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david jm Aug 2014
Even when I use pencil
I'd rather douse atrocities in graphite hell
Than succumb to the white-pink corrector god.

To reveal myself my weakness
Is nature's impression on the mattress
Of my unconscious mind.
Big Virge Aug 2021
Yup... Trial And Error...
Is A Great CORRECTOR... !!!

I've Had My Trials...
... Within This Life..

But Have Found They've Helped...
When My Temperature's SWELLED... !!!!!

Somehow They've Dealt...
Some Cards That Felt...

As If NO BLUFF...
Could of Been Enough...
To Rise ABOVE  ...
When Things Got TOUGH... !!!

From Working With Jerks...
Who I Wanted To Hurt...

To Dealing With My Mum...
When Sclerosis STUNNED...
... MULTIPLE Functions....
of Her Nervous System... !!!!!

Ya See Trials Have Been...
A Thing That Seemed...

INSURMOUNTABLE...
...... BELIEVE...... !!!!!

But Have Also Built...
A Strength That My Mother...
... Gave To Me... !!!

When She Walked...
And Fought For Me... !!!

Even With.....
Her Husband Ya' SEE... !!!

There Were Some ERRORS...
That Lead To... TERROR...

That HURT Her Heart And Soul DEEPLY... !!!
But Also Proved How STRONG She'd Been... !!!

She'll Always Be...
My TRUE Black Queen... !!!

Because of Her STRENGTH...
When She Came To RESENT...

The Man She'd SPENT...........
Her Love.... Upon...

A Strength SO STRONG...
That Our Love Then SHONE... !!!

But Now She's Gone...
Her Spirit Prolongs...
And Helps Me Through...
My Life's ISSUES... !!!

Because of ERRORS...
That I Now Make...

But Now Whenever...
I'm Feeling PRESSURED...
I Remember How...
We Worked TOGETHER... !!!

As Her Life Was Slowly Drowned... !!!
And Know That She'll NEVER Let Me Down... !!!

If ERRORS I Make...
Make Her Feel ASHAMED... !!!

Because of The LOVE...
We STILL Share TODAY... !!!

So Many Trials Are Part of Life...
I've Found Denial...
DOESN'T Help You Slide by...
Those DIFFICULT Times... !!!

Because Trials I've Faced...
Have Made My Game......
Flow... TIGHT And STRAIGHT... !!!

From Girls In My World...
To Places I've Worked...

I've REFUSED To Be ******...
Or Let Chickens... DISTURB...

The Vibe That I...
Have Lived To FIND...

DISMISSES Trials.....................
And...... HARDER Times........... !!!

From EVER Becoming...
A Part of Something...
I'm... PARTY TO... !!!

See Trials Have PROVED...
That Who You CHOOSE...
To Be Down With Your Moves...

Is Key To KEEPING Your Vibe COOL... !!!

Instead of Making Moves With Crews...
Whose Interests Do NOT INCLUDE YOU... !!!

THINK It Through... !!!
Trials You've Been Through...
And ERRORS... PROVE...
That We Must Take Note...
of... Our Life's Quotes...

Because Our DUD Notes...
Are Things That... SHOW...

A BETTER WAY For Us To Go... !!!

Because As I Said...
At The Beginning of...
This INSPIRED Poem.... !!!!!

One of Life's GREATEST Correctors...
When You Think About It... IS...

...... Trial And Error......
Indeed, there have been many trials and errors in my life, which inspired this write ......
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
a small town, inexhaustible,
somehow far from mundane,
a predictable spring followed
by a predictable summer,
and yet nature, per se,
never really allows man
a mortal fascination with it,
a mortal by that I mean,
enclosed in replicas and analogues,
with an extinguishable "self"
to boot, as if in every democracy,
one vote, one life,
the end.

                   not some mystical
ever after,
    either the materialistic
absolute, or the other,
materialistic absolute,
                   if latin could invite
itself into the schools among
which sit Tao, Zen and others...
well, drop the prefix hyphen
and call it Re...

               trill of the tongue
that begat Sisyphus who:
     not having a jailor sit and
with pitchfork nagging...
         somehow... didn't roll the stone
aimlessly...
       but, simply,
sat there, less in love with anything
that might be peered at in a lake,
and more, or less,
       a hole that his "self"
       needed to fill...

                            interchangeable
ad infinitum of:
    cube through a square hole,
square hole with a cube in tow..
cube square hole, cube square hole...
trig. meaning either
from up, to down...

      or, or at least then...
offshoot, in life through and in
death, also through...
     two schools of thought:

1. man stands above nature,
2. man stands beside nature...

comes the audacious first,
with its
Manhattan Project,
     and with Hurricane Katrina
and the fact that lighting is yet
to be harnessed, and... farmed...

   comes the awe-stricken
second, with its naturalists
and... nature without man
will run its course...

   unappreciated,
     it diminishes, is even robbed,
no sooner the suffocating
murmur of prayer,
as soon enough,
           the caged bird prays
an indistinguishable song
to the song beneath
the watchful eyes of hawks...

   yet this is but a small town,
inexhaustible,
and by that I mean:
   the pen is always dry,
the muse is always shackled
    and stands mute,
    th conversations are always
less and more a pity on
an urban chance meeting,
the book is never written,
the pen is always used as rather
a tennis racket in a game of
crosswords...

         and a deep fascination
comes across between a youth
and an old man...
     on the lines of:
myopia - shortsightedness
     and utopia - hyperopia -
farsightedness...
          for the old man sees
a graveyard, as a murky lake
of grey, in the distance
the indistinguishable corrections
of detail...

     without his glasses...
but as he puts them on,
the murky lake of grey becomes
distinct in detail, crosses and tombstones...
         what of the distance?
far away and blurry in zebra
camouflage...
        two-dimensional details
in an otherwise tree-dimensional
yawn...

               optic corrector:
no, not a confusion on my part,
nearing age 80,
    he has both myopia    
   and hyperopia,
namely his reading glasses
    and his: walking around the town
glasses: to add to the details:
that's not cascade:
i. e. respectively.
      
Myopia glasses, id est:
   details in the distance
   culminating in shadows
of trees at noon.
  
Hyperopia glasses, id est:
          details on a piece of
paper, reading.

the inability to convey
an illusion of distance,
or rather the mind, cutting
corners,
    since it was possible for
the early game programmers
to trap a two-dimensional
fern in the first tomb raider
game...

   you would walk up to
the 2D object, and it would rotate
on an axis, very much akin
to the observed and the unobserved
electron...
          
    which, to me, is a bit like
discussing black holes...
    a two-dimensional object
in a tree-dimensional space...
     when observed behaving like
an atom...
     when unobserved behaving
like a wave...
or rather, to muddle,
and craft my own Pavlov exprience
in the watering eye...
    
    through the grey lake mass of
the graveyard... in the distance
no differing contorts but:
Monet... Monet...
    the old man speaks of ills,
hiding the achievements of old age,
a seated life,
   as if: no one likes
the man who doesn't leave
an enigma of some sort...
          
does cancer plague the soft tissued
organs? when mistletoe,
in symbiosis with bark bone of trees
can thrive in the winter sun,
minimally exhausting the tree
in its seasonal coma?

   old man cynic and
the woe of old age...
     but before the story of Judas
and H'eh Zeus (in Spain)...
   came the story of -
   the old man and the sea
(according to Monet)
;

  old man cynic,
on the rare occasion that the old
are disabled like children
at birth...
  while in most instances,
the privilege of old age
makes them in turn
into born again children...
         but unlike children a priori,
these a posteriori children
are... outside being convincing...
     in at leat some,
of their exaggerations.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2019
Startle response! Wake--

When danger is ante
cipated,0h
--0n
lego-h-overedge aver
age
verbage re sighin'

clinging vines from debunked strings and
threads twisted wit'em.

Assume, if ye may or plea or will as
ye wont, pray means ask.

That's all.
Here, wit'afewmisstook aitches and spaces:
here is what we got,

a fresh secret story, un concerning anything you
believed you believed of/from/about idea ifify ie able ity ness

Reason requires response, Will Robinson.
Hidden persuaded, almost,
but lost...

Really,
what sacrifice bought
young John Carson to sublimnal
top 0'the mind status,
for the first two tv
generations?

Who do you trust? Carson's tv game
show debut, aimed at after school,
junior high, latch key,
wait staff on swing shift or graveyard,
the entire set of doin' nuttin'
'round Tea, fancy goin'

head t' head wit' Mickey Mouse Club,
on all the UHF stations out west.

It's 1957, who do you trust?
Time's man o'the year,
The Hungarian Freedom Fighter Idea,
the first stiffed
equal-value re
belicose cold war victim
of the famine for the grammar
of kindness and good sense
associated with DNA,
little green apples, puppy dogs,the
straight up command to love them that hate ye,
enemies and other words for folk
who would just as soon **** you
as hear one more word
about peace.

VOG,
words were scrambled,
christic crypt vacuum
tube
signal to noise ratio, caliber calculater pro
jection on to the rerewall o'yeardamnedbrain,

VOG Cancel
Bozo. This ad will **** for us. We can own the
'earts and minds of every grammar 'ater ever.

Since Babel, since Eber 'is 'ebrew ef-
fective, fervent...strainer at jots and tittlishit
self.

This ad makes mistook rules po'man laughable,
punch'n'judy'ishit:

Whom
do you trust, the grammarian so like so many
Deweyish proguess
edumacated teachers, you had this teacher,

squint, wrinkle nose, tight jibbs
frameless wire rimmed specs, a greying bun,

flower print dress wit' the weest bit o'lace,
lipless snide corrector's face. A trope archetype,
heroes re
bel
on demand, that was the plan. It
started with

AN AD. Who do you trust? Black and white,
Here's Johnny standing under the billboard,
y'know,
for the show, standin' like *******, shoulders
shrugged, palms up, elbo's bent

(contenintal suit, note the skinny tie, why?)
Who do you trust? Innocent grin, wordless
"Who knows?" or "knew"?

Whodjewtrust, in 1957? Cronkite, nicht wahr?
See the USA in the USA

in yo' Chevrolet, ole!
Yew should try Ritalin, for pep.

Take Serutan tonight, and sleep, safe and restful,
sleep, sleep sleep

VOG (Scourby) and, remember Serutan is Natures,
spelled backwards. Cue the choir,

safe and restful, sleep, sleep fade away

----
Where were you in 1962? Off t'college,
watchin' Johnny of Johnnies,

Johhny Quest, Johnny Lighting, Johnny Carson on

Tonight, there's more...
after the news, the dayroom in the dorm,

this is whence the quips in the quad were to be
sharpened wit'

fashion able ible tips, to fit the Esquire *** Hef
uniform dress code of mutual hidden

persuadeds.

Some souls were spared the spread of the
original tv virus, VHF, couldn't penetrate
the canyon...never subjected
to Howdy Doody,
our brains were spared the
complexes planted via the sit
com cowboy war subplot
phase of novus ordo
secluremishitistcal
experiments in
alientated
mind control.
We lived in the desert, in a place

a lot like Oscar's Oasis,
a wordless Korean Cartoon
set in a desert much like mine. On Netflix, 2019.

I did not watch the mandated ten thousand hours,
even when the deadline for party affiliation

mental ascent was ex
tended, circa 1985, pre-
tending to be a measure of de
fencing public universities from the
effect of rock and roll,

since about 1964

with folk like Dylan and Baez and Hallelujah
Jubilee and Jambalaya on d'Baya,
Herb's brass on the Baja, where all the girls
work it,
like 'otel Kali phornia, sticky,

sweet, like a taste of Honey. Mr.Bond,
meet Miss
Galore. OH GOD, in the car from the speaker
she heard the idea the meaning

in the name, oh god, she squeezed my hand.

Honor Blackman plays that role, she whispered.

Trust me. It's a good plan. We got these kids!

Mom and dad just won the war, had six kids in five years,

Levittown di'n't work out, couldn't go home,
mixed marriage, from the war.

Things hap, cajun catholic wannabe aerospace engineer spy guy,
lands in Alamagordo and environs,
Summer 1944.

Here we are, Equinox, loosing season, 2019,

so some prayers were for real.

Red somthin'r'other butterflies are riding a rare breeze
from the south to the north through my
makepeace home. My peace I give,
he said,
all that passed is unexplored, take all the time

you can imagine.

My wife knows the names of those butterflies,
that's part o'm'peace. Knowin' she cares to remember
such improbably beautiful things;

soul possessed in patience, is she.

footnote 1: Despite Ciba’s efforts to market Ritalin as a ‘pep pill’, the stimulant failed to become a best-seller.  But that was not the end of Ritalin’s story.  As early as the 1930s, psychiatrists working at a children’s psychiatric institution in Rhode Island, USA had noticed that stimulant drugs could have a positive effect on the academic performance and behaviour of troubled children.  Although few psychiatrists took notice of these observations at the time, by the late 1950s, escalating concern about the educational abilities of American children during the height of the Cold War encouraged Ciba to consider a new application for their drug: underachieving schoolchildren.  They received approval from the American Food and Drug Administration (FDA) to market Ritalin to children in 1962 and, almost immediately, it became a best-selling drug (google it I didn't write the footnote pard but I forget where I got it.)
Forgive the flood, but my dear reader, I rode this wave when I noticed you on the page, in life's book. I did not know your name.
Yashika Oct 2020
No one can explain
What a son is for mom...
He is mumma's greatest strength
Her love for him is intense....

From comfortable kiss to cuddle
From cleaning **** to feeding food...
From being  teacher to corrector
Her contribution is unmatchable...

They are like a needle and thread
Without each other imperfect...
Loving his wife the most
But his mom the longest...

When hubby misbehaves
Son would always act brave.....
She raises son to respect woman
Making him a good human....
happy is man whose faith in mom remains unchallenged
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
russia never fails at being: unsurprising -
stagnant mother of
the little caucasian dittos -
        otherwise a pristine day...
a breakfast of a coffee... an apple...
and a cigarette...
minutes later... digging up glass
and mirrors from the earth -
       the earthworms and the scuttling
spiders - the woodlice
   and
those sluggish irritations
of glob-like loafs of galileo's bread -
it's almost impossible not
to laugh when picking up
a snail by the shell... timid little
lubricant slob... teasing it to
prop out its eyes...
   fungus-esque vacuum of cul de sac
black prodding (the eyes! the eyes!):
god... that salival gobshite of
a slush munch oozing
like a ******... but slugs?!
ugh... a discomfort like no other...
yes: those spiders dancing a cossack...
'opak...
with each handling of a shovel
the displacement of these little
pandemonium rugrats...
gloriously wriggling centipedes;
      but the fence is not yet complete...
i have to dig circa 6 inches
into the harrow and plough to...
set up a underlay border...
so the weeds: these consistently demanding
   overlords of will -
can be clogged up against:
a makeshift ha-kotel...
    as i also watched the ants:
how many i buried alive in the cement...
satellite eyes in my skull -
          sushi from earthworms...
like pruned shoots of greenery -
i am sure the clone replica
body tomb will... well:
sometimes one might draw blood from
an earthworm cut in half...
breakfast for champions:
a coffee an apple and a cigarette...
oh yes... the cement - fine fine
grey powder...
and building sand...
      a 3:1 ratio of sand to cement powder...
it just desires air like pollen...
you end up snorting a burst
balloon's worth...
   that was me... a concrete flinging
monkey... i seem to have...
forgotten the ****...
   in response
                 a mini replica of the ha-kotel
or hadrian's wall...
come the evening;
a ******* moth sanctuary that's also
my bedroom...
     which is nice...
i.e. moths...
            unlike indoor plants...
concrete flinging monkey...
       architect chomp chizzy...
             a story akin to: come evening...
a local dairy farm is being
closed in vermont...
         there's talk of... the usual...
it's not that capitalism this...
capitalism that... socialism blah blah...
kafka and bureaucracy...
a forest... a paper stampede:
but tourism...
   i, concrete flinging monkey...
come across a view with a nuisance...
no... not wind-farms...
cows... lots and lots of cows...
i also own a maine **** that...
   meows at the moon...
   well... imitate barking... howling...
fair enough... ah'woooooo!
perfect... but... it's just impossible...
to... say:                woof...
saying <woof> these days is like
some czech saying the word <i> -
                     pronouns are not stand-alone
necessary conjunction shrapnel: and...
i'll bark: without... i'll hark...
i'll imitate... god forbid the idyll of
a "woof"...
       back to the cows...
well... what better cure...
crying: moooooooooooooo'n
at them...
                if not a canvas for
a zebra... then most fuckety-**** assured
a dalmatian running chaos
and concrete evidence for a ziggy
and a zag...
                         because: as you do...
it would be plain idiot
to have to print black paper
to later write in corrector ink on them...

a day as any other:
my own... and that i was alone
for most of it...
creepy-crawlies being resettled
and... those crows...
like they might turn a branch
into a rattling toy...
     it wasn't a hark with wasn't an
outright croak...
blistering black heavens with
a glistening white cross of their
skeleton having fun...

it's enough to have written so very
little... seemingly freelance
livid on a hot horseshoe with not
impeding stress for gallop...
but this is not a grave...
there is no tombstone...
and... there's no epitaph...

           funny... i have ventured
into many graveyards... out of fun:
out of a mortal assurance...
but beside it: to own a grave is a status
symbol... like a second mortgage...
cremate the rest of us: said plonk
and pluck...
              there's a name...
there's a born on and a died on...
     there's an engraving by those
who dearly miss: a loving father etc.
but there's hardly...
an epitaph...

i am yet to find myself... in awe...
walking in a cemetery....
finding a gravestone with an epitaph
detailing a: progressive thesis
for a blatantly borrowed Golgotha!

- that moscow is a memory of a in concreto
of a slab -
perfectly contorted and
only a midnight at a train station
waiting for a ****-plug
heading back to st. petersburg...
is another time... another life...
the same spatial coordinates...

little venice whittle Constantine-ville...
some other-wordly ham-steer-toward-the-dam...
flooding! mr. orange:
the spanish are craving polenta...
and all that's perfectly...
inaccessible for the serenity of
a plonker and a plumber...

              hidden niches of
english phoneticism arguments:
in that they lack any variation
of orthography -
   what even the germans had to mind.
In the eye of the beholder

To navigate between truth and lies skill is needed
I read in the Guardian, famous as a paper speaking the truth
but somehow, in the current debacle sounds like
polite propaganda.
There is a site called GAB, rather right-winged; I think
whose news is a corrector, of what is said in
the big papers.
Who speaks the truth?
It is like navigated in shallow waters of sandbanks
and in thick fog, all voices want to be heard.
What to do, we take the information to slosh it about
lies sink to the bottom, the truth is a bit obscured
Floats to the surface; depending on the experience
you had of life, make a choice.
Which invariable leads me to the left of the stream
In the river of words, when all is said a good place.

— The End —