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SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
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secret in creation
poetics set in code
difficult translation
they ***** me like a goad

wanting to improve
wanting to impress
do i write this for myself
or follow all the rest?

written in frustration
and when, at last, i read
my own words do obfuscate
quite puzzling indeed!

perhaps you have written one
then you may have been
trying to solve their riddle

for you don't know
what they MEAN!


soulsurvivor
(c) 6/13/2015
I just wrote a poem in the
"stream of consciousness"
style. I worked and reworked it
which defeated the whole point

Then I realized I was not
writing it for ME, But to
impress YOU folks!

So I wrote this poem

---
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Cryptography prior to the modern age
was effectively synonymous with encryption,
the conversion of information from a readable state
to apparent nonsense
.

                Wikipedia: Cryptography

Berryman, Bishop, Plath, Sexton, et al
(whose verse preserves badly in alcohol)
distilled tepid poems full half-throttle:
Not-so-wild turkeys, jiggling their wattle.

I strive in vain to uncover meaning
though such dry fields are barely worth gleaning;
pompous hackademics of brave new verse
have shown, through their scrawling, it can get worse;
wordsmiths of dullness for grad students' gain,
grant scholars trading in pleasure for pain
with each odd word choice or wretched refrain.

Berryman, Bishop, Lowell, Sexton and Plath
prepare me for rest in their tepid bath
as I try to read them—but fall asleep
the book upon my breast, my boredom deep.
A soporific tried and true, such dreck.
(Amazing they could even cash a check.)

Did madness excuse them to make a fuss,
force meaningful discourse to languish thus
in obfuscation and cryptography
submerged in rarefied verbosity?
What frumpy muse, nose in her thesaurus
hoped to, this scholarly way, implore us
while putting on airs un-deliriously
to study such silly screeds seriously?

Berryman, Bishop, Plath, Sexton, and Lowell
lured me with poetry into their hole.
Lord, how these clowns made a good thing boring;
they should have set earthbound souls to soaring.
but turned it into a master’s thesis,
fracturing verse to erudite pieces.

Berryman, overrated mass of sheer
vocabulary overload, unclear,
seems more to justify modernist doubt
than to show what real poetry’s about.

Bishop, cryptic identity-monger
(America’s Vassar-girl no longer)
wrote vaguely accessible verse, sometimes…
and some of her poetry even rhymes!

Plath, prima donna, boring semantics
failing to compensate for her antics
blathering bitterness, head in oven
might have been happier joining a coven.

Sexton, pill-headed prophetess unchained
half poetess of half-sense, half-brained
departed with zest,  from her own garage.
(We’re still decoding her cryptic barrage).

Lowell, left quaking in his unstoned grave
more interesting—but still a verbose knave…

These self-absorbed nerds, when not at their shrink
checked out in adultery, pills and drink.
Such sad celebrants of depraved excess,
no vanguard at all, are more a regress
to endless jaded pointlessness and dope,
their abstract verbiage void of all hope.

Who canonized these unexploded shells,
these duds, these fizzling scribes of milquetoast hells…
must we hail and applaud such labored lines?
Instead, make them pay some posthumous fines!
They withered awhile, these funereal blooms;
let REAL poets turn over in their tombs;
call spades on what my ringing ***** exhumes.

Cream of lyric America. I yawn.
It’s late now. White moonlight exalts the lawn.
The world sleeps on, lulled to death by dull verse
May their ghosts, fully exorcised, disperse…
NaPoWriMo #28

Post-modern oceans:
poetry now lost at sea.
Muse overboard! (retch)
srax Aug 2018
-                              
                               sometimes I wish you didn't exist
  because you stab knives in My back
                  and bend me until I break.
                                 the feelingS i feel
                                 cannot be Substituted or
                                             allaYed, mitigated;
            the weapon and the wOund are both
               permanently etched Under my skin.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
it could be said that the constructs of grammar are a akin to
the constructions of the unconscious with sleep the dam,
   and the trickling of both the waking
hours and the concerns for dreams -
i'd say: it's not exactly the interpretation
of dreams, but a concern for them:
last night i was exposed to the most
fascinating comic, if i wrote about it
in the morning i'd reveal all of it -
but i do remember in a subplot
a Beretta and fiddling with a bullet...
dreams? unwanted distractions...
            they only possess depth's worth of
analysis for entombed people -
      for whom life has no meaning
they have to seek alternatives: i.e.,
in dreams...
                         because their lives are
so uninhibited they seek monastic
meanings, they are on a knife's edge
of slicing through cryptography -
                        they want to seek deeper meaning,
rich or poor, if life isn't a centimetre's
worth of depth of drowning, your escapism
is bound to dreams...
                             which is a secondary
excuse concerning apathy
  and the shaking homeless man...
               i'm asking for a mass exodus
of the homeless from urban areas...
                       only a fool would sit in an
urban environment these days...
               those glum godforsaken looks of
seemingly ****** superiority...
   meritocracy hides a variation of ******
it doesn't seem to recognise -
          it's a gigantic mushroom fog-cloud
and bypassing talk of the guillotine chop
to mind the Antoinette cakes for fear of
reprisals...
                        thinking never equates
to being conscious...
                                       i don't know how
this happens...
                              the divergent parallelism
states that
                   we shouldn't base our
censoring on obstructing nouns,
but the majority of politics bullies this
categorisation of words with the most
sensed purpose of it being necessary...
nouns don't do jack **** in ontological
parameters, but verbs do...
                  trying to change human
behaviour by stretching it back far enough
for cavemen to appear,
      or censoring the use of nouns
does not affect our actions -
                                     it simply doesn't...
censoring our use of words
         means we cognitively stutter... to
appease misguided pieces of information
lodged within each word...
                       we are deliberately
not engaging in the full vocabulary grasp
of things...
                          on a humanistic level
the involuntary desire
                                  to write a book rather than
learn to make toothpaste...
   outside of theorems in rubrics of
repetition:
                   what is the active ingredient
in being conscious?
                  thought or the senses?
   for me thought is the active ingredient
   and the senses are a passive ingredient.
               on the ready...
but how to make the world make sense?
  well, given the five already not making
sense, thought alone suggests a counter
question: how does the world make sense?
    i understand that these words
belong in the torture chambers of libraries...
people prefer practical problems
sourced by practical questions,
rather than preferring no problems
  sourced by impractical questions...
did i mention taxation? no.
         did i mention immigration? no.
hence i've asked impractical questions
         because i don't want people to
experience them as practical concerns
when they do not invoke practicality:
precisely because they invoke an impracticality
i'm asking them...
                              because they do
not interfere with what's impractical in life:
other people's sedimentation
into power... my questions interfere with what's
practical in life: not getting in other people's
daily affairs...
                         the more the question
is impractical, the more practical life becomes...
and then life encounters what others deem
to be the practical question, which makes
life all the more impractical...
       time orientated: on the altar of television
where everyone has enough time to
zombie-it-further.
                               with thought the
active ingredient of being conscious (double
value, two functions, one open, the other closed)
                the inactive ingredient of being conscious
is ego (hence the many theories and sub-divisions
of possessing such a thing) -
                     that doesn't necessarily translate
into                               the origin of things...
                 i'd state that grammar is
in equal measure a conscious quantity (vocabulary),
as a subconscious medium  and an unconscious
            suggestion...
                          grammar speaks of the universal man,
we speak alone or among ourselves as
men: particular...
                                      to me grammar is a medium
akin to the psychological three tier cake...
                              it's a fourth dilemma...
                 if thought is the active ingredient
of consciousness,
                                it's no wonder
   the constant sought-after identification procedures
with passports, national insurance numbers,
                   reincarnation...
    THE WEST KNOWS NO MYSTICISM...
        a common mantra...
   THE WEST IS IN A STATE OF A CRISIS
IN THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED ALL
                           SOURCES OF PLAGIARISM...
          IT IS IN A STATE OF BABYLONIAN
  PLAGIARISM: A PERSISTENT SELF-RENOVATION
            BY PLAGIARISING ITSELF
DUE TO THE FACT THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED
      PLAGIARISING NICHE ENVIRONMENTS...
              the white man knows no mysticism...
whatever comes from his mouth is wobble-blah...
               still even fewer made that statement
than venture into the Masai territories in Kenya
to hear a mystical burp...
                       yes... so many provocative sentences...
psychology expands into what will always be
airy-fairy Mary Poppins to me...
                        i can write about it,
but the rubric of fixating on words
                                 that are stimulants more than
additives in terms of cohesive argumentation
will always remain a mile away from my
serious interests in prolonging an argument
  for establishing a theory into it being schooled...
that'll never happen with me...
                        when i write about psychology
i am foremost to remind myself:
     you just inhaled a balloon filled with helium...
   oh god, the relief of not making more from this...
                  me, never the dodgy soul-salesman
of the naive few...
                             a penny is worth a pebble...
but is a page from Tolstoy worth a £5, a £10,
a £20 or a £50 banknote?
                                             i really wanted to
expand on the verbiage... but even i encounter
moments of true spaghetti demanding me to end
the supposed: on to it...
                                        to me psychology is
verbiage... in the back of my mind i'm looking
at grammar as a punching-bag...
                 upper-hook -logy
                        lower-hook -graphy -
          or pristine physics and chemistry...
      as one granny said: some kind of -logy
   or: a term deemed appropriate to denote
    a vocabulary fixation of some sort.
                      because that's what's called the attache...
fixated vocabulary -
                        i'd really love to expand
on this... but i don't see the point...
                 the original idea fizzled out
after i heard enough entertainment tongues
blah through a bubbling bottle of champagne
into Lake ****-on-the-Geneva-Convention flat...
                   as i am adamant on
creating Narcissus looking into the sea...
                           but that's the beauty of
poetry, it's not bound by paragraphs...
           it's open, like the ******* of literature
that it is...
                                 your payment?
just your attention...
                                           hence no paragraphs...
                your payment?
   just your attention...
                               because if they didn't cough
up for the skeleton... i'm not
           giving them my strained larynx...
                         sometimes...
   it's best to leave
                                something unfinished:
there's no melancholy surrounding
     a perfected and complete construction...
                     
J C Lynch Feb 2014
I sat down at our table today.
I'd forgotten how warped the wood
could be.

I stared at the paper menu and
ordered the same thing from last time,
lemon chicken.

I haven't spoke in days. I've had
conversations but talking and listening
aren't speaking.

The grain of the table traces out
an indecipherable message of supreme
importance.

I crack the table's code and weep
for their are no more puzzles to solve
in here.
Maybe you joined for the money
To save your wealth from dilution
Bitcoin is money, strong and sound
But stay for the revolution

Maybe you came for clever tech
And Bitcoin’s designed solution
The coding and cryptography
Please stay for the revolution

Maybe it’s your first property
Due to worldwide distribution
Truly free and open to all
Now join in the revolution

We all want to save and to spend
Without fear of retribution
Bitcoin thwarts the controlling minds
Who are scared by the revolution

Take this step towards living free
From control and persecution
The Bitcoin Standard - hold it high
Stand firm for the revolution

Let’s keep it peaceful, free, and fun
While making our contribution
And helping our world financially
With the Bitcoin Revolution
This is Bitcoin Poem 013 at BitcoinPoems.pro and you can see it displayed on a background when you (copy and paste the link below).
https://www.bitcoinpoems.pro/delivery013TheBitcoinRevolution.html
Heather Butler Jul 2012
You may not understand
me, but that's quite all right,
you know.

You may not know me very
well; well, I may surprise you in
some way,

but that's quite all right you know.

This isn't meant for interpretation,
cryptography,
nothingness.

It is only meant to eat its
wormy way through the wrinkles
in your brain,

the gray matter the white matter
the brain

and linger there like a nerve ending
firing constantly,

giving you a headache.
Madeysin May 2015
Vintage fabric, over lapping tan skin,
Flesh blushed red,
Cheek bones with more structure than your,
Life,
Live loudly boldly with no apology,
He said the confidence is eating me away,
I can't figure you out girl,
You're cryptography,
I can't fall in love with quaters of your body,
It's all or none,
You demand everything at once,
There so much room for seduction,
But I kept walking on by,
You don't fall in love with childhood friends,
To become friends with benifits,
To become nothing at all,
Except the memory of skin on flesh,
We have this conversation with our eyes,
As you tie the bathing suit back into place.
I hate guys, they disrupt everyrhing. But what would we do without them...
Wided Ben Jul 2018
Teach me the cryptography of the cosmos so that I decipher its codes, I already know that tragedies in stars have a pattern that resonates with your name. Astronomers say, the most massive stars are the shortest lived, they never mention the loudness of their begging for a softer beginning, they don’t report agony as a cause of death.
Humans are fallible in many ways
   One way human weakness is shown
      Is by inevitably debasing a money supply
         NO human has been able to resist the short
            Term gain for those in power, but only pain
               And suffering for the majority of the people
                  Therefore
               Since we can’t make infallible human beings
            We must move the money supply out of the
         Control of humans completely.  We do this
      Through cryptography and mathematics
   Bitcoin is the rules based decentralized
Solution for this human fallibility issue
You can see this poem on a background here - https://www.bitcoinpoems.pro/delivery071Fallibility.html
Northwest of Athens, once lost in the polis of religiosity and pagan worship, Lochnith followed the shoulder to find her on the cliffs of the Acropolis, where they had lost each other, after two thousand years since Theodosius would repeal by decree the Eleusinian rituals. Of rejection and unprecedented glimpse, Aerse was reclusive in her excessive desire to eliminate herself, being for both an unreality because he had possessed her by the neck devoid of the omphalos, causing the avalanche of their bodies and souls towards where they would supposedly perch on him. divine and Dionysian eschatological path leading to the Diokitís of Vernarth, supposedly going to the derivation of a catastrophe in existential decline but immortal Vernarthian, being a rhythmic hemlock with his Aquenio, who carried him from his right chest, for any pretense of being triggered to the encounter of Persephone, without her or he knowing why Eleusinus festering with Lochnith and Aerse as a single concentric whole in quantum beings of the dodecahedron and octagonal by straight or transversal line, which slipped away in the hypotenuse where the serpents were implicitly conceived, leading to relapses when they went to Aerse and wound up in his Hypomorphic spelling and Magna Mater conclave Mistérica, under the organizational power of his ministerial redemptive slogan and bordering on the intricacies that arose in sub-genres of himself procreating exultation in Vernarth's analogues, which were prolonged in eschatological purges and disagreements of the cult objective that must twist from the gender womb, but in magnetism of positive polarization and in a plethora of tendency that would eternalize after the cessation of assets decreed by Theodosius.

Aerse eminently half-dead with Vernarth, was after the compromise of repolarizing what was semi-human splendid into semi-gods from a bi-gender, which coalesced in a retrograde regenerative cult, to achieve reflorals in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen with Persephone in a Finnis that distanced himself from the ultra-earthly towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, but not categorized as a mystery, rather as an unknown of a super method when poking the lanterns where no luminescent reflection of Aerse could be found by Lochnith, after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in the watery nitrosities of their rift and steepness of the acro cliff.

Biotics will influence Systematic Eleusis, of supernaturalness for all hydrogenated active elements, as prebiotics of the unknown remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity, where the true hecatomb of July has to be raised and a hundred oxen arranged in the new beings of the transitional oasis. The meager will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, leading Lochnith towards a late, but exciting management of harassing in the search for Aerse, in a clear exo-mystery, already in the jaws of a night shouted by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone...?, even though it is an inventive fallacy of the addicted spirit in the correlation of rite and lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look insomniac in the servile promise of divinity in a visage that is undressed in his winepress and the festival of Boedromion, towards the born corporal position of a hierophant who dies from this mold and in which he does not renew Boedromion himself.

The iconography of Aerse was reflected in majolica transfused in the Eleusinian streams when Aerse was seen walking from afar floating in the meadows of the knoll, where he set himself up as cryptography of the lost cycle of the cliff when he separated from Lochnith, being able to expose his treachery mythologically and truly transcending epic, relating to the treaty between Zeus, Hades, and Demeter, for the rescue of Persephone, and after being dented on the beginning of the arcane that arose from that amorphous symptomatology. Aerse carried the stripped-down serpents still on her body as if a divine wind had to seek her out so that they would come out by themselves and unguarded, through lost eyes and secret testimonies resting from anarchy from where there is and will not be an Archon or governor, who in rapt trouble improvise a second after the third parties that cause amazement to see you in a process that could not have it of cursed detection.

Aerse, beginning as a Canephore intruder, came to meet her Adonis Lochnith, after the excesses of the self-inferred hypotheses by following him at the command of the gnosis consciousness in her detailing the Kikeon that made her psychotropic ally pale, from the closure of mineral light that was devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach, in the presence of herself on dominical or relative to the numen manifesting in eternal powers, before the numinous presence in the hieratic, from a man who looked at her fatherly or in the crass profile of Damien Hessiano, plotting in colossal and fascinating stealth. Here she surrounds him but does not come close and falls out of love, as a dilemma and granting herself an initiation towards a portal of twelve lunar months in Eleusis, for cyclical years and births where they bounce back to meet in the childhood of pre-pubescent that made them known as Aerse and Lochnitt. Here in the greatest trance of life in both beginning, it surpassed all the twists of the gestated penumbra that separated them by shaking of pain and confusion, still being divergent remains of leftover and uncooked serpents of the escarpment of the acropolis, until a meeting of the astonishing divine fire, and libertarian in two martyrs' tenderness that is purely re-propelling them back towards a new end, and muddy shine in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by masculine conscience, and pious is ratified in each flash of a striate, and of rediscovered calculometry in pairs of loves divided by the pendulum of the one who will only unmask the one who drives him away in his dominant ******, and in the misguided space of hieratic seducing in molecules of celestial structures, and urban public and private lawsuits that have never been crude, nor in ablution of simile sacraments of pagan gods, nor everywhere or whatever their dismembered remains parading I know through the creeks of Cefiso.
Lochnith Gleam II
David R Mar 2022
ever seen a restless lion,
impatient, antsy, a lion on-edge,
roaring at his bars of iron,
longing for the rocky ledge

yearning for the arid savanna
the sweet smell of savage hunt
the scuffle with the young hyaena,
the vanquished's final grunt

ever seen the tired ape
the depressed orang-outang
lying captive, a worn-out cape
benumbed from all pain or pang

lost all hope of hanging branches
the overgrown Amazon marshes
forgotten the delights of the wild
the call of tribe and his sister's child

ever seen a prisoner's despair
locked away from all society
his loss of self-worth and self-care
his state of mental inebriety

once-gregarious reduced to staring
never hears the music blaring
a listless, languid, brainless zombie
outside world inane cryptography

ever seen your mate in club
your chum-friend at the local pub
smiling, laughing, without a care,
taking part in truth-or-dare

beneath the outer charm and suaveness
calmness of a Greek Adonis
lies a restless, confounded soul,
prisoner with no parole

lies an intelligence rattling the bars
peering out through aged scars,
muffled, muted by cruelest medicine,
fated eternal jail denizen

longs to escape to outside world,
break the bars, flag unfurled,
but as those captives in the zoo
has lost all hope of living like you.
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#gregarious, cryptography,

— The End —