no one wants to be told that all they’ve ever believed in is a lie, what it is in the end, is what it was in the beginning, hopeless.

Everything is trivial, at least at the moment, at least that’s what I feel, well, I am who I am, is that not correct, or am I suppose to be someone else, or feel like someone else, the other I do not understand, the other I do not care for or about, the other I would never want to be, or the other that embodies, mimics, and mocks, all the sources and ends to my yielding to the scorns of life. No, I am only ME. That’s all I will be. Except, at the moment, and as abruptly as it may seem, at the moment- I do not know who I am.

Chapter Two — The Girl

Sitting in the subway, taking a stroll around the lake, all that time away from actually writing, your entire purpose of existence will-not rush to your mind-but simply all make sense.
Whether or not that is actually constructive is again, trivial at the moment. Whether or not the fact that the absentmindedness afterwards undermines all that insightfulness that had came before it makes the entire conversation unworthy of being discussed by its entirety, is not important, or just not interesting enough for me to ignore the fact that I am, at this very moment, running through a endless territory of barely anything other than stripes of forests away from the occasional darkness that most would call night.
If there were anything beyond the soft grip of the crisp emerald fields of molds and fungus, the soft shower of the gleaming silver moonlight, the tanning hides of the shading elms, an occasional joy of a little wilder beast, and the deadly silence, it is not within my sight, and I must be heading towards it. Yes, there must be something else.
Something beyond this stillness, this stock-still, never fleeting moment in time; there must be an end that is not an end for all this seeking of the seeker. There must be a meaning in all the seemingly meaningless continuation of a standstill.
There must be a gift, a present, well just a difference, to be the spark in the storyline, but what is it? I could guess, but that’s expectation.
Expectation, the tail of the tale you will be chasing after that exists not, because, all that you would have believed in only exist within your mind.

The Tree

One of my branches caught beneath the cape, and scratched at her ankle. I shook, and she did too, but only so slightly. Perhaps it was the wind, well, for me, but for her, I would rather, it was the instinct sensing of pain, or may be just a itch. Whatever it was, it was to be felt; she felt it, and so did I.
She did not, however, respond in anyway, and quietly she passed on. This is a disappointment to me, sadly. Actually, it was more than that, I felt a downing of emotions, from the curiosity of a child to the most slight, yet the most intimate pinch at the heart, a sharp pain.
What did I expect, was she to stop and grant me a part in her story, in the flight of the has-been worldly, and leave everything behind.
Have I forgotten, once more, that I am a tree, the ultimate metaphor for permanence? Even at that, the fact that I cannot move is not the question, what should be asked is what more could be there for a tree; yes, will I always remain, when all have passed on, the response as always, is probably yes.
What is there then, to all this, why do I still remain? As a tree, where did I get a hope that there is a hope, and what exactly is this hope. Perhaps I just always tell myself to wait and see, yes, maybe that is it. I’ll wait and see.
I turn around, or I just turns my attention back around, expecting to see her vanishing into the distance, however, she had not yet passed me. This time, one of my other branches caught at the cape, threatening to tear off the shield, I tried to stop them, but again, I cannot move. As she defends, the instrument of disguise, also known as the mask, almost yields, and unveils the mystery.
She quickly stations it back in place, nonetheless, although my appearance is as still as stillness can be, with my quick wits, I stole a look beneath the golden disguise, and I was surprised, yet not so much as I was delighted.
She was gifted with a natural pureness in her features, plain, yet, upright, proud, and inherently, and elegantly innocent. The nobleness draws the most fear, shame, and sorrow.
If I could, I would, lower down my gaze, and the crown-how ironic-of my tree, not in admiration, but in shame, the despicable, inevitable taunts of my conscience.
It is only now, that I have noticed as she had passed my way, that there is another player in this game, another character in this story. On her shoulder, sits the stereotypical shape of a petite and bright star. The light, lights my veiled blush of humiliation; she seems even more innocent, even more careless and naive, even more happy.
What is it, what is she smiling about; what is she thinking about?

The Star

Well, I am her, so I would, or just, I should know.
The dreadful thing is, her identity is still a mystery; it doesn’t matter how close you gets to her, whether or not she is a princess, a ordinary farm girl, a boring city child, a dangerous assassin, or whatever she is, doesn’t just suddenly hop out in the clear for you. However, you can still sense from the baseline of our so called humanity, the little insanity our souls call intuition, an indecipherable comfort of our inner most consciousness, and subconsciousness.
I can see my own reflection from the back of her mask, funny how I can’t still see Her. Does it matter if I see myself, if all that’s ever going to change is my consciousness. Perhaps not, perhaps all I need was a sense of being, a sense of existence, to feel that extra undecipherable sense of bliss by mere proximity, I am with her, feels her existence, and that is all I needed.
Written some time in 2012.
Hannah Marze Sep 2018
I'm not looking for a fight, even though I could,
but would doing what is right even do me any good?
Whether I was the beginning or the end, my curiosity
will only fuel your continuation to defend monstrosity

after all of these years.

I chose to be quiet; I wanted time to be my nurse,
but I'm still unsure why it developed into my curse.
I've accepted who I am; I'm not what you created,
although I may never understand why I hesitated,

because now speaking up is easy.

I'm part of an army of those who have felt *****;
cleansed by a Savior and proven worthy.
I'm not seven years old and naive,
like those around you who refuse to believe

that molestation: your past and your disease

your haunting ghost every time you think of me.
you're undiagnosed and walking around so free
but there's more than the surface with you.
you're out in the open now....

me too.


they bend and stretch,
this way and that,
in the most unusual
poses, but they're alive,
picking through garbage.

the man had had a really
nice dream the night before,
of a time of before, when
life was so much more than
picking through what was
refuse to others, refuse to
him, and to her, back before.

but these dreams don't
bother him; they both live
in a world without hope,
even quite literally, truth,
living right up to the edge
of the large areas of the world
considered still too radioactive
for human life, so dreams of
before are always very
welcome for them all,
as are memories; they live
now in a world where dreams
and memories are the only good
things to live for still, but because
of a lack of good things, the joy
contained in dreams, in memories,
are many times more potent in a
normal man or woman from before,
so even without hope, people still
enjoy talking about the old days,
and storytelling again takes an almost
central role in these brand new societies,
that are actually a continuation of at least
from 30,000 BC from a total of around 200,000
years, and likely going back many more tens
of thousands of years, so, it's in their blood, our
very genetics, our evolutionary make-up, and
maybe their mess began exactly because there
were no big story-tellers being heard, not for
many continuing generations, not speaking of
whatever great social ills may have been
prevalent in their day, nor leading rallying
cries that made a difference in changing
government social policies, not heard like
a woody guthrie or a john lennon, and so much
further beyond and behind them, not in
the last few decades before the War,
the great voices were still out there,
if you're into your local music scene,
you'll probably get it, when you've
really heard it, and done well, that
reflects back to an audience exactly
what that audience is not maybe
thinking, but what they are feeling
as a whole, those feelings that last
sometimes a lifetime's length, the
ones like from rejoicing to mourning,
or from happy to sad, or mourning back
into rejoicing, and sad back into happy once
more, those voices were still out there, but it's
just that no-one could hear anymore, addicted
to their platforms, their own artificially constructed
lives carefully crafted to project outward, as deeply as
any ****** or blow or any other addiction one could
think of, they all filled their lives ever more with
trivialities, our hearing the storytellers remind
them of their purpose, and all those afflicted
by that culture shared little blame, it
seemed to shift at some point in a
fundamental way from a general
what's good for my world? to a
what's good for my religion?" to a
what's good for my country?* to a
what's good for my family? to a totally
exclusive what's good for me?, instead
of that proven much better an even balance
between the all of these, rather than too
much an extreme on any end of any
spectrum, like picking from a complete
spectrum of every colours, but only picking
those hues at the extreme edges, leaving so
much beauty unfulfilled, and so sadly unused,
so many crayons left melted in the crayola box.

but none of that matters at all anymore,
there is no left or no right, no ideologies,
no selfies, no rat-race, no rich, no poor
just all one thing now, survivors, that
as promised would envy the dead, add
but again, what's good for him and for her
are their dreams, like his last night's,
or any of his memories, even the ones
that without the stark comparison of
here and now seemed horrible, of trying
to guess how on earth all these millions
of small factors, how that vile mixture
was made that got them to the point of
the mutually assured destruction that
was designed to prevent it from ever
happening, just as in dr. strangelove,
if for no other than the most important
reason in all human history now, after
before, how to make sure never to let
whatever those factors were that most
made war come upon them no matter the
human cost, that they never be ever
allowed to ever take root, if the human
race even survives at all, which is still
very much in question.

they keep walking even after it is starting
to get dark, looking for a fresh vein of whatever
food they can possibly find, staking out the area
for a thorough 6-feet down over plot between the
four bright yellow luminescent plastic government
issued poles bright and early tomorrow; people work
really really hard in this time as a rule, of necessity,
long hours, so when the day is done, and the mind
again has time to wander, they will wash and lay
out tomorrow's meagre choice of garments to
wear the next day, have a light bedtime snack
if they have anything to eat, or looking forward
to what is now the only sure meal of the day,
and thus the biggest, lunch time, to help people
with the best gift from the one group of their own
that had betrayed them all the most, the politicians,
those who still ran the show, and they realize how close
their democracies often got in, as too far in areas too often
also, but they still need them, and giving them the midday
fuel to scavenge to struggle to keep themselves from
completely starving to death, all of that, lost in
another memory myself now, the work infecting
the author, or is it reflecting the author, hmm,
but all of this is infectious i must admit,
but, yes, my point way back there was
the people work themselves deliberately
and for only the reward of keeping body
and soul together one more day, or week,
but also so they can run and jump and slide
right up to the soft body of their lover dream,
or the the hard body of their lover dream, it
doesn't matter who likes which, but snuggling
in with affection near spilling over the edges of
your heart like a 2nd type of madness, a madness
not of thoughts, but of feelings, a manic heart patient,
philosophically speaking, with the greatest lover
you've ever had, or will have, your perfect lover,
the lover you would pick like building a sims
character, with your perfect preference looks,
like ideal eye colour & type, hair colour & type,
every physical detail, and every personality trait,
but we have all kind of done that in real life at
least once, and realized even when someone
else checks so many boxes, like that line from
500 days of summer when the guy's little
'tween buddha little sister who gives him
advice said something like, look, just because
a pretty girl is into all the same ****** ****
you are doesn't mean her your soul mate,
but when this lover checks every box
in the yes column dream, and not one
box in the no column dream, that's the
type of thing that can't be ignored no
matter how hard a human being can
try now, so they all share the one same
lover above any other, their dreams,
because though they still have some
to be grateful for in their immediate
lives, they still breathe, it is a harsher
world now that ever could be before
easily imagined, and they all rush
as one to their lover's arms each
night, as almost in unison for those
of them in the majority working Main
Shift, the best pickers given the best
light from the sun, and all is shared
back to the community, so the elderly,
orphans, or otherwise infirm in some
way all get the best share, because they
have already otherwise paid a cost that
strangely wasn't noticed in the before,
and then it's true love dream the greatest
of all dreams forever and ever dream, just the
dream of a time before what every single language
that still exists as a living language, and
many, many were lost, but each one of
them calls the War the Catastrophe,
even those languages to whom the
word catastrophe already had a strong
link to another event, this was likely not just
the very worst thing that hadn't yet happened
to them before it of course did, but the very worst
thing that will ever even happen in their world, period,
not because of some mass enlightenment,
though there does seem to be one of those
incidentally as well, but because at looking
at the scarred and some areas forever mortally
wounded, including startlingly enough, every
specifically targeted areas on every continent
known for their high agricultural yields,
from the Great Plains in North America,
and Ukraine in Europe, to Iraq in Eurasia,
to Egypt in North Africa, to places you'd
never heard of mostly, and with that best
of the last arable land already gone (fighting over
water supplies in more arid lands is what
triggered the War), any hope is thoroughly
misplaced, and though even he would
always feel guilty of it, war seemed the
answer to him once, too, before the one to
really end all others, for the human race
will most likely be extinguished just due to
irreparably damaged DNA where in not too
many generations, those where any people
can still even communicate in some sort of small
way will dwindle and dwindle, being the very
most fringe minority no matter how deep one was,
no matter how safe one thought they were,
mere generations because the heart will still want
what the heart has always, it can't be controlled, there
will be no more war because there will be no
more people. he remembers it happened on that
really big celebration of the anniversary of
d-day, the big d-day centenary, the day that
social disorder, just as in 1848, spread as quickly
as the real huge forest fires they have everywhere
now, today, and my story is getting more and more
mixed in with life, just one more new fact of a new life,
when all the new dictatorships sprung up in some of the
most unlikely of spots to end in all-out thermonuclear
warfare world wide, all on live feed... it feels somehow
ironic that the vast majority of those who instantly
vapourized in the very first wave of a much more
extended war than anyone would have guessed,
but the greatest casualty list by far, were themselves
watching it all happen and be commentated on by
talking heads in big newsrooms, instead of using
those last precious moments to say goodbye to
some loved-one, everyone has at least one,
but they were addicts right to the end
of the time before when the very
word cellphone, and the concept
of it even be almost knowingly
forgotten, as so many others,
and now sweetest sleep has
grabbed hold of both of them
after an hour or two of intimacy
just for them alone, and their
greater lover always dream, awaits
them already, arms wide open, beckoning
calling out to them all, each by name, all of
them left, for in dream lies the
last link to anything normal.
i took a psych class once, i forget which one, but we watched a documentary on dream study done with former concentration camp, and true death camps, like Birkenau the notorious Auschwitz sub-camp that exterminated m such a thoroughly organized fashion, too, what did people in such trauma dream of (i'd have guessed they would have horrific nightmares and terrors each evening), and it turns out 100% of them reported having the most marvelous dreams of their lives, like a pressure valve for the incredibly intense misery on a seemingly unending day by day fashion, their dreams were unparalleled in how marvelous they were. And after watching Chernobyl, reading old government documents on what day to day life would likely be like for the survivors of a fullest exchange of nuclear weapons with the old CCCP, and that seemed to me to the closest thing to hell as far as living would go, so I thought their dreams would have to be pretty great, too.
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