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Shaded Lamp Aug 2014
Deep down in the inhospitable gloom
Monterey Canyon welcomes an expectant mother
Unnoticed in the distance a whirring sound
and two parallel laser beams
Miss Cellania finds a nook
That instinct suggests is right
A place to nest and brood
A place to guard and wait

1.4 kilometers up a research institute
Guided the unmanned submarine
Correlated masses of data
Stared at live video feed
A unique event unfolded
Capturing such a moment
in this dark abyss

Clinging to a vertical rock
Her precious babies waiting to hatch
Her final duty to
Wait

Wait

Wait

Wait

Wait
Protect from predators and the icy cold
And so she began the
Inky black wait

Detached

Alone

The research crew returned later that year
Miss Cellania dutifully kept her vigil
They returned again month after month
Still she stubbornly stuck to the task in hand
The months turned to years
And still she protected her unhatched young
Clung to the same vertical spot
With nothing to eat
Alert, defensive
Motherly
Patiently waiting
Wasting away
Waiting
Waiting

Untill

F i f t y   t h r e e   m o n t h s   l a t e r
Four and a half years
Finally her wait ended
With a flurry of independent life

**Then death.
For all mothers
The mothers instinctive love
is surely the most powerful force on earth
AJ Robertson May 2013
solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.
Scottie Green Jul 2012
I’ve always been the quiet type, never one to do the speaking, just listening and observing the lives of those around me.
If I can remember correctly, I began as a light blue, sheltering a newborn baby, Conner, I was covered in wallpaper lined by teddy bears with white silk bow ties like pin stripe pants.
Those few days before his birth in ’62 were filled with anxiety and anticipation, with his parents sneaking in to gaze upon my blue coat, tears in their eyes for the gift that they were days away from receiving. However, they would soon find that the young baby spent little time in my embrace other than evening naps, otherwise his cries became loud with the longing for his mum.

Six years later the teddy bears came down from the walls along with the crib, to be replaced by a bed, the baby blue coat replaced by a loud red.
Watching him grow, I saw his good days and his bad, he was built for math, fast cars, and jubilant laughter.
He had come to me in the midst of April when the flowers outside the windows bloomed, and left for a university after they flowered a mere twelve times.
Once again, his parents visited me, with tears in their eyes as if by being with me his presence would be restored.

His father had talked of a promotion he’d dreamed of, so with more money they were off to a more luxurious home, I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy.

I was alone for a while, while the wallpaper had been striped from me and I lay bear and exposed for quite some time, only briefly being introduced to new families by a smiling woman with high heels and big hair.
A group of four moved in, Tom, Adam, Lana, and Louisa. They painted my walls a bright yellow and carpeted my wooden floors, they added filing cabinets, desks, a white board, a telephone, and a book shelf that decorated my left side.
The boys were mechanics, around thirty years at the time, and worked strenuous hours. They bent over their desks re-drawing, re-scaling, and re-shaping until perfection.
Blue prints poured from their cabinets. The two girls owned a boutique down by the grocery store, I saw them less often, but they didn’t bring home their work, only their stories and their stress. It was a short acquaintance with the group, as their hearts were set on the big city and soon their paychecks were capable of supporting that lifestyle.

I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy for them.

The following year in ’88 a family of four moved in.
John, Ali and their twin girls converted me to a gym with barbells and some odd-looking mechanism called a “Bo Flex” used for hanging up dry cleaning and attracting the dust.
By then my vibrant yellow walls had faded to beige and my beige carpet had faded to yellow.

I don’t know much about those folks, as in-home gyms are more for decoration than utilization, I guess. The girls visited on days when the heat was unbearable in the Texas sun, running in with loud laughter as they let their weight thud into the ground. They sprawled themselves out on my floors making snow angels, in my warm, worn carpet. Oh, how I loved their attention!

They also left the windows open unlike Adam and Tom, so even when they weren’t around the sunshine kept me company. After fourteen years Bailey left shortly after Annie. I rarely saw anyone for a year or so after that.
The house became too big for John and Ali, and they decided to make the move to Florida that they’d always dreamed of.

The movers came and lifted the heavy weights from my creaking floors, but I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy.

The last person that came to live among my embrace was the eldest daughter of three girls. She and I became the closest of all prior inhabitants. Perhaps it was because of the frequent lack of happiness in her eyes, it was the only time I’d had an issue with my inability to intervene in a situation and speak as opposed to listening.
She left my walls there bare color, but adorned me with newspaper clippings and photographs. I was never lonely because her sisters looked up to her, never wanting to leave me, because they never wanted to leave her.
She was more imaginative than the young boy, and more precise than the mechanics.
The music she played was constant and expansive, from Sinatra and Coltrane to A Tribe Called Quest and the Rolling stones. It all correlated with her mood, causing me great joy when the tempo was fast, and depression in times when the dark music fell upon the room.
Her life appeared to be a struggle, as she often threw herself upon the carpet crying until late hours in the night. Only to wake up before the sun rose to write lengthy accounts of the inexplicable sadness she frequently experienced.

Soon she found the help that I was unable to provide with a therapist who visited her in the privacy of her own bedroom. The kind woman encouraged her to participate in activities beyond the confines of my four walls.
She had dreamed to be a psychologist, she wanted to help people, because she knew first hand how much some really needed it. And at age eighteen, that’s exactly what she set off to become.

She moved to Boulder the university she had written about and had wanted to attend for years past.
So I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy for her.

She doesn’t rest within my walls and doesn’t watch my flowers bloom, but the sisters, they often come back to visit and roll up the blinds to let the sun shine in, practice their own talents, and fall in love with their own dreams, I am not lonely, they don’t leave me. In fact, one of them is sprawled out upon my floor now, taking over her sister’s absence with a pen and paper of her own.
This is something I originally wrote a few years ago when my sister was leaving for school. I read it to her and allowed her to edit it. Since then I haven't been able to find the original version so she deserves proper credit for the part she did in touching it up as far as word choice, punctuation, and small additions and subtractions to my piece of work. I hope you enjoyed it!
Taylor St Onge Aug 2016
If the Sacred Fire of Vesta went out, it meant one of two things:
             meant
1. Rome was in danger;
                                                  meant
2. A Vestal ******, a guardian of the flame, was having ***.  
Chastity                                      and                                       fire
are two attributes that are directly correlated.  If one is lost,
the other will follow.  Trust me.  This is fact:
                                                                ­                 only ****** women
                                                                ­                   can be celebrated.

The ****** Mary,
                                the ****** goddesses,
                                                      ­                 the way **** was seen as a crime
                                                           ­        against the father, not the daughter:
                            women
                     ­         must
                            remain
                ­              pure.  

Do not eat the pomegranate seeds,
do not touch the fruit of knowledge.  A
                                                   ­                    statue of a young boy
                                                             ­              holding an apple
                                               does not hold
                                        the same connotation
as a woman holding an apple.  Offering it to a man who
could have refused.  Getting blamed for the fall from Eden.  

                           A woman
with a snake draped around her body is not Eve,
is Lilith, but it’s close enough.  They are both to blame for
all the evils of the world, so what does it really matter anyway?  Women
are more susceptible to wavering in their faith in God,
to worshipping the devil, to practicing witchcraft—

            The flames are out.  Rome is not safe.  A “******” is buried
            alive for her sin.  Lilith is slaughtering women in childbirth.  
            Babies  are  dying.   A  man  is  celebrated  for  his  multiple
            lovers.   ****  shaming  in  79  AD.    The  beds   in   Pompeii
            brothels are made of stone.   St.  Cecilia  is  face  down in the
            dirt.   Women on the same level as slaves,  if not lower.  The
                                     goddess Vesta as a housewife.
Written for my Rome chapbook in January.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
of course the age of scientific positivism
was glorious,
the hopes for curing the lamentable ivory cavity
the hopes for anaesthesia in surgery,
it was all there, with all the great minds...
but then our age came along with humanism’s negativism,
and i mean that sincerely...
if you take a concept, like god, and give it to science,
the best it can do in its parameters is take 1...
divide it by the nth term and say something like
0.000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
in relation to something else, which its a part of...
i wish i was deeply religious on this point,
but a catholic school education reminding me
to start early with ethics minding only one ethical decision,
i.e. abortion brought feminism with it...
but as one orthodox christian girl said: even without
legal rights between us... you must accept!
eh... why?
god does not belong to science, science deals with numbers
and a few words...
imagine the book of genesis: and in the beginning was a number...
any random number... let’s say six... and six correlated
with aries, taurus, gemini, cancer, leo, libra...
well that’s half missing...
this argument is starting to make me look silly...
this whole word word word... let’s quantify vocabulary for quality assurance...
it’s the q. and q. relativity, the q-q in terms of saying
(that's the coordinate parallelism between science
and human-ism, where the former states
two essentials - space & time - the latter states
its two essentials - quantity & quality;
now imagine einstein working in the humanistic medium,
it would sound something like... 'hmm
of a french novelist's output i can say as much
as: eat your j. keats and have him too):
the closest i came in comparing the greeks with the jews
is to claim that the students of the kabbalah are like the greek philosophers
in the vein of democritus... who took to a, b, c... x, y, z equivalent to atoms...
albeit phonetic atoms that gave us BIG physics of the planets
and meteros and newtonian linear(s)... and little physics... quantum stuff...
like why the romans wrote el... the greeks lambda and the hebrews lamed...
ah you know trivial stuff.
all i’m saying is that scientific atheism, in terms of using words
is, too coherent... if you want real atheism, you have to turn to the humanities,
james joyce is perfect... we don’t live in an age of scientific positivism,
we live in an age of humanistic negativism...
all this talk of extinction and nuclear weaponry,
it’s almost like a scare tactic to allow certain professions mechanisation
by robotics... i know it’s real... would the newsstand sell insensible newspapers?
again... if you deny something you’ll only end up doubting it later,
so with sartre trying to escape the cartesian dialectic if a complete and utter failure,
by denying something it’s hardly possible to erase it, make it extinct,
the faculty of memory does not allow this to happen,
so doubt re-enters and the doubting thought process revs up,
the negating thought process is only momentary, a nano-second if you will,
doubting takes aeons to consider itself un-doubted;
so i ask... coming from a scientific background, why would we
care to push scientific positivism further, given all the discoveries and
ease-of-life assurances when there’s this bulging and growing
humanistic negativism, entitled: we are the 99%! hmm?
science will not make economic strategies go away,
nor will humanism... but with humanism, at least there’s a human face
saying something... rather than science itemising everything
to fit 0 next to 1 with a dot between and call it: a tenth of a metre.

p.s. there's only one doubt of denial and it's unconscious,
because denial is a safety mechanism that automates
to provide a blockage against the world events:
*******, ******... war...
denial is automation... doubt is nurturing...
regret... well... that's natural concerning choice
in events not engaged with; honestly, there are people
who have regrets not engaging within the napoleonic wars,
thus they idolise napoleon... a bit like the neo-nazis
and the third ***** scenario... they can deny certain
aspects of the third ***** mechanisation didn't happen,
but they can't doubt it, because doubt-in-itself
is a sort of thrill
(that's covered by a blatant truism in argumentation,
which is denial, which technically robs it
of the doubt cherished for the thrill)...
'****! it happened! it really really happened!'
and then regret comes in and says: 'but you weren't there.'
then nostalgia kicks in... and that line from w. burroughs
about how you got to be an ss-man in a concentration camp:
gauge the cat's eyes out... yes, the one you petted for a month,
fed and gave affection to: gauge... the... cat's... eyes... out!
dass ist ein anführer befehl!
Megan Jones Sep 2015
“Put pressure on it, it needs more pressure”
Holding your wounds shut
That senseless force is what took you away
Pressure- to be... whilst not desiring to be
You saw the clouds moving in greyscale
I saw the hills below scattered in shades of green,
Cavernous, shadowed, cryptic, familiar-

We were advised to go as the crow flies
I cried to a nameless God that your crow’s feet
Were from insurmountable happiness, not the pressures endured
I’ve forgotten much since the storm some-178 weeks ago
Though my body remembers yours over and over again
My skin has yours imprinted, correlated
Forged into one point on the axis between here and there
You the X, I the Y

The Earth crept between the crevices, curling
Through the distance between the Right radius and ulna
Elbows breaking knuckles, blood remains to be spilt
Blood doesn’t connect, if anything it merely separates

Scarecrows don’t help much when the crops won’t grow this year
Ants crawled out of the barrel of a shotgun
Observing the process of cleaning bones after tragedy

Follow the moss to find your way North with no direction-
Sometimes on the other side it’s not greener,
It’s more terrifying than ever before
Terrain untouched, unspoiled, sacred-

Climb up the trees with me, find your quiet
We won’t carve our names but we’ll find our niche
You’ll have quills and I’ll have armor
Not even the thought of stolen arrows,
Lost time through distance,
Or perhaps a slew of chemical imbalances
Can reach us up here
I chose to glue your pieces back together with mud and straw
Taken from the fallen, the loved and now distant memories

You may be an abandoned military base offshore
What was once used by many-
Witnesses life again, life of a different kind
The vegetation will ease its way into the cracks
Constructed when the foundation began to decay
It has a beauty of its own, one of self-sustainment
An everlasting beauty that connects itself
To the surrounding extravagance, often times ignored,
Death isn’t the only way to be forged into nature, remembered

Fear doesn’t always win, nor death do us part so soon
I hope your skin and bones remember before the end
Amrita G Jan 2021
“He doesn’t even care to keep the knowledge of her possessions a secret, not the least worried about it being stolen”
“What’s worse, is that everyone knows his treasure exists. It’s common knowledge in town”
“How long will it take to get stolen?”
“It’s a matter of days, if you ask me.

He was, however, smiling in the corner. He coerced the enemy into being his friend.  This is why he doesn’t actually disclose himself to anyone, because she might be misunderstood, like what was unravelling right before his eyes. This time however, the misunderstanding just helped him protect his real treasure, something he thought no one could possess because……………

What if you need to think a certain way to know something; and you can’t think that way without feeling or experiencing something else. If that’s true, so much of this world remains hidden in sight, and we don’t even know its hidden.

You can, to an extent, disguise what arises from material belongings immaterially. That’s what makes the key to your locked doors. The keys to your secrets and trust. Our experiences may dictate the way we feel. Look closer however, and there will always be these cracks on the edges of interpretation, these nuances in feelings, small differences that stem out into larger and larger branches until you have at your disposal- uniqueness.

So, here is a complex network of questions and possible answers deconstructed to portray different perspectives of personality, trust and secrets.

Let’s start with trust. It should ideally start with mutual respect and admiration.   Most things fade away, so in reality you are not trusting the other person, you trust yourself to be hopeful enough to believe trust will not wither through time, which is why it may seem like it’s your fault or centered towards you when you are betrayed of trust.

Even the reasons for choosing why we trust others is vastly different for each person. It goes to show how ephemeral our mind is at the microscopic level., almost like no one can truly know us. The reaction of others and their understanding of you may be an external input. But after that the interpretation is yours. And interpretation is slowly built over cycles of overlapping feelings and subtle thoughts.
Can we use this as a “key” to explore parts of ourselves whilst keeping them invisible to others? Can we recover old feelings or find out what means a lot to us, but we remain ignorant to?

Many things that matter deep inside, tend to have a personal lock, like an unspoken connection, or a bittersweet memory we like to visit. The most interesting part about these is that the key for some of these is unpredictable! Any future incident could somehow serve as an access to it, which is what makes personal locks so magical. No one can possess it because of no one, sometimes not even yourself, knows it's meaning to you. Such a key is truly unique, two people may go through the same thing, but for one person alone, that experience could serve as a key.  Here, an experience from the outside world can awaken memories, thoughts that we inadvertently treasured. It can, in a sense, almost transport us to a different timeline.

The phenomenon of getting goosebumps from listening to a piece of music (called frisson), and experiencing a surge of sensory feeling could be a doorway to some great things and could be a sign of higher levels of creativity. When you re-listen to a song you hadn’t listened to in many years, you can relive the time you originally heard it to startling detail. You may notice newer things about memories, be aware of nuanced feelings. Essentially, it becomes something that’s only yours, because you can’t predict how you yourself will be. The only key for such a secret is a unique reaction to an external input.

When you listen to this song, even ambiguously (not attaching it to any particular person or experience), even then when you later hear it, it will be infused with meaning. Why? Because the environment around you at that time possessed some emotional meaning, even if you didn’t know it. It became like recovering a part of you. Like recovering your own perspective on what’s in front of everybody.

Suppose instead of attaching significance, you simply create scenarios in your mind. You just imagine instances and do this repeatedly. Over time, the song’s original meaning will tarnish away. Such imagination gives temporary satisfaction, and even though one can imagine a variety of different scenes and emotions; imagination itself, feels the same. It does not carry any value by itself. It would seem that listening to a song a couple of times and then years later seems to be the world’s best time machine, but when we overplay it, and tamper it using imagination, neural networks get diluted and may not be serve as a very effective train of reminiscence anymore. *^


Mulling things over in our mind in loops can change almost everything about it- it may change a happy sentence into a sad one, a normal experience into a special one, and now these emotions that have been created by you, are like small filters that complicate further experiences.
Consider that two people go through the same experiences from birth. They may not feel each experience to the same degree. The second point is that subtler feelings are experienced by each of them. One may react more heavily, and the other may have auxiliary feeling in more magnitude than the other. Though these differences may be minimal at the start, these subtle thoughts become triggers, just like the initial experience.
Look at what’s happened. Now the seed of subsequent thoughts and emotion is no longer EXTERNAL. Its internalized. As they grow, though material interactions give rise to initial waves of thoughts, our lives are culminated by infinite intertwined feelings and emotions- so for each material interaction, a hundred immaterial ones are processed subconsciously. A symphony can’t be broken down to violins, piano, and drums separately. The feeling that arises when they are played in unison is simply “different” though its just a conglomeration of its parts. This is similar to our mind, and the concept of “The whole is greater than its parts”. What’s more is that the thoughts occurs in different order, and a different order creates a different story.
The concept of “personality” is viewed as abstract sometimes”.  Like character is something that describes the mind, rather than the experience. But this is contradictory, as “Personality” is immaterial, while the experience, the derivative, is material. So, there is a possibility that during this invisible conversion process, our internal reactions and what we make of things in our mind may gradually shape our personality more than the experience itself.


In a strange way, that makes us original. Perhaps not completely original, but it’s possible that no two people are the same, even if they have gone through the same things.
But since the development of originality is subconscious, let us look at conscious examples to put it into application:

Often, there is a part of a song that appeals to us, a favorite part.  When we ask ourselves why that particular melody appeals to us, it may be hard to pinpoint the source of what produced your liking in that part.  Sure, it may mean something like “freedom” or “joy” of remind you of a memory. But why does it mean a specific emotion to you? This is an example of how something that has no direct connection with a memory could possibly trigger a feeling. This is a magical occurrence. It’s extraordinary that a melody can awaken in you a unique emotion, that others may not react to in the same way. It goes to portray how subtly different our minds are. Furthermore, when we create things out of that feeling we derive from the music- make a story based on the feeling, write a new song, or even play it on an instrument- now you have made something that is unique from the depths of your mind. Your own subconscious interpretation.  
Frequency of frisson was positively correlated with overall Openness to Experience, as well as five of its six sub facets: Fantasy, Aesthetics, Feelings, Ideas, and Values. *This may also mean that extensive feeling, or sensing is related to creativity.

Sensory influx, the visual imagery, nostalgia, all point towards creativity, and many renown creative geniuses draw on their sensitivity to fuel creative processes.

Highly sensitive people tend to be more creative, as the depth of feeling offers scope for exploration. The interpretation and emotion felt greatly corresponds to the creation of ideas, and is similar to how interpretation even creates association between senses, or synesthesia.
Infact, drawing on nostalgia can increase imaginative processes


You might have heard of the term “synesthesia”, where sensory experiences get interconnected. A person with grapheme synesthesia, for example, associates letters and numbers with colors. A person with musical synesthesia sees colors effuse out of musical notes. Some synesthetes taste words, smell numbers, etc. It is also a fact* that Synesthetes don’t necessarily share the same sensory experience-though there are commonalities ( ex: most synesthetes associate either black or white with zero), the difference in perception is linked to the environment of growth, childhood*, and if its occurrence is natural, then synesthesia is developed in childhood or at birth.

A Symptom of synesthesia is also reading sentences that seem personified, as though a stranger with different personalities are narrating them. It is interesting to relate this to how there might be different personas in our own head, and sometimes constantly make commentary on our life! It’s like seeing yourself through different perspectives, except these perspectives have defined forms, which makes it easier to assign little quirks to them. If this helps us sense and perceive the world better, and makes us see through multi-colored glasses, it can be very creatively satisfying to have internal conversations, in a positive and uplifting way. We can be a stranger to our own experience, and wouldn’t a change of view be enlightening?

Synesthesia also, may be linked to creativity and metaphors, * and is in a way a example of consciously coming up with original sensory interconnections, a creative process that becomes part of character.  It's connecting something unrelated and different, and an original combination of connection.

So the rearrangement of feelings, and extent to which people sense and feel can contribute to original creations. It is no surprise that many artists and musicians have synesthesia.

Such experiences, with music, nostalgia and conditions like synesthesia are examples of a how we interpret and sense can consciously contribute to originality.


The bottom line is that synesthesia obtains its roots from childhood, but morphs into something complex enough to blur lines of emotion. The proportion of how things are mixed is unique. That proportion is the starting line for all character, and the proportion can be random and unique.
Thoughts feel so diverse and interwoven, that experiencing different facets of it itself can seem synesthetic. Seeing a neon sky, for instance, may not just bring happiness or excitement, but very specific sentience, and a connection to memory, even if it has never been a part of your life at any point of time. The neon sky could mean regret and eccentricity, and flashes of senses may correspond to it. You may feel the aesthetic of a place to strange degrees, and sometimes a simple scenery can seem “wrong” or “sinister”.


  “Why does the neon sky seem eccentric?” “why are roses connected to a past memory that had nothing to do with roses?”

These questions have some intangible meaning behind them. So, it’s not just that people perceive things differently, it’s that their reality itself, a culmination of perceptions is unique, and so are thoughts. And don’t thoughts and ideals shape character in some way? Don't these interpretations become a part of you? A filter for how you perceive the world?


Some song forms a golden thread link with some intense feeling which is connected to a memory you never knew you possessed (this memory may be fictional even) which is linked to a whole little city in your world.  Everything means differently. And as we think and think, these meanings become fine-tuned, and create emotions, thoughts and perspectives that shape our individuality. The essence is that your character may have obtained its roots from the world, but your proceedings, both on the inside and outside, are truly yours. And gradually, proceedings reflect character. More than the roots. It’s a many layered mind that could seem impossible to strip down.

Memories can be similar, but the sequence of memories and thoughts, will likely not be the same.


Here we gently skim the daunting surface of the philosophical idea of “Fictional realism”. A main idea here is to try and question what the definition of something has to be to be considered real. We say “It was a dream, not reality” But did it not feel real? When we read a book, or a movie, and voraciously delve into fictional landscapes, does it not truly feel like we are integrated into it, or rather, it is integrated into us? In that case, since we are real and it is now a part of us, can it be real too? Or can it be real, simply because it exists in our minds? Love and loathing also exist in our minds, but we regard them as a real thing, pulsating with its repercussions. Do we regard something as real only if it has a scope for action? Or if it’s something we can touch or see? In that case, the world will be limited, and there would be a loss of explanation for what gives rise to those actions. It would be like saying “imagination seeds reality”.

Memories and thoughts can be similar, but the sequences of them, even if  slightly  different can grow to be hugely dissimilar. If we can consciously create things when exposed to sensory information, why can't we consider the possibility of subconscious creation of individual character?
1) Family ***** you up, but at the end of the day it’s up to you how you’ll deal with it.
2) You have to learn how to take care of yourself. Mentally, physically, and spiritually. Nobody’s going to do it for you and nobody can do it but you.
3) Education is very important but bad grades does not equate your intelligence.
4) It is okay to be sad every once in a while. You are allowed to feel vulnerable. The point is being able to pick yourself up afterwards.
5) Appreciate the little things. The smallest gestures of appreciation and love from people around you. It can be as simple as “text me when you get home” and you will see who are the people who matter.
6) You will never be able to fully define yourself. By doing so, you are restricting the idea of change. You are constantly growing–evolving, into a better (or worse) person you were yesterday.
7) Learn to adapt. Adapt to your environment and the people around you but never forget who you really are.
8) Society is weird because you are expected to be yourself but they will shun you if they disapprove.
9) Discrimination of all kind exists. There are thousands of people who suffered/are suffering because of this. As a decent human being, it’s your obligation to treat fellow humans as people.
10) Life is filled with very rough patches. If you are going through hell keep going. Because one day you will look back and be able to say “I’ve been through worse.”
11) There are different kinds of perception of beauty. If you find someone unattractive, don’t be an ******* about it.
12) Intelligence is not equated by beauty or if the woman is wearing makeup or not. They are in no way correlated with each other. Destroy this idea that women cannot have more than one trait.
13) There are different kinds of strength. One can be physically strong and have a fragile heart, another can have the weakest body and have the strongest will.
14) The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s apathy. Stop the “I don’t give a ****” ******* and treasure the people who matter to you.
15) Soulmates does not necessarily mean romantic partners. It could be your best friend, your sibling, or your parent. This is the person who knows you inside and out and vice versa.
16) Stop hating on others and instead notice the nice things about people. Like you think someone’s haircut looks great, tell ‘em. Makes them happier and it makes you happier.
17) Find your passion, pursue it, but make sure you can make a living out of it. If you’re an artist, learn to market yourself. It is as an occupation just as much as being an accountant.
18) Live in the moment. It’s hard not to dwell into the past or be excited for the future, but you should also focus on the now. You will never be as young or as old as you are right now.”
My ramblings to mark my 18th Birthday
Connor Mar 2016
Old Katherine Kimberly had a sty near her eye
it was a bleeding abhorrent electric
dream spilling out her sanity
the sty was not just any regular sty
it was a satyr placed there by cruel forever
just because
why not

old KATHERINE KIMBERLY had a
mute cousin who came over for tea
when K.K was feeling down, he wanted to be a comedian
but this wouldn't work out for obvious reasons.
old Katherine Kimberly
had a recurring nightmare involving the world around her inverting it's layout, a backwards realm with backwards chairs and backwards backs
everyone looking like they suffered a dramatic accident
spine snapped but still walking
she was the outcast with her even shoulders and
delicate form but there it was that sty by her eye
wouldn't quit not even with sleep.
She went to see a doctor about the nightmares he prescribed a miracle
didn't work
so she went to church
met some wiry bald-spot
evangelic addict figure who
gave her mysterious bagged-and-untagged drugs
(those didn't work either)
nothing would help.. Kimberly came to the conclusion that the sty and the dreams were correlated in some spiritual, cursed sort of way.
Nobody could see it they promised

"No! no! you look fine, everything is in order god knows what you're on about Kim"

but she scratched and scratched for hours in her bedroom and looked in the faded mirror with microscopic detail and sure enough it was/gone??
since when??
she could feel it there, she was no hypochondriac it was alive and feeding off her still
that HORRIBLE THING!
some months now or maybe more it had always weighed her down but now gone
or never there...?
IMPOSSIBLE!
this wasn't over, old Katherine Kimberly would tear this ****** apart on a sub-atomic level and make sure it would never haunt her in any respect from "this day forth!" she said poetically,
wearing a conservatively fashioned dress with green flowers on it
and green grass, too.

She took to the New York subway on a Wednesday, the time was.......2pm
and she was headed to the drycleaners but not the one closest her apartment, the people that ran that one were pushy and irritating.
She was going to "Maude's" she and Maude had lovely conversations about the Gardener who lived one floor up from her who sometimes allowed a small hello from his lips on the way up, off of work.
She liked what he liked
or at least she imagined that to be true
but then again we all do that
it's a bad habit
he could be a total *******, she thought.
Old Katherine Kimberly walked in and opened the backroom there was Maude listening to Brian Eno
(Cindy Tells me/HERE COME THE WARM JETS/1974)

"THE RICH GIRLS ARE WEEPING"

Maude heard K.K come in and swiveled around in her office chair with the one off-kilter wheel which she didn't do a very good job of fixing.
"Well I don't shop at Ikea, its no wonder why, Kat"

"This sty! I know it looks like it's gone, but it isn't, do you still have any of that herbal remedy stuff you told me about earlier?"

"yeah, yeah.. the stuff you refused take way back when?"

"I admit I was being stupid, I just need help, I'm out of options and I'm kind of on a bad trip right now, see? some ghoul at the church gave me these pretty pink pills, said they were from mars and that they could cure anything! O Maude I was desperate and now I'm hallucinating all sorts of wack. I'm afraid I won't come back from this! I dunno what to do Maude! I dunno what to do!"

"Relaxxxx poor doll, you're always getting caught up in messes like this. It's like I said! you gotta settle down with that Rupert, he seems like a genuine guy, real caring, real. I'll help you, I have that herbal medicine in my car I will be right back"

Maude left hastily with a pat on K.K's shoulders as she went
K.K was going cuckoo
she suddenly felt that on a very metaphysical level her atoms were remembering this drug
always
and that when she died, eventually..some innocent child would be reconstituted with her atoms
to live with this for all time
and to be forcefully admitted into a psychiatric ward
pleading for lobotomy!

"What is this? what did I take? does that Kubrick-looking ****** use this often? how is he even tethered to reality?" she was dizzy, good thing she was sitting down..

Maude came back, shaking her head in sympathetic disapproval
"Jeez.. you've gone down the rabbit hole as far as ailment is concerned, that's for sure"

"What do you mean..?" Katherine Kimberly kept her feet grounded to the carpet as to not sway reality to a snowglobe catastrophe.

"Well you say the sty has something to do with the nightmares, or vice-versa, so you took drugs from a complete stranger! only made things worse, I'm sure.. and now you've come to me"

"That's true" K.K agreed
"Why do this to yourself?"
"I've been lost, out of tune, completely washed.."
(((((())))(((((()(((((((((())))(())))))))))()()()))))((­(())))))))))
she was going to continue, but felt like vomiting

She lept from her seat and hunted for a bathroom,
A vicious tabla bleached her brain
with supernatural viscosity
her body played like a cosmic instrument
for a higher being in a higher realm.
Next, the frantic sitar which reminded K.K of July and
the humid balcony marijuana, Ravi Shankar melodically spinning in her living room.
This was a much different experience.. as made clear by her
convulsions
the viper's final dose of venom

"The great spirit lifted his hand without much ado, and split apart Flower Mountain's ten million layers." - from Elder Ting Stands Motionless. (Blue Cliff Record)

"-******* that ******* from the church
why I ever listened to him-
-I feel like I am afloat atop the world able to see the stars as vibrant eyes! but I'm wavering without a sense of gravity. I am at once motionless and spinning!-"

A lot more trouble than it was worth,
O the wisdom of consequence!
K.K, poor doll, lucid consciousness
and an acute awareness for her disposition in this Universe
and all alternate universes for that matter.
(Including the version of her that decided against taking those pink pills from that pink-cheeked man, Stanley Kubrick lookalike ******* probably only posing as a religious man, they never met in one reality, they ****** in another. In one he is god! he is the only god! and in one she is god! anything better than this reality now! her lungs foaming up with death)

GLOBE-O-VOOTY/
GUIDE-O/
ME SOFTLY/
GET THIS THREY-WAY/
OUT FROM MY MIND/
(That's VOUT language for you, there. Slim Gaillard's timeless bop language)

after puking up the rest of her morning meal
she wiped her mouth dry with her sleeve and
reunited w/ Maude who handed K.K that herbal
music
and wished her well

"Look, I know it's none of my bussiness.. but if I were in your shoes, I'd make some changes.. that's all I'm gonna say about THAT"

so Katherine Kimberly went home, she wept
wept about her disposition
about her mistakes
about that inoperable mental sty which was more than a sty
parasitically latched onto her for ages
she wept about how boring people were
how after all this protest and bloodshed
we're just the same as before if not less intellectual!
this fever dream of a day hath made her realize
that she SHOULD make a change.
Hell, Maude was right, sometimes insufferable (tho not as much as others)
She couldn't keep doing this, whatever this was.

The herbal medicine was contained in some cutesy vial
a kind of amber-shade
thick liquid.
Just in the fashion of Lewis Caroll she
drank up her prayer potion, with the sensation that the room was expanding around her, shrunk down to the pathetic dreamer once again,
and so she tried to sleep this desperate sickness off.

One floor up, Rupert thought about whether or not he should *******, he decided to make some coffee instead, continuing where he left off on a new-age book about hypnotism.
onlylovepoetry Sep 2017
<•>

Good Acts are like Good Poems

"Good acts are like good poems.
One may easily get their drift,
but they are not rationally understood"

Albert  Einstein

Ach, mein guter Kumpel!
Ach, mein bester Freund!

how could I not have known,
the syncopation, the synchronization,
between what I write, and the impetuous impetus within,
that caustic sense that burns words
from my chest
directly onto the paper
are more than correlated,
even causation-ally related
after all, you, naturally, the master of relativity

but you know me Al,^
I, the quibbler from  NYC*
have to have a slightly different take,
in my gemeinschaft city of eight million strangers,
we always must have eight million and one
opinions

true dat, when I am on the fifth or sixth stanza,
realizing got no clue what the poem is rambling about,
but it sounds so good, lovely, pretty words,
why ***** it up with scientific rationality?

but good acts are easy, uber understood,
rationally we live to survive and
do what we to
make the species survive, common sense triumphs,
disguised as sacrifice, forgetting to roll the dice,
doing what comes like a good poem,
and what needs doing or writing
is so intuitively obvious,
just love poetry,
a global necessity

so check out Houston in two thousand and seventeen

here's hoping life in heaven ain't boring  
know that you've seen, peeked, peaked,
at the theory of everything,

resolving the contradictions
between general laws of physics
and those pesky tiny quantum mechanicals,
even solving that 'other' equation

GA = GP
" you know me Al" by Ring Lardner
Sept. 6th
6:54pm


2017
Charlie Chirico Aug 2015
I wrote this in the dark.
Because the last poem stripped
from the book binding and ripped
from my chest was not valued at
the utility company's worth; a two-hundred dollar bill is not easily disbursed when each
poem nets zero cents per word.

A candlestick will
dematerialize faster than
a wax seal on parchment -
one that establishes the epoch of
Civil Rights -
this is a correlated falsehood
of fixed rents in a gentrified neighborhood.

The plus-side of *******
the poor to cater to the wealthy
is that when the new occupants
move in, and the stainless steel
refrigerator is moved in, the empty
box is placed at the curb, and with
the right imagination it can easily
become a home for two.
Chrissy Mar 2019
You blew dust in eyes so I couldn't see what I was doing
the mistakes I was making
you were pulling the strings and my movements correlated
I was following the choreography you scripted
I didn't realise the life I wasn't living
until you let go of those strings and I collapsed
I was the puppet you were puppeteering
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.pr.s.: well... if i am deluded? can i claim melancholly to be of equal ontological excuse to a flu... and say: i was infected by a mental illness? and there was never some, "mythical" origin of the illness... as you're sure i'm aware, i do not associate mental illness as having origin in a genesis of solipsism... there's nothing Kantian about it... for me... mental illness is very much an extension of virology... but this be the tempus for the crux of the body contra mind dichotomy... which since the 17th century hasn't been resolved... or has been... by the zombie squadron of the pharma-ingesting spooks of: awaiting a phobia of the white-coats urban myths... of course i fall to sleep thinking about killing someone... why wouldn't it? i end up eating a chicken the next day... what's the difference of a "somebody" for the worth of "something"?

whiskey,
           KMFDM...
very much akin
to ready to blow...

   nine inch nails...

the kids and the punk
and what
was industrial rigid...

and "being" white...
well...
if we're all going
to geneology
the whole "concern"
for history:

originating from
a people
with not tabloid
literature
having succumbed
to colonialization...

"save" the white women...
what?!
with not asian fetish?!
who, are, you?
teenage suicides
engaging in social
media...

             well...
Freddy Mercury was
just revived via:
another bites the dust...

what's agitating?
the inactive presence
of a screen,
that, i somehow need
to make tattoo of...

scripted rhapsody of
the believable people...
like:
people who arm their
psychology with
the orientation
of... "petting" tarantulas
or boa snakes...
touch all you want:
but try a second time
to extract character
and behavioural nuance
from these... "things"...

me?
voluntary celibate...
cenobite *** a
lost leash of leather straps...
every time i ****
off: the hand
becomes the ****...
grip and no soft pouch
of a cuddle of
****** in,
either lip, or...
no... i don't know
what a "missing"
******* feels like...

punk bores me...
punk always bored me...
esp.when championed
by commentators
alligned to...

do you know what
the entry criterion
for the proud boys
was?
   being punched...
no... not on the face...
and having to remember
a recital
of the pleb's favorite
cereal brands...

how about a new
limbo for the "worth"
of entry...

punching yourself
in the face
20+ times...
and then remaining silent...
while the history
of your mother's
****** exploits is
revealed to you
by your grandmother...

how's that?
i pet a cat, i *******,
shape of the water
(females *******),
i take a ****,
i take a ****:
yeah... sorry..
no scented candles,
no internet cameras...
did i coincide with
jordan b. peterson:
yes...
i will never **** these
women...
given they're
**** actresses from
the 1970s...

i, like: vintage...
quirky hair
with the...
gob's worth of *******'s
worth of scrap...
and a bullion
of throbbing quirk
looping lips...
  
i have assimilated
over 20 years in england,
3 years in scotland...
being asked: where are you
from?
like some ******* tourist...
****** me off...

was i going anywhere?
or... point being:
am i, "anywhere"?
ah...
so i am nowhere:
so reading Heidegger makes
a lot of sence, then?
given that
                    no
is no sein
          and that...
as much of where
                    is "there"...

but this sort of pedantic
address for the use of language,
does translate into
the habitual, and the "readily" given
use, concerning the "idle"
hands of a plumber...

a lay-job contra
the pedantic interest...
well... sure...
              we can succumb
to investigating contrasts
that are not worth the while
for being 2 x 2 rubric
statements...
having lost purpose
as 2 x 3...

thus, at times...
i almost forget...
      time...
                 that precedence
hierarchy...
  the precedence membrane
of who are allocated
the purpose of being
contemporary...

   i... somehow...
forget to dismember
the cradle mimic sound
of insect
(entombed in the cracking
wood),
with the rattling sound
of a lizard limbo...
to the R of the trill...
like... what gives off the same
found of creaking
footsteps,
or the burning of wood...
close approximate...

yet there are some people
who i know are not
deserving of a precedence
whether in hierarchy or...
but these people will
congest themselves
to a bite-luck quest
of argument in reproductive-recreation...
so?
failure escapes them
now...
   failure?
           will not escape them...

greeks might have
"invented"
1 + 1 = 2...
no argument, loose association...
but the hindu theologial
rubric, stating:

evil deed + apathy = good eventuality
                                       for all...
  is necessarily false,
is worth being negated...
i like the Hindu algebra
of time being both:
expansive, & constrictive...

    "my" world?
has already disappeared...
   by coincidence...
i've watched how...
            
    no... i'm not here to make sense,
to invest in a non-empirican
standard of a (0, 0) vortex
of beginning:
clinging to being perpetually
cleaned...
  amnesia-ridden...

         and even if i let my
ailment be known "to" or
"in", "public"...
                              the life of
a baker, or a butcher...
can't become overtly,
  "complicated"...
unless it's a genetic anomaly...
because a flu...
is a type of virsus...
poly-morph...
that is never...
    translated from person
to person...
mental illnesses are
never deemed worthy
of the strict scrutiny of
virology...
like...
all of thinking is safe...
and is not ridden with
       pathology...
  like... mental illness
is a hubris of medicine...
   like: all of medicine is
only physical,
and no metaphysics is handy...
how...
      
     like... mental illness is
such a pathology,
such a fetish,
that... it cannot be correlated
to something,
aking to the phenomenon
of propaganda...
  sure...
           the common flu...
i know where my mental "illness"
stems from...
a russian girlfriend...
who told me...
she was abducted as a child,
and *****,
and what not...
trying to excavate
an ******* from me...

mental illness?
   well... bilingual is the new ******...
and any personal
interaction is: worthy of
the... very understanding public...
you know what song
i have, to rely to lodged
in my mind?

   rob zombie's - michael...

me?
     yeah, i know:
a beard doesn't make a man...
then again...
i rather be subject to
something being itchy,
than itch for something...

proud boys:
you sure you joined the right club?
what... entry level of:
get punched by the "sharks"
having to cite breakfast cereals?!
wha......?
    it's like i'm tied with
this chick from Siberia...
    and i can't get be rid of her!
it's like:
we married...
   upon the cranium ring
of death being part of
our ceremony of fingers...
she ****** around,
i went to the *******...
   it's like: that ******* giggle of her's?
that **** is haunting...
russian milk skin...
some new variant of aristocracy...

so... proud boys...
get punched giving names of breakfast
cereals?!
right...

ever punch yourself in the face
to the point of giving 'erself
a plum-shadow?
****! better rewrite than in
"english":

          pflaumeschatten;

oh i'm married...
i'm ******* certain of it...
but the priest
wasn't a closet pedohpile...
it was whoever
the it that strangulates
my he to she and
her she to my she
of a St. Mort... or death...
yeah...
i'm married: post-scriptum...

punch yourself in the head
20 times for a black-eye,
and then tell me:
there is not an element
of virology
worth being investigated
in the realm
of mental illness...
common flue...
and...
being a girl who says prior
to wanting to *******:
i was abused as a child,
i was molested...

better death being the *******
priest
than some *******
dog-wishing leash of a:
scuttle for words & worms...

she can be as *******
randy as hell...
while i can have the "pleasure"
of having kissed several
prostitutes...
   marriage, inverted...
because i just can't stop
myself from seeing similarities
in...
   the public realm...
of...

the foul breath of the other's
ego...
  ****** for biling.
   psychotic for by 'er ego
  'ur ego too...
         it's like a marriage
of the anti-materialists,
the wedding ring of paupers...

mentall illness is so funny...
when having to compensate
its difficulty,
with the "difficulty"
of having to attire oneself
with the role of
being a supermarket cashier...

it's like:
this is medicine, yes?
so... what isn't metaphysics,
isn't exactly mental illness,
but a meta-illness...
  so... the orthodoxy of the scalpel...
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeee heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
******* fairground!
let's do circles and zigzags!

and that one *****
that told herself:
                   i have to get away....
my love has a grave
and i ****** well hope
there's only her name
on the crux of the marble...
and her ghost
******* my dead body
to boot.
Chantelle May 2012
Exists
All the time
Everywhere
Maybe not in your mind
All the time.
It strikes at unprecedented moments
and it hurts as if sand paper was rubbing against your lungs
You are deeply hurt
and shut your brain off temporarily
your mouth may not be correlated with the nervous system.
You say things you will regret.
The overwhelming feeling of not being good enough
washes over you, your life, your existence
like an enormous wave eroding away a mountain of self-esteem
that took you so long to accumulate.
Fly Vida Jul 2011
Beautiful women and beautiful girls,
Your hips were made to rule the world
To knock it off center with one switch in your step
The power you possess many people forget
Including yourself, other women and too many times men
We build ourselves up, they try to break us down again
I just got one question for them:
What happened to chivalry?
To women of the 21st century
You were their heart always worn on their sleeve
And a man that cheated but he didn't leave
To many young girls you were nothing more
Than a broken frame on a kitchen floor
Mixed with their mothers tears
Because that's the only form that their fathers appeared...

Tear down the walls that make your word night
And look to the sun and make darkness into light
All you need in your life is a beautiful smile
Only to know that you're worthwhile
You're so much more than your *** and your *******
You are defined by your intellect
You are not the measurements that lyricists impose
You are not correlated with the amount of skin you show.
But rather when you show what you know.

Beautiful Women and Beautiful Girls
Your hips are made to rule the world.
Challenge the world with your beautiful mind
Words of wisdom as numerous as stars that shine.
dafne May 2017
you serenaded a soul with words my ears have never comprehended,
overused the concept of love, wringing the word out until it was left dry, there was a hope in me that the author in you would display himself for me as well, that your stanzas correlated to the feeling between us.
i was searching for the words in your mouth, my hands sinking in like a dentist on a mission, hoping to pry out the sudden surprise of a few letters from between your teeth, something to make me feel like there were still things to discovered, that you were not going to be like the others, but everything fit wrong, like when i had not worn my retainer in a week.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
obviously with a grounding in chemistry, i'd elevate myself to the only scientific humanism in existence, philosophy, and thus cling to an atomists' interpretation of words... a tier higher? let's just call that a kabbalistic venture... the tetragrammaton can replace the linguistic alphabet; basis: alphabetically you say A... but when you reach a moment of prior to unknown but revealed appreciation for a fact, you express awe, via ah...

and how many brain-cells died
and how much memory has become
eroded by the fallacy of
learning the alphabet?
              not the clear indicator
of numbers based upon evens & odds
interchange -
       so why randomly position
the vowels?
    why not state the five elements
first? a, e, i, o, u
and move toward the 21 pillars
of consonants: b, c, d, f, g, h, j... ? ? ?

re.: aphorism 50, ponderings V.

by being
                 vs.
                         in being
vs.
         being of-itself

             being-of-itself (source,
  direction, vector, cause, motive,
reason) - correlated similis via *by
...

   v.s being off-itself
   ( no longer enclosing,
          not supported or attached,
       away from origin
     i.e. coordinates of
   the triple negation: )0,0,0( )
  i.e. in-being -
   a self-serving (per se) manifestation
                         of change, or flux.

aus - off
   von - of
                durch - by
    im - in


    da-mit-sein:

                a purpose!

da-sein merely states:
   there's being (da ist sein)!
  actuality...

      ist da sein?! (is there being?)
   potential...

that's self-evident
   or anti-purposive in observation...

revision:

loss of article, means sharpening
the meaning (enforcing the locus):

   but the "locality" has to change
for the loss of articles - i.e.

hier-mit-sein -
  the loss of ein - the finis abstractus:
the end of abstracting -
   morph the article into a prefix
i.e. a becomes a-,
   and you're left without either
a there or a being to consider...

   ein-da-mit-sein: a there with being -
well, to forget the article,
    hier-mit-sein:
                     meaning?
   (i'm) here, with (a) purpose...

               hic sum, *** id est
  (the maxim to represent esse / being)

it has a purpose, and i have a purpose
to match its purpose of
      watching the spring exfoliation
of the per se...

and what a fetish for speaking german
            i have gathered,
ask the commies...
   they'll tell you that simply
speaking german you're somehow a fascist.

a- (without)
       ex- (out of) -
            out of every instance -
   a monism of:

poetic sketches are the supreme form
of dissociation,
   words become syllables,
while syllables become prefixes and suffixes
and affixes:

              the unison:
           a- without the monistic unison
of the omni,       namely?
   disharmony of free wills -
    
                          a- omni ex- "dictum"...

what the ancient spoke of in terms
of being as λoγoς -
refers to a temporal realm...
what evolved?
   with mass communication
  and the generally perceived electric
spider-web?
             well... the hands of power
had to change, from the greek
λoγoς, to the roman λoκυς -
enforced by heidegger's dasein...

     the locus vs. the logos...

if there is a vs. to begin with.

  hier-durch-sein
   (here, by being)
                da-durch-nicht-sein
              (there, by not being)

does this no answer einstein's mathematics
if no numbers are to be used?
       the space-time debacle?

    already philosophy has become
closely realised in quanta of the tongue
either talking, or silent...

   and if kant "allowed" for the tragedy
of von kleist and nietzsche,
   then heidegger reaped from the ashes
of hœlderlin (variation of original
umlaut ö) - the gold-standard of
enforcing the end of the war of civility
between philosophers and poets
began by plato...
                             ending with a:
reminder of the original enemy,
namely the sophists, by zeitnahweise
also called rhetoricians;
as said, for all who care to think,
              they'll be found chewing gum
and having a hard time speaking...
thinking really does, mute if not
simply obstruct the mouth from speaking.

why do you think i "*****" heidegger's
concept of dasein?
    the hyphen and the italics...
   it came down to style, and how "confusing"
it became...
      i had to explore the temporal
   dimension with the spatial originality...
otherwise known as
     the disconcerted attitude of popular
                   literature, namely journalism.
Eat
Would you still love me if I wasn’t classed as
“more to love”?

If I wouldn’t count as
“plus-size”,

If I didn’t have to shift through racks of clothes looking for the ones labelled
“L”?

If there was no
softness
to me,
if the curves of my hips were interrupted by
bones
jutting out,
if I was angular enough for you to
cut yourself
on, if I was
thin
enough to be
pretty?

Would you still love me if you knew that
every chip you fed to me,
every chocolate you bought for me,
everything you ever saw me eat was being
written down
and
calculated?

Would you still love me if every time you heard the shower running, you’d know that I’d weighed myself just before getting in
every
single
time?

Would you still love me if you walked in on me
clawing
at the back of my own throat in a
desperate
attempt to bring up
everything
but the conversation about how I wasn’t eating right?

If my skin got worse,

If you could taste how hungry I was every time
you kissed me,

If the only way to hold me was catching me
off-guard,

If when you pulled me on top of you, I
immediately
stood up because I knew I was
too heavy
for your
fragile hands and
perfect ribs?

Would you still love me if you’d have been the one to hear
“She can’t have an
eating disorder,
people with
eating disorders
aren’t fat”?

If at
every meal
you’d become acutely aware that my father’s side of the family was watching me eat,
just to see if I was,

If I went from hearing
“Wow, you look great, you’ve lost so much weight now”
to
“Oh my God, are you sick?”,

If I was still fourteen and thought that the
numbers on that scale
were directly correlated with how
happy
I could be?

Would you still love me if you knew me at fifteen?
Caroline K Mar 2013
I hate you,
I feel more passion with these, then the other word.
With the same amount of letters.
The same amount of ink to write down.
They are closely correlated.
Just from different spectrums.
I want you to show me how much you hate me.
Push my body and take control.
Fire up my burning passion of the world.

I love you
Like sun rises and falls,
Without a fail, alive every morning.
The sight is short lived.
And almost always ignored.
The beauties never last for long.
Kisses the clouds hello.
Then disappears to the night.
But fears, if the passion will return.
As long as the earth is still round,
The sky will be lit at dawn.

Maybe that's why I feel more when the words slip out.

You tell me that I don't.
That I couldn't possibly hate you.

But if *I hate you
, then I guess I love you too.
An empty page. The insufferable debate.
An infernal task? The everlasting trait?
A blank check? A clean slate?
The inkwell pond.  Pen and nib. Rod and bait.

Over-caffeinated.
Under-appreciated.
Anger encapsulated by the shortness of my replies.
I'm exasperated by the amount of attempts and all the tries.


Code Scrambled. Wires crossed. Software and hardware not integrated.
Emotions and objects being wrongly correlated.
Places and faces being traded.
Thoughts and feelings segregated.
Process of progress imitated.
Utterly inundated.
Brain cells being immolated
So that my mind and my soul can become assimilated.  
Self-worth: Underestimated.
These points are not to be debated.

Swoon confused with brood.
A smiling clown dances around the center ring.
Inside he's centering his self around the latitude and longitude of
The highest hilltops of Mt. Pisspoorattitude.
Without the slightest shred of gratitude towards any good deed done for him past the 5 minutes of thank you that he spouts off at the peak of the mountain.
If at first you don't succeed, just cry and cry again.

The concept rocket pulls the cap off the the pen sprocket
Ink spews everywhere. A shiny black geyser erupts from the rig.
Men shouting back and forth to one another. There's no way to contain it. We've sprung a leak, the oil is in our water. The oil is our blood.
Erasing, no, smearing. No control. No Z's either. Analog ****-ups.
Chasing my tail, driving the same circuit.
Racing as Yoshi with a broken control stick

I've had a hell of a time on Uncle Sam's dime.
I disappeared behind the words written on my mirror long ago.
Am I a wreck or is this the requiem of my dreams?
Only A Week
Helena Gray Dec 2012
I am an accumulation of stories,
An amalgamation of myself and others,
Shared experiences lessening cultural differences,
Secrets and fears;
My own and those I hold near.
Joy and Sorrow;
What I say today may not hold true Tomorrow,
I am not constant
I am ever-changing,
Adjusting, evolving, ameliorating,
Tomorrow, I am the people I met Today
And part of the person I left behind Yesterday
What I am is Who I am,
A correlated concept, every day an elevated stand.
Glottonous May 2015
James, you make my eyebrows feel so heavy.
To think: if I never find the one and one make too many empty glasses were broken in the mud-
dled my words when she asked for the time for bed –
All during my morning constitutional.
Take your ***** on the Mount and your Sin of the Farter
Because I know there’s nothing behind the artist except falling towers and furniture-sellers.
But can the deaf still listen?
Or should I care what’s inside a box I can never open?
And how many carriages will follow my coffin
And who will be my wormeaten neighbors
And which tongue will be employed to engrave the epitaph
And topped by what symbol or none?
 
In the beginning the first two words began to breed
And each generation issued reduplication
Evolving vestigial verbiage and new punctuation
All the way down to a young Poet-Hero-Creator:
Use illusory contours to paint the gravity between heavenly bodies, and use
The shared human experience of multistable perception to imply the gestalt of Dublin
(and be sure to use that German term).
We are the artificers of meaning.
 
Item: the location of the key.
Cat: things I should be thinking about but am not.
Item: the *** organs of strangers and acquaintances.
Category: things I should not be thinking about but am.
Item: the autobiographical component of Shakespeare’s later works.
Cat: things I need you to know that I think about.
Item: the possibility that my presence is not nearly as commanding as I’d formerly assumed.
Item: the increasing inebriatory similarities between myself and my father.
Item: the fear of losing my memory of Mother’s face,
as directly correlated to the expanding passage of time.
Cat: things I need you to think I don’t think about, at all.
 
Picture a symphony.
Hold the moment when the lights first fall and the cacophony of tuning
Floods into a single, synthesized vibrating tone. After the silence and before the song.
Write what you hear.
Write the chords in semiotic rhyme; transcribe harmony as memory:
Sing lived and unlived love and stride through on inkblot feet.
Now add the missing notes.
A poem about nothing.
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
It is not to think, as much as to shape this process i have made of silence.

Hush now.

It can never be okay, and the illusion is in your need to relate, because you correlated once, but it will never be the same.

It is chasing dragons for the same fate that you strayed from.

Its rubber bands, and band-aids for the game.

Check mate.

Check your mates for tics.

It is whats inside that itches for escape.

It is the day to day lies displayed from your hate.

Its whatever the ******* place your mind in.

Be this way, go that way, get out of the way, just stay ..

Right there

In yesterday, but i am late, and dreaming of the place i belong.

If seeing is believing than it shouldn't be too long.

Visualizing the realizing of what wouldn't have gone over so well, before the crash that befell my Orwellian signal from a well, wished for a hell dismissed in simple mindedness.

I am still unsure if it is a death wish, or a romantic kiss in the darkness, i inflict, as its burnt out of moonlit dominance in a prominence that smashed on the hull of my ship, full of not giving a ****, as the light shifts around my presence.

My open hand is out but the other grips the severance package, of the stacking junk mail.

Dispel the formal, and embrace your former self, in unblinded wealth, accepting what you always felt, for the first time.

It is all ******* gone, and its mine.

All mine.

Standing on the corpses of my kind, i cry..

In happiness.

Its nothing.

I am one of many.

Gone.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
if by revision, there be a cartesian "archetype"
we'll require a blank slate, a canvas,
res cogitans isn't exactly a blank slate,
a canvas -
     then again it can be -
   but at the same time this thinking thing
primer is already brimming full with
an ingredient -
         namely? thinking.
                    so how can it be a starting point,
a blank slate, a canvas?
       for some reason i can't imagine thinking
at being directly correlated in translation
into being (esse) - it's more easier
imagining gods, than this sort of translation:
i.e. - how many mindless tasks have we
performed, how many accidents &
subsequently how many automations?
my guess is? too many, or enough to conjure
up the notion of common sense:
that communistic attention seeking ideal
of darwinism: yes, selfish as we are:
the cosmos is a claustrophobic space,
if being a poet, you stand next to a plumber
and how we're in all of this together;
i hardly think you can argue with that
sort of perspectivism.
           that's why i invoked an "antidote"
to the already apparent jackson *******
of res cogitans -
       it's so randomised - so already fresh,
in your fresh, already a cursor's sight away
the next pawn move on the chessboard
of life...
              res cogitans in classical terms
was already a presupposition conundrum -
it wasn't a case of supposing we thought,
or think,
     and by that statement the conundrum
is all the more apparent: we don't...
morality is a construct of acting upon
a thought that really doesn't need translating
into an act, rather: a possibility;
nonetheless it's translated, and thinking
disappears into a sane facade surrounded
by institutional mechanisations
that coordinate it into a: cradle unto the grave
scenario of the abled person:
strapped into a wheelchair of ambitions
primarily the one to: be able to walk again;
which is the don quixote aspect of the "quest".
there is no sense in working from
a cartesian standpoint -
   the res cogitans model was so outdated
that it was almost invisible,
   it was easier to see a beginning -
a god, a "bang", a monkey,
than it was to see a thinking thing...
     a thinking thing translates, precipitating
into a being - with that being said:
what is not objectionable about thought's
loss of an ought to still continue in making
being?
        never mind the crucifixion as a "sacrifice",
the fact that man question himself and
never manages an adequate plateau answer
is already a sacrifice worth enough
of other "worthy" sacrifices:
           and so too, as the universe "exploded"
so too man imploded;
the universe modelled upon an "explosion"
toward the infinite, is also a universe
modelled upon an implosion of man
toward the eternal...
         man has no archetypal cartesian
"currency", there is no cartesian wager -
hence the starting point of thinking is lost
to the sisyphus tract of ego-tripping, "winning",
and all other minor debasements -
    intrigue by insult -
               man was not born to think -
he remained in his unconscious developmental
state for much much later than expected...
i might as well say: i considered myself blind
until i first engaged in memory lego...
     i can't expect to have seen much else
other than the recount of my first
stage of internalised sight - i.e. memory.
again, i cannot consider res cogitans of
classical cartesianism as directly responsible for
esse -
i right thought to be an erasing project,
memory we can escape,
by forgetting, thinking and the imagining of
far better: that's harder to escape from,
memory was never a form of escapism
unlike imagining and thinking have been...
    which is why i asked to begin
with res vanus: for the mind of man
to become a womb, with the ego a foetus -
because it's hard to begin with
a jackson ******* of a res cogitans to
prescribe or even ascribe a "sort" of being...
            what needs to become is what already
is: a blank slate, a canvas,
           imaginative being in the form of punk -
or the thinking being in the form of einstein -
   but both begin with res vanus
rather than res cogitans -
       thinking has its own chronology and
narrative - like any claim to a hierarchy -
    but it cannot begin by stating that
thought was and is the first fact...
    cogitans non est facto primo -
   thinking is not the prime fact -
            it's like a numbers game -
there are the prime numbers, and there are
the composites -
     thinking is composed of imagination,
memory, ethics etc. -
        yet, as is all the more apparent -
    we all sometimes do stupid things sometimes...
and we do them: because we're not thinking;
which means that the prime fact that
we're thinkings things,
                                 is false,
we have to vacate ourselves for a thought
to enter our domain of emptiness -
               ***** the thought, ego the *****;
**** me, i always end up writing the most
bogus crap, after listening to a psychologist,
who has had the advantage of having raised
children, and become less severe a guardian
with some grandchildren, for it's a common fact
that grandparents make better parents
to their offsprings' children
    than a direct relation of mother to child...
even if they were alcoholic communists
            who still managed to buy you a collection
of philosophy books.
Madeleine Toerne Aug 2014
Idiosyncrasies.
Convincing oneself that two very uncorrelated happenings,
phenomenons, even, are correlated.
See, like the dry skin around my mouth appeared the day we met.
It lasted throughout the summer and is clearing up, now.
Now that we are all clear.

Or, perhaps, there's been a mind-fog face-fog correlation sans
romantic relationship.
In that case, I've been blind.
Blind as a bat.
I mis-read, mistook, misinterpreted my own dry skin.

It's almost like,
at least it can be compared to the time when I went to the Urgent Care because there was a rash on my back and the doctor said it was shingles.
In some of the same breaths he also mentioned that usually only old people get it.
And, he said, he said people who are stressed, too.
And I said, "but I'm not stressed."

And then I thought, am I?
the dirty poet May 2019
"try a few more," i encourage
i’m doing a breathing exercise
with a young multiple GSW
"you ain’t no doctor
and i’ll stop when i wanna ******* stop"
an amiable attitude
directly correlated
with multiple GSW
Rob Rutledge Jan 2019
Dear good friend,
Perhaps acquaintance.
To the masses we pass on a daily basis,
The worn out souls and weary faces
Painted in towers of glass.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
Distinguished guests.
To those indisposed
By inexorable quests.
To the ones that were left
To search for what was right
Till there was nothing left
But memories of light

Blindfolds applied at night.

To the torn shoes,
Blistered feet.
The poverty we choose to greet.
It is pain, vain,
Somewhat plain to mention
That conversation's become outdated.
Sedated, restrained and correlated
To the denizens of a distant past.

We pass the world in silence.
Ignoring blatant acts of violence

Then claim that it is art.
mickaela Sep 2016
I know there are others,
                                                         ­                                                        Like me
                         They are there, searching for each other (and themselves),
                                                    ­                                                            Like me
                                                      I know they are slowly learning the truth
                                                           ­      That, like me, they are not like you

                                                            ­                                                          You
   ­                                                                 ­                            Are you like me?
                                                             ­                    Maybe not, or maybe yes
                                                Maybe, you’d like me, because I am like you

                                                            ­                          But perhaps you aren’t
                                                          ­                       Maybe, you aren’t like me
                                                              ­                     And that’s okay too, you

                                                            ­                                 You are not like me
                                                              ­                     And you are everywhere
                                                    An­d its just like me, to want to be like you

                                                            ­                        You want to be different
                                                       ­                       Unlike me, I want the norm
                                                            ­                    I want to be common...but

                                                   ­        If you were like me and I was like you
                                                  You’d want to be me and I’d want to be you

And, like you, I’d be connected
With the world, related
I’d be like you, associated
With the world, correlated

Like you...I want to be “different”
No,weird.....”Unique”?
Like you, I’d want to be “special”
But isn’t that just odd?

                                                      You know what
                                                        Let’­s just stop
                                                        Tiri­ng, isn’t it
                                                      Confusin­g, silly
                                             Foolish, completely idiotic

                                                    Midw­ay, Let’s end
                                                         Let’s just be
                                                        You and me
I have been on both sides of the spectrum-too weird and too normal. When I felt out of place, I wanted to be normal. By normal, I don't mean boring or whatever. No one is really boring, after all. I mean...you know, normal. Normal?
I know, I don't know what that is either. After I became what I thought was normal, I did feel dull and boring.And it was tiring, pretending to be someone I'm not.

The wise voice in my head told me that I was being stupid and that normal doesn't exist and that everyone is weird and blah blah blah. That voice is probably right. But no matter what, I'll always want to fit in. I don't even want to be 'normal' anymore. Just accepted.

Thanks for reading<3
ahmo Jan 2016
, and so weather patterns are not correlated with (mis)trust because there is collusion.

V. Conlusions:
Any meaningful exclusion will compensate restitution.

Material, though, wears thin as your heart wears my skin like your favorite shadow.

Plants don't operate like this because they have common sense.
IV. Weather patterns
ray Jul 2014
did i ever tell you, your eyes tasted like my mocha coffee on an early friday morning?
drizzled with anticipation and dousing me with caffeine,
i needed you, to wake up.
i needed you to wake up.
          (you didn't)
caramel was your favorite flavor
and well, I grew to like it too.
          (I always did but… more)
your eye lashes were longer than mine and i was jealous
i adored watching you blink
i remember noticing that the more passion within your voice,
the more it correlated with your wide eyes, that was so human.
so real.
did i ever tell you,
your lips accentuated every word you spoke
and no matter what you said, it was pretty
          (more or less)
i liked your teeth because you didn’t
a secret hidden part of me hopes you’ll never get braces
did i ever tell you,
your hands were firecrackers, but
familiar fire crackers. the ones i set off in my own backyard.
              
it’s the twentieth day of the month and lord do i wish sixteen days ago
i was sitting with you on the sand again,
sipping my dark mocha drink
awaiting the sparklers in the sky.
           (i think you were with her)
see I told you,
you came along with anticipation
and i kind of liked that. but i grew to know you too well
i’m growing to think that’s why leaving you was so inhumane,
unreal, just downright painful
you were my left arm. and
no matter what i ever said to you,
no matter how bruised, broken, damaging you were to me,
cutting you off was not ideal.
the after shock was worse.
and if you ever have the opportunity to amputate your left arm,
don’t.
the things you need- you need for a reason.
no, things don’t get easier with time
the empty void just becomes a bit more manageable.
i'm learning to manage passing your neighborhood without turning my head
i'm learning to manage not opening your text messages
          (more importantly, to not emotionally react whatsoever)
i’m learning to manage with a large part of me missing
and, some days I still search for it
in hidden parts of my house but
i cant grow a new arm,
or a new home,
          (see, things don’t work like that.)
Lily Feb 2020
I forgot how it felt to be hungry
How your bones rack for crumbs on the bottom of your heart
My bones feel like brittle; ready to break at a gush of wind
But Brittle is candy
Candy is a sweet delicacy of whom people like me refuse to have
Candy is what I believe I can be
Only if I change into one of those target plastic models
Perfect and pristine, standing as if they are mocking me
Making fun of my creatures in the dark
And my not-so-ideal summer body
I just want a summer body
I want to see what other people see in me
I want to be all that I could be if I was pretty
So I start dropping things off of my menu, drop by drop
First a side dish, then my sugary drink
That drink should go to hell for how much weight it makes me gain
I reach down my throat until my regrets come back up
Reminding me I cannot be pretty the way other girls get to be
Ducking to the restroom after a meal
Anxiety overwhelming every ounce of me as soon as I eat
There is beauty in pain, right?
Or beauty is pain?
Either way, they are correlated
That is good enough to allow me to turn myself in who I want to be
I was over this, I thought I was over being hungry
But then a man stared at me while I was walking to Walgreens
I do this to be beautiful for just a moment
But I also do this to disappear
Don’t look at me like that flesh of meat that day on that broken night
I want it to go away even if it means my bones shake on a sunny day
Even if my soul weeps at night
Even if my friends pick up on what’s wrong
Oh, please don’t pick up on what’s wrong
Can’t you see what you’re doing to me?
Let me be in control of my body
Watch me clatter to the floor and please don’t help me
Let me shake and quake
Watch me wear a heavy sweater and get out of breath walking
Let me substitute food for sweet vapor in my lungs
oooh it tastes sweet like brittle
Let me disappear
Please just let me disappear.
Trigger warning! This is a personal experience so please be nice :)
Orion Hernandez Feb 2014
I'm dripping away, so cradle me to my haven.
Drowning this scene with rock hard doubt and regret.

Subtly breaking.
Constantly shaking.
Bleeding through mirrors, that float alongside me.

Blue so dim, mind walking aimlessly to the cold, cold beat of your heart.
Tracking every moment, so thinking is out of the question.

A step today, lost tomorrow
Consider the rain
Remember to borrow

Progress fixated as reversal, correlated actions.
Sleep along-side your will, as it stares with brightly colored irises.

An idle face of direction.
No hope
No faith... within himself....

This is no longer the case.
Keep your chin up!
Kate May 2018
May
If my mood is directly correlated to the weather,
and you are a man made in the likeness of a long winter,
how did we ever plan for this to unfold neatly?
As the sun comes back to me,
you retreat to the corner of my closet,
tucked behind downy coats and borrowed sweaters.
Ronza Jairy Mar 2016
Be patient,

To unlearn someone who pumped your heart with life is a feat
To pay them no more mind
For your **** broke of hope
Hallow inside
Attempting to deflate each correlated memory
Piercing one by one with a spike
Unraveling the world you built with one another
With all your might


Be patient,

Time will come around
Your bend and
hug you,
Hold you
Until you feel whole again;
As you always were
Through cloudy glasses
You'll see you again
Beaming and open with a ready heart
An end led a start
Keep going
Is all I know
Sorrows will come  

            
                                              Will go
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
part of the artificial intelligence
test is to make all poetry predictable,
such as it is, but still more over-laden
with praise for technique,
and people fall for this entrapment,
i don't know why uncoupling
the ego from cogito could ever
produce so much theoretical acrobatics,
i know that the ego can be easily
pronounced, the easiest affirmative,
the automated sound, a yes,
but thought is harder to affirm,
it's not as easily pronounced,
and psychology is a logic of such feats,
it's a study that speaks about the
dis-correlation of the affirmation of
existence, and the basis of existence
that's correlated in whatever
tragic circumstance we are found to be
concerned with: yet how many
times i wished for the life of a skilled
labourer?! psychology disunited
us from thinking in order to provide
a syringe entry of many behaviourisms
to un-think thinking -
a sort of atheism -
theories, theories in so many numbers
that thinking became a theory per se,
an in-itself concealed suggestion -
because thinking is hard to comprehend
among verbs as an extension of tendons
exerting force on the ivory,
should anything come along
as a disparity of Olympian undertakings
as blowing oneself up
for a deity with an encounter upon
such a meeting: thanks for the hand!
here's a sock puppet! now tell me how
to depict a chandelier's shadow!
it's hard to believe either god or thought
actually existed...
i mean, if god doesn't exist
why do people think they possess
a will over others...
and if god exists...
why do people think they don't possess
a will over others... enter Zeno
(re-read that and claim the correct
statement in the reversal).
personally i would have wished to not have
written the 6 lines preceding these...
but paradoxes are best explained by poets,
who tend to brush them aside, and even accept
them, by way of rhymes:
oh it's all one and the same, duo duo blah blah fluoride!
*****.

— The End —