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"convene" poems
but have you noticed, have you noticed how  all mental health problems stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category; i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers; it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns. it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality, the aether virus attacks the pronoun on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use of pronouns, when a king casually says of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively; so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering? the pronoun category is weak from day one, because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer to have weak thinking and strength in knowing, for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing, i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall. so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals - while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals, but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals! but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness, in that segregational aspect of things "sorted," why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage compared to a strength in other grammatical categories? why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns? the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked, and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
0
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
plank v. veneer via grasshoppers
but have you noticed, have you noticed how  all mental health problems stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category; i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers; it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns. it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality, the aether virus attacks the pronoun on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use of pronouns, when a king casually says of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively; so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering? the pronoun category is weak from day one, because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer to have weak thinking and strength in knowing, for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing, i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall. so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals - while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals, but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals! but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness, in that segregational aspect of things "sorted," why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage compared to a strength in other grammatical categories? why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns? the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked, and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
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45
Parallel tremors follow your heavy footsteps through the moss that carpets a maze of tired oak. Solemn warnings calcify soft thoughts and point you at the coal on the horizon. Its splinterglow peeks hot squints through the arboreal tangle. Topaz streams convene and braid themselves around your spine. The stones in the riverbed grow smoother and each becomes a grain of sand. You let the sand console your roots as you curl your toes and fall asleep.
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Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Tree of Life
There's a voice on the phone telling what had happened. Some kind of confusion, more like a disaster. And it wondered how you were left unaffected, but you had no knowledge. No, the chemicals covered you. So a jury was formed as more liquor was poured. No need for conviction; they're not thirsty for justice. But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head. I found out I was guilty. I found out I was guilty. But I won't be around for the sentencing 'cause I'm leaving on the next airplane. And though I know that my actions are impossible to justify, they seem adequate to fill up my time. But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else, well then maybe I could take your advice and I wouldn't act like such an ******* all the time. There's a film on the wall that makes the people look small who are sitting beside it, all consumed in the drama. They must return to their lives once the hero has died. They will drive to the office, stopping somewhere for coffee; where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene dispensing their wisdom; Oh dear amateur orators. They will detail their pain in some standard refrain. They will recite their sadness like it's some kind of contest. Well if it is I think i'm winning it, all beaming with confidence as I make my final lap. The gold metal gleams, so hang it around my neck. 'Cause I am deserving it: the champion of idiots. But a kid carries his Walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha. I know a girl who cries when she practices violin, 'cause each note stands so pure it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now to me, everything else, it just sounds like a lie.
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Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Going for the Gold
There's a voice on the phone telling what had happened. Some kind of confusion, more like a disaster. And it wondered how you were left unaffected, but you had no knowledge. No, the chemicals covered you. So a jury was formed as more liquor was poured. No need for conviction; they're not thirsty for justice. But I slept with the lies I keep inside my head. I found out I was guilty. I found out I was guilty. But I won't be around for the sentencing 'cause I'm leaving on the next airplane. And though I know that my actions are impossible to justify, they seem adequate to fill up my time. But if I could talk to myself like I was someone else, well then maybe I could take your advice and I wouldn't act like such an ******* all the time. There's a film on the wall that makes the people look small who are sitting beside it, all consumed in the drama. They must return to their lives once the hero has died. They will drive to the office, stopping somewhere for coffee; where the folk singers, poets, and playwrights convene dispensing their wisdom; Oh dear amateur orators. They will detail their pain in some standard refrain. They will recite their sadness like it's some kind of contest. Well if it is I think i'm winning it, all beaming with confidence as I make my final lap. The gold metal gleams, so hang it around my neck. 'Cause I am deserving it: the champion of idiots. But a kid carries his Walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha. I know a girl who cries when she practices violin, 'cause each note stands so pure it just cuts into her, and then the melody comes pouring out her eyes. Now to me, everything else, it just sounds like a lie.
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47
We met through proximity, but didn't use that to convene. We learned so much about each other through a screen, But we've let each other truly be seen. With our many shared interests, and our vastly different pasts, help us clearly see our paths. How enchanting this has all been, to now call you a friend.
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Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
"Unexpected Match"
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).                                        ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;                                        or at least an exfoliation curbor. i write honey, honey honey honey, i write honey, honey honey honey p'ooh bear droned in on it. when i write, i write honey, honey honey O'Milee. from serving in the US and A navy, to a beach-buggy accident. when i write, i write honey -        *** e - Atilla styled liquorice -   lee co reesh - not liquidated rice - ghosts of latin almost everywhere; quadruple that. convene and converse - contrary             collective. some say this might as well be the famous goldberg sardines; when i write, i write honey, i write: honey honey honey...       will you be my Duracell bunny? honey, will you be my    ******** par excellance? i see... no, you won't be. the museum of Greek sculpture was vandalised!     guess what they took, the ****** fiendish crooks! with a wet splash of colour comes the cold marble artifice - a bit like the cool-mouth refrigerator of a woman during felatio... still don't know how she gets that gob down below room temperature.     (heresy input, never start a sentence with an)          and there you have it,                   writing, catering for abstractionism, just after he said: they're on a diet.
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Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
five croutons and two pieces of sushi
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).                                        ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;                                        or at least an exfoliation curbor. i write honey, honey honey honey, i write honey, honey honey honey p'ooh bear droned in on it. when i write, i write honey, honey honey O'Milee. from serving in the US and A navy, to a beach-buggy accident. when i write, i write honey -        *** e - Atilla styled liquorice -   lee co reesh - not liquidated rice - ghosts of latin almost everywhere; quadruple that. convene and converse - contrary             collective. some say this might as well be the famous goldberg sardines; when i write, i write honey, i write: honey honey honey...       will you be my Duracell bunny? honey, will you be my    ******** par excellance? i see... no, you won't be. the museum of Greek sculpture was vandalised!     guess what they took, the ****** fiendish crooks! with a wet splash of colour comes the cold marble artifice - a bit like the cool-mouth refrigerator of a woman during felatio... still don't know how she gets that gob down below room temperature.     (heresy input, never start a sentence with an)          and there you have it,                   writing, catering for abstractionism, just after he said: they're on a diet.
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50
at the end of the pier no one is fishing a couple from Jersey leans out over the rail looking down into the brown swill rolling under the weathered boards The wife remarked “Belmar's water is much nicer.” on the Gulf’s edge unhappy gulls convene, plaintively gazing over gray waves ebbing at their feet Brown Pelican crews fly in long ordered formations incessantly circling in widening rounds seemingly reluctant to plunge into the endless depletion of this aquatic dead zone I speak with a Jefferson Parish employee working a shovel to regrade disturbed sand boasting a consistency of moist drying cement “How did the Gulf oil spill affect this place?” I ask “It took evarding.” she said With a slight Cajun accent, “dig down a foot or two in da sand you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar. “I live down bay side near forty years. Had’nt been in de water fer twenty five.  The ****** ******** took evarding. They should go back to Englund” She went back to tilling the sand. Deepwater Horizon yet festers a short forty miles out to sea is now covered by an advancing storm swelling in the Gulf standing at the end of the long pier my hands  grasp the sun bleached lumber straining my eyes peering into a dark avalanche the serenade of bird songs have been replaced by the motorized drone of tenders servicing offshore rigs sounding a constant refrain filling my ears with a disquieting   seaside symphony the taste of light sweet crude dances on my tongue the pungent sting of disbursements climbs into nostrils rends my face prickles my eyes grandeur is a conditional state never permanent forever temporary Music Selection: Cajun Music: Hippy To-Yo Grand Isle 2/20/17 jbm
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Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
Grand Isle
at the end of the pier no one is fishing a couple from Jersey leans out over the rail looking down into the brown swill rolling under the weathered boards The wife remarked “Belmar's water is much nicer.” on the Gulf’s edge unhappy gulls convene, plaintively gazing over gray waves ebbing at their feet Brown Pelican crews fly in long ordered formations incessantly circling in widening rounds seemingly reluctant to plunge into the endless depletion of this aquatic dead zone I speak with a Jefferson Parish employee working a shovel to regrade disturbed sand boasting a consistency of moist drying cement “How did the Gulf oil spill affect this place?” I ask “It took evarding.” she said With a slight Cajun accent, “dig down a foot or two in da sand you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar. “I live down bay side near forty years. Had’nt been in de water fer twenty five.  The ****** ******** took evarding. They should go back to Englund” She went back to tilling the sand. Deepwater Horizon yet festers a short forty miles out to sea is now covered by an advancing storm swelling in the Gulf standing at the end of the long pier my hands  grasp the sun bleached lumber straining my eyes peering into a dark avalanche the serenade of bird songs have been replaced by the motorized drone of tenders servicing offshore rigs sounding a constant refrain filling my ears with a disquieting   seaside symphony the taste of light sweet crude dances on my tongue the pungent sting of disbursements climbs into nostrils rends my face prickles my eyes grandeur is a conditional state never permanent forever temporary Music Selection: Cajun Music: Hippy To-Yo Grand Isle 2/20/17 jbm
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89
Melancholic misadventures and misanthropic moments make meeting men more and more meaningless, Meaning less and less to those who undress to convene in the act of adulterated *** Flex: Point! Sit down, Smoke a joint, Go to sleep, Work, Eat, Wash (sometimes, not too often) Feign attraction and smile with your eyes as you die on the inside Darkness outside Whilst wintery winds whistle, the worldly-wise whittle on and on in their wordy way of the other-worldly wonders they have witnessed. We can but wish that their wily whispers will soon diminish with the melting snow Or else go, Turn your back on all that you lack before you step on a crack, break that back and see it refract through the prism of the microcosm of your mind Colour-blind Lost Trying to find Be found My heart beats yet I hear no sound As plasma pumps passionately through my pallid passages and I ponder partially perceptible pursuits that preside in my past Digging deep down into the depths of my ***** deeds discloses a discerning dichotomous divulgence of doctrine and dogma Two mothers Three brothers One sister And a whole load of Misters!
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Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
A Litter Raid Shun!
Our world was built to control us impeding our ability to thrive, induced into a system designed for wealth, power, and lies. Most of us end up broken enslaved for what little we have, the enemy divides our family as we follow another false flag. A price is paid for not conceding to an affirmation worth repeating, as our minds are all but defeated our souls are lost in a hidden war. History repeats itself as we are kept under control, when we accept defeat, we allow the enemy to grow. I was a victim just like you as degenerates overtook my home, life in the wake of calamity, cast on a pile of innocent bones. I am not the one you want to convene because I question everything, I am just a voice of honesty who was finally set free. Who finally broke through the construct of lies, the lies we were taught to believe in the construct of humanity.
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Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
The Construct
Just as the pyramids would, In the deserts of Cairo, Snow-capped mountains gleam distant, As if Kings on the Main. This distance complete, Through the eyes of the beholder, As from a sea-sided office, We with watch with wonder lust. Bright streetlights, And red lights, and green lights, And stop signs, As decadent name-change, Perceives as if older, As bigger, as bolder. Musicians and artists, Poets and Marxists, Authors and boxers, All convene to sing songs, As egalitarianism, Sings us a calm, blinded lullaby, As the idea to be grasped, In this young mind of mine. They call this no small town, In which not one arcade resides; Gun crime is never, In percent, as we ride, A wave of communal, Small-town "world peace," We'll take some money, Off the governments lease. In a sense we are distant, Different, contesting, A world which conforms, As if all can and will be, A slave to a master, Sociopathic disaster, As we run faster and faster, Away from that stream. We are the masters of our fate, As we rate the world's hate, On a scale from 1 to 10. We are secluded, Yet unconfused, not diluted; We are more aware of this world, Than it is of itself. We set the sidelines, As guidelines to life, As we watch with some bias, As we remain neutral to strife. We are the Power, And we are the River, Ripped from the main-stream, We create; we are free.
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Sep 20, 2010
Sep 20, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
The Town They Called a City
Deep within her stare value-laden eyes bare Thou liketh compete with disciplined man Prim proper equanimity assembled as plan Serve glory to God; begone any despair Grasping thy reality of excellence profound Access vast depth of emotion- drowned Dangling medals reaching out to touch Through tranquility, stand by your ground He pushed me open like a book untold Words of the gospel used by mean Daring as His veracity He loved me as bold By sworn duty, I shall perpetually convene
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Jul 20, 2023
Jul 20, 2023 at 12:01 PM UTC
hi, i’m back.
We are not the voice to elect a king We are anonymous I am not the one you want to convene because I question everything I am just a voice of honesty as degenerates overtake my home Life in the wake of calamity cast on a pile of bones It’s the new order of the ages, welcome to the end of days The beast controls our lives impeding our ability to thrive induced into a system designed for wealth, power, and lies A price is paid for not conceding to an affirmation worth repeating as I join the enlightened ones and wage a massive war A circularity that deviates from its path is not a circle anymore They will invoke internal and external threats then establish many secret prisons Slowly restricting the freedom of the Press while surveying ordinary citizens Chem-trails from government jets will be dismissed as urban legends Mandatory vaccinations designed to lower urban intelligence Radio-frequency identification chips mandatory for men, women, and children Man-made global pandemics separated for segregated sterilization Espionage becomes the new word for criticism And dissent will be the new word for treason In the name of self-preservation they will subvert the rule of law We are broken beyond repair, slaves for all we have As they divide our families, we ignore another false flag As history repeats, we are kept under control But we are not the voices to elect a king because we are anonymous
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Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
We Are Anonymous
The Elders of the Elven Mists, at the Death of the Old Queen From all around the Realm they came a Conclave to convene The fair haired Golden Locks of young Azky they did Crown Queen Azky Rode a Royal Beast of All Dragons he was King The Queens Beast Yaz Kere Loved Soaring About on Wing Yaz Kere knew it was his Royal fate to Protect  Queen Azky And Carry her aloft his Back Steadfast so Her Elf Arrows Fly The Dragons lived in Erehwon upon the Chrysenal Trees The Elves harvested the Leaves for Enchanted Wizardry Much Magic came from those Potions as Magical Notions To protect both Elf and Beast in Battle against enemy Hovens The Mordel slipped in by night to Steal the Magic Leaves but Yaz roared Alarm to dragons as swords  Pulled from Sheaths Queen Azky, Quiver, Elven Bow and Yaz Off to the Sky they go Blades clashed and Arrows Flew as Dragons passed above the war As Elven arrows hit thier Mark, hordes weakened to rearward The Mordel tried but Only failed and thus ends the Battles Tale
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Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
Mist Dragons of Erehwon
Maybe the way the curve of your spine fits into me is an indication of how the earth meets the sea. Frothing, frigid and free Maybe the way our lips convene is an illustration of a star being born Colliding, rising, expanding With every breath we whisper to each other the wind caresses the mountains in such delicate manners Maybe the way our eyes meet searching for a long lost landmark {Home at last, or at least until tomorrow} reveal the discovery of deeper mysteries Cold, comforting, coalescent Maybe the simplest brush of skin brings earthquakes to our veins Seeped with unspoken words warmth and peril rolled in one Maybe, just maybe, the first ****** between two lovers is the modern tsunami, a flood of pleasure, teeming with emotions and laughter The rain that lulls us to sleep is the same as the water that cascades down cracks and cliffs Racing to meet her soulmate, Salt water Fresh water Two hearts beat in solidarity Melting one into the other Tongue on tongue Fingertip to fingertip Maybe the way we started is the way we end, with nothing but empty space and deafening silence.
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Jan 18, 2018
Jan 18, 2018 at 9:50 PM UTC
Maybe
Why do you stand at the door frame wanting a hug? Even when the blood within in our very veins separates us Even when one noticeably meaningful tug Would make their eyes see suspicious Why do you stand at the door frame wanting a hug? Even when the many flaws have become obvious Even if all the numbness is avoided by a simple shrug All this needs to be absent, all this is prosperous! Why do you stand at the door frame wanting a hug? When my ultimate power proclaims"that's enough" When a bond so strong, but when noticed, forced to convene with the drug Oh how could you take such a chance when a hug will make time tough Yet, you still stand at the door frame wanting a hug.
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Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
Door frame
Oh, stay away with your blanket so warm.   Wrapped in the comfort of lies you have borne. Like clouds with weight, convene upon my chest. In the fog of emotion, it is fierce. To confess this feeling, true to my core, Unleashed in admission, dead heart, no fear. Like waves in a fury, they toss, they pull;   The wind scatters much, not this does it touch. The steadfast burden, comfort of despair; Depression is gray to those unprepared. To free this blanket of anguish and woe;   The ear of another to hear your hurt, Shiver your shiver, acknowledge your quake, This blanket of depression will soon yield.
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May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Blanket of despair
She is like no other, always in her necktie. I knew her before the necktie, before many the body manipulations, but not all. I'd stare, engrossingly, at elongated lobes, the wardrobe. I, now, her technophobe, longing to digital age do her. "It's complicated," we call it. How I long to stand next to her at the bus stop, like we used to do. Waiting, staring, baiting, glaring, like we used to do, at Fillmore and Haight, while we'd wait. Didn't care if my bus came and left, sometimes I'd just wait for hers, to follow her aboard. I think she liked the way I stalked her. Me in my blah corporate attire and necktie, her in her outlandishly wonderful. Going to work   those days were keen broad bean, where we'd   convene, sometimes out on the scene, or where folks ought not be seen. And we'd just look, for long periods. If we spoke, it was  egg white polite. But that was then and this is now and now we chat all naughty fun. I call her my baby, my honey-bun, my long distance impassioned one. Virtual realities do often please, something I like about the tease. If ever again together, I'll be on my knees. She's my fiancée and we plan to tie the knot. Guess I'll be tattooing a matching necktie.
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Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
Tattoo Necktie
A Mean machine        in       obscene     gang    green The Candlelight    flicker     in busted   T   V    screen Scream queen          Ilene   in   paralyzed          dream Dean Irene                      exploded               her spleen It seems  when                  she ate            some  beans Kathleen drank         from a canteen        of benzene Said sardines soaked in saline make the best cuisine Eugene came          between    Kristine     and Janine When they went             to the ravine         in Racine Teens hopped up on           caffeine               convene With Thirteen marines                         on Halloween On routine to      clean    and preen   the       latrines I’m keen    to notice the things      that you’ve   seen ? ?    ? ?   ?   ? ?    ? ?? ?    ? ?   ?   ? ?    ? ?? ?    ? ?   ?   ? ?    ? ? What if you could         unseen        what you've seen
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Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
The Things I've Seen {poem pop art}
A seedling tiny of good remembered still transformed uniform in vastness wavering roots small of succor turn trunks huge sprouting back from joys earthy,seeking skies many above rejoined both, re rooted in mother earth eagerly, hands and feet merged indistinguishably stoic in an existence pure, to one being impervious. a sapling soft now time twisted,gnarled,knotted to an entity unique, massive of heart fused in soul then just a being existing simply as one ordained so by time! sweet birds in me sing on me your kids swing around me in a ring the gods now impinge to them maidens cling for a nice manly thing under my cool wing do elders advices bring I amidst stand like a king impassive to everything! A thought in my mind as I see the ancient tree in my village."Hemmara" in my native language of Karnataka, a state in India, means literally an ancient and massive tree.Normally and in some mysterious way this invariably will be a Banyan tree in the village center which has its roots growing out of the earth and joining the branches and branches stooping down and joining the earth to become roots! Around the tree over time idols of innumerable Gods spring up,Elders convene and advise the folk,kids play and village belles flock to pray for a good husband!!
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Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 5:40 PM UTC
"Hemmara"- ( The Tree Massive Simply Being.)
with your little moral superiority complex and your unfathomable left-wing british politics as the road to take, let's just say i wouldn't be here, and i wouldn't complain as i do: i'd rather have a communist life with wife and kids rather than iron maiden and commercial bliss - maybe then i'd be talking serious medical conditions and not allowing amateurs to preach me psychology instead of reading philosophy like some secular evangelists should, because that's what atheism spawned: psychological Evangalist advents: no god = no soul, highest prime invoking thought, even though ****** traffic accidents to convene with what thought excites: a serenity that's contradictory when tested.
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May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
atheism spawned psychological Evangelicals
Gawking at the screen I convene here What words should I accumulate? Tonight Vocabulary building up Structuring the tallest and widest of sentences One hand, I hold a dictionary At the desk,Is my thesaurus Matching wits with myself How do I use partial vowels? Grammar mostly perplex To a perfect sentence No other quotations is near An average line is over due What imprison me from being incomplete? An unexplainable sentence Of writing On a foggy Monday As I awaken By touching A blank sheet of paper
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Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
A Writing Nightmare
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't, Chopin and Liszt is all piano so never mind the punk renegade violinist... how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated a population of a billion is staggering, western powers ********** blanks by comparison, it's like a body and a virus, translated with optometry the way we say things, Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea or alternatively lysergia - it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue given the history of celebrated colonialism - proof of the Hackney populace being solely Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with, maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot, on the word of honour dynamic pledging conveniences with the Vatican - look no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches and the sickbed eventualists rather than evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists... so they preached their Darwinism exactly against the theologically roundabout of the pyramids and the celestial intervention - but expected nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism you'll hardly convene on kindness as the standard norm of expression - track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music, i'll be honest... pop music drama of the band... you never hear of it with orchestras; the point of genius: you're not really there, absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others make the dough for the bread that's a house and a family of four, e.g; and just by petting cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild, are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
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Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Beijing Ouija
i mean, who the hell needs an individualised orchestra? Mozart doesn't, Beethoven doesn't, Chopin and Liszt is all piano so never mind the punk renegade violinist... how the Indians or the Chinese orchestrated a population of a billion is staggering, western powers ********** blanks by comparison, it's like a body and a virus, translated with optometry the way we say things, Sanskrit or the Beijing Ouija - looking at it is like ingesting the Swiss champagne miracle - nausea or alternatively lysergia - it's ******* me up acquiring this tongue given the history of celebrated colonialism - proof of the Hackney populace being solely Caribbean - what a desecrate groundwork to begin with, maybe Irish maybe Scout maybe Scot, on the word of honour dynamic pledging conveniences with the Vatican - look no further, we're naturalised sadists, football matches and the sickbed eventualists rather than evangelists, former nonsense reductionistists... so they preached their Darwinism exactly against the theologically roundabout of the pyramids and the celestial intervention - but expected nil barbarism... kingly kindness was at least the expected norm, but if you preach Darwinism you'll hardly convene on kindness as the standard norm of expression - track 12 of the beach boys' pet sounds is elevator music, i'll be honest... pop music drama of the band... you never hear of it with orchestras; the point of genius: you're not really there, absentee, you do the sacrifice, and make others make the dough for the bread that's a house and a family of four, e.g; and just by petting cats i learned that all animals, petted or wild, are naturally / intrinsically autistic.
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Society, the people's forum Where they learn about the rules and Meet each other, understand the game That they play every moment They each introduce themselves As one who abides by the social law And convene in larger numbers With those who are very much the same They chit and chat and shoot the **** They liff and laugh and moot on it But what of those who aren't a part of it? Simply because they just don't fit? This is learned at a young age, From our childhoods, life's book's first page Rippling, growing, til' it reaches a stage Until you're all alone, trapped in your head's cage And God can't play the shepherd to the sheep Can't bring you back to the flock You're tired, worn, can't breathe or sleep You age faster than the clock The paranoia inside your mind grows strong You're anti-social, not after long Sideways thinking, upside down A kingdom of one, you bear the crown Psychotic sins and torture played Thanatos and Eros, pleasure forbidden More real to oneself, to the others, one fades And appeals to oneself to make it all forgiven In the social circus, in your own ring Universes you ponder, death songs you sing You recluse your mind, lost without intent to be found For solitary freedom bests being amongst company, bound.
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Dec 2, 2009
Dec 2, 2009 at 11:18 AM UTC
Recluse Your Mind (The Social Circus)
Jingoism at its very best is still zealotry, and anyone with good sense can tell you none of that is good. Where has good gone? Narrowness is boasting ethnocentricity. The mind game of villainous blame furthers unkind possibility. Worse yet, demise of soul, to tout a right to defend, assaults a riffling on pith and marrow with no sane sense of psyche to lend. Basically then, we are told to "blend." I cannot. I am fanatical. My colors must be seen. This weathering of dark storm has unbiased relinquishment that must convene, upon a rainbow. With all heart and soul, given to Orlando.
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Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:59 AM UTC
Fanatical
it's nice to know it's not for naught there's value in what can't be bought where my plans convene with thought i invest different kind of plot honeycomb are to the bees as madness is to mysteries and are polite priorities nectar of insecurities? the recounted sheep are bleating/(bleeding) cry of wolf to deaf misleading as i bray again repeating every note so self-defeating thrown about the limbs of trees chaos with-in-discrepancies that which we melt just to freeze wring tangles such as these my journey is while they sleep shepherdess lost counted sheep the edge, again, to fall or leap for flight first failure grade so steep My white whale wild in the seas This ship no sail, nor north agrees Ever-spurning taste of tease I am ahabs intricacies to illusion am i ****** eternally roaming the land through burning thirst for empathy -i'm plagued with insecurity in an old biblical story mortal glimpsed our father's glory From that instant's blinding light was driven mad took his own sight if i could measure and define truth and where it draws the line which cliff faces only mine encases truly, i am fine chronic illness violently supressing luminocity onlookers hang silently as ash consume ferocity speed builds on tracks in my train I know this is too fast, again upon myself, 'you dare complain, without reference to real pain?' all avert their eyes, refrain saying nothing is my bane am i alone and insane? this focus that i can't explain? creating reason for my pain purpose for and by diseased brain
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Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
Untitled
it's nice to know it's not for naught there's value in what can't be bought where my plans convene with thought i invest different kind of plot honeycomb are to the bees as madness is to mysteries and are polite priorities nectar of insecurities? the recounted sheep are bleating/(bleeding) cry of wolf to deaf misleading as i bray again repeating every note so self-defeating thrown about the limbs of trees chaos with-in-discrepancies that which we melt just to freeze wring tangles such as these my journey is while they sleep shepherdess lost counted sheep the edge, again, to fall or leap for flight first failure grade so steep My white whale wild in the seas This ship no sail, nor north agrees Ever-spurning taste of tease I am ahabs intricacies to illusion am i ****** eternally roaming the land through burning thirst for empathy -i'm plagued with insecurity in an old biblical story mortal glimpsed our father's glory From that instant's blinding light was driven mad took his own sight if i could measure and define truth and where it draws the line which cliff faces only mine encases truly, i am fine chronic illness violently supressing luminocity onlookers hang silently as ash consume ferocity speed builds on tracks in my train I know this is too fast, again upon myself, 'you dare complain, without reference to real pain?' all avert their eyes, refrain saying nothing is my bane am i alone and insane? this focus that i can't explain? creating reason for my pain purpose for and by diseased brain
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