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Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
We have heard the words they preach
The Gospel carpetbaggers teach
That some of us can make their own rules.
Any white people that don’t are fools.
They redefine the meaning of equality
The gladly withhold my rights from me.
They choose what part of good is good
And happily red-lined my neighborhood.

Don’t wave your seditionist flag at me/
I believe in liberty, equality ad fraternity.
Your rhetoric is a disguise of old John Birch.
If I want to hear your hateful sermon
I prefer to have to go to your church.

They think us blind and cannot see
That they openly abhor equality.
They say one thing in the South
Up north they use another mouth,
And speak with a totally forked tongue
And push half the race down a rung.
They cry like they have all been hurt
But it is they who treat the rest like dirt.

Don’t wave your seditionist flag at me/
I believe in liberty, equality ad fraternity.
Your rhetoric is a disguise of old John Birch.
If I want to hear your hateful sermon
I prefer to have to go to your church.

There is no difference from your chant
And the Inquisition’s deadly cant.
These punishing words out of you
Are ages old, they are not new.
If Jesus were here to hear you start
This ugly talk, it would break his heart.

Don’t wave your seditionist flag at me/
I believe in liberty, equality ad fraternity.
Your rhetoric is a disguise of old John Birch.
If I want to hear your hateful sermon
I prefer to have to go to your church.
Simon Obirek Jun 2015
Cancer, Cancer, Cancer
I know you well,
we go a long way back
you wanted to **** my mum,
starting with her *******,
and then fondling my dad's *****,
wrecking homes wherever you go.
Who's next?

We build rays to keep you out
what are you all about?
You like those children, too, you pervert.
Cysts, cysts, cysts,
he who will be kissed,
will be missed.
Who's next?

People blow on your cigarettes
while you **** the life out of them,
cutting their hair off, sending off moans.
Listen to their groans.
Why do you wanna see their bones?
Who's next?
Nelize Jun 2015
Oh yes, what are those words again?
how do they start, how and when?
sticks and stones may break my bones
but words will never hurt me
every part of my broken heart
realise the lies of that famous part

invisible fists from the verbal toil
now sit like cysts in my mental soil
a physical scar reminds me the past was real
but thanks to those fists, happiness feels surreal
a mouth from afar, a single breath
can start that silent, you know, death

the blackhole so numb
from a word so dumb
yet so strong to break my bones
and hurt so long in my fine ear drums
as the throw of blunt stones
on my skin that burns and stuns.
M Harris Feb 2017
Electric Fire
Liquid Desire

Purged Mists
Lost Restrains

My mind was born in dark abysses
From destructive rebellion inside of me
I see the world in colors of traitorous death
I can feel a brotherly hand of the devil

I've thrown off the shackles, shackles rounded by the thorn
I've killed the weakness, weakness designated to commoners

The covenant signed in childish ignorance
Broken as a fruit from paradise garden
I've entered the palace of free hellish elites
Living behind a grey, wormy nest

I've cut the umbilical cord, an umbilical cord filled with venom
I've thrown away my memories, cursing all the past.

20-05-2015
02:55 AM
Pagan Paul Apr 2017
i.
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

ii.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now he is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late, far too late, to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

iii.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
and screams and screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

iv.
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we? Please?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember anything about Daddy?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember anything either.
Not even his face. Its very strange indeed”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
toward the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody
still
screaming.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)
.
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
For you sweetheart I would....

...writhe in the ecstasy of the tragic
or behave violently,
enmeshed in ******,
heroic havoc

I would stalk the thing that hurt you and stab-it.
or quickly tie it up and drag it,
as I whisper as a crazed maverick ; click, click, son!
and swallow back the drip, drip, umm....
of the vial of acid...….as I sip, sip, yum-
Facing the truth of the mirror I find myself presently hung

For you sweetheart....!
I would sacrifice the self
relegate my identity to the bottom shelf

I would Focus on  opposites...
and pervert the lost truth of buddhists; preaching and installing the sinful cysts...

of consumerism & material wealth, I hope you get the gist.
I would Climb to the monastery & maliciously yell
“Come on you drunk monk Its for your helllth!”

Doing what you always wanted
by changing the state of truth
from overwhelming presence
...to an unseen, veiled stealth

for you I would jump out of the highest helicopter sans parachute
!ha! writing and dying, but for you,  its such a hoot

For you Sweet love,
I would divide by zero,
March up to physics and blackholes say “hey F-yourself” unceremoniously killing the hero
remembering so vividly
how we intoxicatedly emptied oil on the baby-seals relaxing on the soil of the now empty sea shelf

but for you oh dear, I would empty myself of fear
and empathize with a jellyfish
GAH!  
I hate Jellyfish.

Please Imagine sweet- love,
how we would get married,
and go through all the steps to have a sweet- baby
and in the birthing room while you’re extra weary,
I would ask the simple question to hold and carry
this special
special
little baby

I would look you in the eyes, smile widely and drop it
While you pleaded, choked eyes pleading for some God to stop it

But thats a little extreme so lets take time and rewind the scene
So that you wouldn’t think of little ol’ loving ego me as being so especially mean

Then, amidst candles start smoothly & sweeten the deal with cannibalistic clipart
Preparing to Dine on the sweet meal of a sweetheart’s sweet heart.

For you I would
I would **** a man and smoke salvia at his funeral
Then desperately plead my case,  
so surreal while I Appeal deliriously and unable
to the divine
or the courtroom of an esoteric, alien race

Oh love.
I would bury myself in venomous spiders
submit myself to mysterious haitian-zombie rituals
To keep you pure and far from pitiful
I would Self-immolate to distance you from pain and the sinful

Then
I would put the world to sleep
so that they won’t stir, wake,
or open their eyes to peep
the pain of the sun,
burning the Sea-t
of their corneas
with its brilliant and all-encompassing,
luminous heat



Oh for you bella, I would put down three 1/5ths of law and turn the key
Oh beautiful, now the mothers against drunk driving are sooo MADD at me
Because for YOU
I Crashed into their headquarters traveling erratically and so haphazardly

For you I would do everything
not just anything
but
everything.

I would chill with monks that do all the ****** up things
Go to a girls house, burn the family, burn the home
have ******* with the survivor hopefully alone
and afterwards take a long time to gnaw viciously through my bones.

for you I would discuss that maybe this voice Isn’t fit for the world
So i just wink out of existence
to protect everything from my impact, characterized as it is, so spun and twirled

For you sweetheart, I would even let this poem go unwritten.
Just so the world would not be smitten
With the space between the righteous and the wrong
the difference, is what we feel,
For you truth I write this song.

Ostensibly and indefinitely, I would infinitely
remember thee
and it all planning to never do it again.
...because my Circuitry is charged with the pain to amend me.

For your own amusement
I would help possibility incarnate
fulfill itself A-moral and without hate
the good the bad and the ugly because …..remember
When it comes to poetic possibility  
The U-and-I-verse doesn’t discriminate

I would free the slaves from freedom
I would emulate pagans and heathens
I’ll be all you don’t need when you seek to amend the world of men

For you sweetheart I would publish this as a children’s night time book
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.

And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.

His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.

His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.



© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
.
Irreverent look at history :)
.
Isha Maini Oct 2009
I sipped upon your creative juices,
and drowned, another finger,
into that gory darkness
of thought;

these canopies breathe softly,
as I curl my fingers
and straighten my eyelids
to take another nap;

Yet that dying fetus haunts me-
it’s misted face still echoes
as an unwanted ultrasound,
of bubbling cysts;

I tried ******,
yet the spirals scream:
in this pregnant mind-
and refuse;

So deal with me-
You’re mine.

Yet,
You’re born
...and never alive;
You rang me on New Years,
Crying,
Just as I had managed to forget,
And told me we'd get through this together.

And I wept more for your case
Than I ever did for mine
As they told me
"Common things are common"
Though you insisted
That your cysts were sinister.

Even if you really were
Under your 'mother's maiden name',
You never told me
That you were alright,
When I had more than enough
Pills, injections and appointments
To worry about
Than asking my father to look for you
When neither your name nor conscience,
Were anywhere to be seen.

I've always had my doubts about places of fire and brimstone
But never wished it on anyone, nevertheless,
And nor do I now.
But I do believe
In places of eternal sleeplessness, nausea and screaming children on long haul flights,
And that there is an seat reserved for you,
With no legroom.

When I broke down, as the bus did,
On our way to maths,
I was thankful for you.
As you should be of me,
That I haven't told anyone
You lied to an ill young girl
For attention.

And still I think,
You're sicker than I ever was.
© 2011 Hannah Aoife
Sleuthed Nov 2012
soft soliloquies cannot touch me
for the mountain tops have blurred in the stratosphere
and still deny their shadows from the fog
and sink like marionette martyrs to the ocean floor
and sway refused forfeit flags painted as seaweed

--

stiff joints acost
and above, an albatross!
roams discreetly through the sky
yet all hell's dead
wretched through molten lead
succumb to false alibi
(and fate's caress never questions why)

--

your
bamboo words
and
tourniquet hands

bear loss of convicted man.

and
piano strings
like
forgotten things

have cost all the contraband.

--

--oh, but sweetly they had fallen
the petals which forgot the sun
and faces the moon while acrobats
form the constellations of the sky

and so— so weakly it had passed us by
but yet had still seen the sails of clouds
adream of every lost sunken shroud
ever shining by.

--

defeat me, hang
a noose from every ceiling
--and maybe i'll change my mind
or faint like festered wounds
trailing down the hallways
--and maybe i'll forget the way
you made me see it
clearer than mirror rooms
and moulded like day
(your lungs full of clay)

breathe me out or
sheathe it in
complete me, hang
an emptied world from every airway
to rust all the ventilations
to flood all the irrigations
and condense into the black hole
you left behind.

--

words called windows walk on sunday lanes
toward sideways tree roots with hallow'd veins
and iced over stairways that have no name

or excretories called inventories that fell on dead ends
or ghouls that catapult just to make amends
then rise from idle tidal waves with the bends

perhaps even holes called souls can confine
and mists like cysts fail to intertwine
and fall away as heaven feigns to maligne.

—and oh, how sullen scenes do compromise
the way our flesh restlessly burns and fies.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Electron herders,
that's us. It began
earnestly late 20th century.
The first organic computers
using polymerase and ADP
came later. Weaponry
via numbers, words
magically appearing,
telepathy. Measurements
in which the last significant digit
is the Other. However
immediately depleted
our resources were,
antibiotics were always at the ready.
Forgetting what we knew,
reverting to austerity
because in times of prosperity
we forgot to be austere.
It's the uncertainty principle
taken to the nth degree
where the bad god resides,
Zeus, passionate, confused, obtuse.
Yes, we are electron herders
matter gatherers and shapers
of our time. Cancerous
cysts, irrational exuberance,
collective experience, experiments
gone well or wrong,
we were trying all along
to last forever. Flood and fire
saw to that.
Prospero was our answer
who threw his book
into the sea and wanted to be
mortal, meditative.
Find himself. We found
the world without the self
cornus to oxalis
orbitals and calculus
waves and particles
equally likely to be
within us as without us.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Your subjectless Objects of capital, the agency bereft GDP drones, O! America,
They are spilled on the pavement, an upturned ice cream cone of discontent
puddled and lackadaisical, they fester beside the hydrant.
Your news agencies and malls, the damp dishrags of industry,
snagged on the nail of defenselessness and exploitation, only infect the wound.
Each mess of a person, walks through the sugary malaise of your suffering
dragging it on to the next in communal forbearing; its contagion, its disease
is so many cysts on the mind of those syrupy vacuoles for capital; the private,
malignant caverns of dewy-eyed trust in humanity, insipidly drawing the rancor to a boil,
without understanding a thing.
You pride yourself on much, without eyes for the condition of your people,
O! America.
People, shackled in your jails, are so many ideas bubbling as to the cruelty of your nature
punctured by the ignorance outside.
Draped in your obnoxious flag, the cites are as malicious as the countryside, toward life, toward knowledge.
You prop-up the price of their crops, the know-not-whys, who plunder the earth to prolong population growth and consciousness-decline.
America, you eradicate discontent with cattle cars, filled with questioning life forms, gasing our minds and burning our bodies with your arrogance.
Like a popcorn bag steaming in the microwave; you have been left alone too long, and have developed a flame-- an inextinguishable flame of reason.
You have been disavowed too LITTLE.
You must not be allowed to expand any further, lest the impoverished bag of flesh which is mankind will burst.
But still you stagnate, until your violence curdles with drones and bombs patrolling our synapses.
Our brains digest your violence against us and **** it out with an abused dialect of greed and hate.
Then you ask us only that we eat from your refuse heap of burnt kernels from the “truth” of market economy.
You taste like cancer. You rot the mouth of competent men, and satiate the anxieties of those who would turn against you-- with a refreshing ice cream cone of absentmindedness
dropped on the ground and melting.
But the stains you made will always taint the sidewalk of man.
MMXI
A Revision of the last day of spring, 2011
Trevor Gates Oct 2014
“Breathe it in
The stardust air
The lung-clamping smoke
And vile pious inflammation.”
Listening to sounds of irritation:
Humming of the fluorescent bulbs;
Shoes sticking to linoleum tiles;
Flies buzzing behind my ears,
Leaving me to count the years
And spaces between spaces
Fill the lonely night
until


All is silent now.


Then,
Tooth and nail and eye crust
Fading away to off-beat lunacy.
Her spine slithers sinisterly as she performs
With Vaseline greased hair that stands like horns
People stalking like beasts with mental disorders
Hobbling penguins and droll-*** walrus punks.
Cold liquor manipulating my contemplation
And I have moments of primal desperation
A monster suckling another monster
Bodies tangled like olive tree roots
Delicious and dreadful
Fraught and shameful


It’s the way of all flesh.


Among
Modern Soothsayers
and plenty of culinary racists,
Spraying ***** onto parchment pages
With forked tongues dancing on ***** stages
Coffee for blood and computer screens for eyes
With cool cats strutting to unknown leeching voices
Bottle-slung pistol whip hooligans with eyes of yellow stains
From chronic ink-sprayers of riots in narrow sectioned lanes
Snapping fingers to juke box ghosts and royal jazz sires.
Fourteen gypsy demons wanting to pull me apart
Showcasing trinkets and rubies she adorned
All while she smiles and performs
And the weight of the world
falls between my fingers,


Like cascading sand.


As I write,
The rhythm is changing
Like seasons in secluded eternity:
Orchestrations of sexplosions overtake the carnal scene
With hair pulling and gnawing teeth on the table in front of me
Those Bohemian idolaters basking in acid kiddy pools
Using tired variations of apologies in eastside sin city  
Arousing the vortex of virtuous degradation
In a hole of sunken matchstick validation.
Eyes of judges like the public census
And taboo connotations
Rule this attrition.
Rusting
Leaking stalls
Blue-plate special
Of sprayed blood on walls
The essence of color and voice
The culmination of illusory choice
Dances of erasers and procreators
Fever dreams of police shooting children
Like movie monsters and misunderstood heroes
Specters and Banshee sympathizers
Marching to ******* synthesizers
Burning ***** blue postmen
With afropunk priests
Of astonishing feats
To whom
May
Be


Concerned.


This deep sleep exists
To mediate the social cysts
The reprimand the blundering kids in the mists
From dreaming of their world without the risks
Of falling into fields of blackened earth
Where it all burns like a first world birth
And greater souls speak of my worth.
So I cannot wake up

The deep sleep
Is there for that.
It's been a while since I submitted some poetry.  This is like a combination of a rant, meets free-verse and urban spoken word.  It's just what's been on my mind lately.  I'd love to hear what you think it all means, or at least know your interpretation.

~

Exulansis: n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.

Food for thought.
Mike Bergeron Oct 2012
Out with the old,
The new comes in,
That's what I told
Those cherubim
While they unfolded
My cerebellum
And poured in cold
Lemon serum
That tasted old,
Like Nosferatu
And turned my soul
Into polished gold,
A statue,
A pillar of salt,
I had to look back
At *****
Pay for
Gomorrah's
Faults,
How could I not?
My neck is rubber,
I'm American,
Am I not?
I love to see
Who got shot,
How twisters
Twist Midwest
Cysts
Into knots,
To see congress prop
Their puppet up
Behind a podium
To condemn
*** and *****
While fueling trade
In the desert
So they can have dessert,
Expensive cakes
While we eat dirt.
Eat me, all you
Pressed pastel shirts,
The suits give you
Worth, I guess,
But worthless
Is better than
The best
You could plan
To achieve,
But hey, **** all that,
No need to sweat it,
I won't worry,
Me and Steve
Will have a chat
And figure out
Who are rats
And who to believe
And continue
To not give a ****
About anything.
Trace my skin with your deadly touch
**** me now the pain's too much
Razorblade kisses across my wrists
The cracks in my heart like eternal cysts
Shining steel slick with blood
My arms are drowning in this crimson flood
My wrists are crying
My eyes are too
My scars symbols of this anguish so true
Travis Dixon Aug 2010
I feel the changes.
They’re scary but I’m keeping calm.
Panic is good for no one.
Life is exhilarating.
You have to move with it, not against.
The hard part is figuring out which way you’re going.
But it doesn’t matter; we’re going wherever the hell we’re going,
so you’d better pay attention to the ride.

You mustn’t fight your unique way of life.
It is yours and you chose it for a reason.
Accept that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be.
All is well in the universe.
Suffering is the struggle to accept change.
Accept change with an easy laugh and the suffering goes away.
The synchronicity of life is part of the joy of shared existence.
It proves to us daily that solipsism is but a selfish naiveté.
We have never been alone, even in the depths of our loneliest nights.

True, we feel apart,
but it’s merely an illusion,
the sleight of distraction
spurned by our need
to generate income, which feeds
our fears & desires,
coddled & enflamed
by a fierce media
creating dreams
for others to buy or believe in
but hopefully both
because then
the machine
churns
faster.

No blame.
Forgive, then remember.

We’ve a break, a recession or depression,
or whatever session you want to call it,
it’s reality — you get what you pay for.
You make an honest living or invite problems down the line.
A problem is still a problem even if you postpone it.
They don’t just disappear; you fix them.

Each problem is unique in structure,
the way it weighs upon you,
the ins & outs of unknown routes
& dark “what ifs” that persist like cysts
in the back of your mind, little vortexes
spinning wildly about, ******* us in
when we get lazy & distracted.

But it’s not all hard, not all the time.
Some problems are like puzzles that are fun to solve,
which may be why we have so many lying about.
The problem is that instead of solving puzzles
we should be loving each other.

Unconditional love isn’t easy, but that’s part of the work.
Some say no good deed goes unpunished.
That’s part of the work too.
Invite the life you love,
not the one you hate.
Every choice you make in life
carries the balance of this weight.
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
They say i’m creative as a reversed mime;thinking outta the box
my minds found a way to rehearse time while it stops the clock

tick tock
what time is it?

prison block – on some infinite minute ****.

neurons firing

pew

change of management declared- archetypal hiring–whoo
“Do you specialize in living positively?”
{I can try}
“Will you try to stay away from virus compositories?”
{oh me oh my!}

I live different lives as the same people:
go to the same church with different steeples.

Question the voice from my bed; oh **** am I dead?
tryn to lift my arms, but they filled with lead

where am I going and who have i led, to wander and ponder in the land of the dead

its this chilly necropolipse; filled with empty soul ships.

I can’t get warm here and so I fear

stricken by a paralysis , caught in the mists of myr

influenced by infected cysts, sickness adhere…

better deal quik through love metamorphosis
but I kan't…..—————-says who?
great big king boo!

he haunts me and taunts me into less than mediocrity

but its simplicity, don't deal with me, simply leave and then you’ll be free

of me and my moaning, *******, and pathetic groaning

but I’m simply freeflowing,

I guess I'm like an emo chick, dip in quick , then get out of it

like a quicksand pit you’ll stick quick – I do my job a bit to legit

while you sit and feel …………………………………………

……………………………this is some straight simple ****:

1+1= 2

but in my equation, I'm still left with none, no you'd think , but this ain't fun

“So leave!” I yell
“Get out of here!”

I’m lost and confused like a catholic queer
Am I sincere?

maybe

what morals appear?

when your without another and can't find your brother
simply steer clear quick!————————————————–>away from that skell *****

with his nonsensical lycrical pains

and paradoxical ego feigns

from left to up
side to side
always quik to hop
and hide n hide

non-attached….*******!-^-–<>re-attache these b-r-o-k-e-n__bits& p.i.e.c.e.s

so maybe one day you’ll do better than me

Just don’t listen to way i say and get away from me

EMO thoughts brought to light

need some ***- I think i might

oh wait , is this just a way for me…the pages in the journal get away from me

a psychiatrist in the pages….paid for free.

****, thanks ink, thanks journal, thanks ego and funeral

I just killed my ego , and it was the death of me.
AJ Scott Mar 2015
sugar and spice and nothing at all nice
loving and living like a walk on black ice
headless necks spilling ****** thought
lost limbs and robotic replacements bought

hide and seek with skin between sheets
little head nods and a lovers retreat
brain cysts' toxicity and ****** lips
maybe I'll heal the pain with a few nips

dessert for thought and a certain arrogance
unavoidably admitted-this is indeed romance
a viral infection where nothing is fine
violet poison absorption; im losing my mind.
this is gory i guess im sorry if you don't like that stuff
I just wrote a Constitution
Amendment One says no pollution
Three and Four ban prostitution
The penalty's electrocution
The people cry for retribution
I can't think of a solution

Scre.w those anti-federalists
I hope they develop monster cysts
And writhe and scream and slash their wrists
I'll pound their face in with my fists
They'll be sorry they made me pis.sed

These stupid states won't ratify
This document; I don't know why
I bite my lip and want to cry
I don't know why I even try
I'll mash them into pretty pie
I hope they die and die and die

So sign this pretty pretty please
I'll kiss your feet and shine your knees
But only if each state agrees
To sign this hodgepodge of decrees
Excuse me now, I have to sneeze
Sally A Bayan Mar 2016
(10w)

.....all my cysts
  ................of brokenness
..............................i'm glad,
             ........................................they're all benign...


Sally

Copyright February 14, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sienna Luna Jan 2017
Loads of bubble wrap piled behind

and it crackles like how a stomach

gets twisted on itself after

eons of sleep

decoding it's diaphragm to follow

the blips and beeps and bleeps

encrusted on trusting

a tight gut reaction to

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



Loads of suds creep up

forming in cysts or scabs

upon stomach encasings

all slimy and orange inside

with a stretchy cover all

deep royal purple with

dark pink veins coursing

through it encoding the

rapture of film recording while

the lining inside gets all clammy

with arousal secretly clenching

this yearning and aching just

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but



it is a necessary step to

colloquial banter within

the clustering of organs all

internally arguing while the

overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums

all quiet in the corner

because she knows she runs



the show.



And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to

the actual world of living folks

and climb out of his bundled

fabulous fantasies in order to

make reality plausible.



And in wanting you



and in waiting



I've found myself in visceral shock

to the point where I panic and

all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.



And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch



and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much



I'll collapse under the weight

and never get up.



Loads of words hide beneath me

resting in tubes that resemble

the small intestines in looping

nests of unbridled questions.

Will it be enough to see you

and not touch you?

Will it be enough to talk

with you and not kiss you?

Will it be enough to be chaste

and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?

When all my brain wants to do

is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?
what a waste Aug 2017
Hello, My Beautiful Black Hole
It's been a bittersweet minute since we last engaged
The circularity's had me freezing out the frame
Systematic collapses happen whenever I check mark my passion
I'm grasping at static captions lagging from an attic packed with distractions
I've been trying to refrain from seeping down the drain
but for some reason that **** just keeps calling my name
Face to face with the drips I wonder how my cysts will taste
If possession is nine tenths of the law
I'll take you legally bound to my tongue
I'm a repulsive cultist proposing voltage
engrossed by the most revolting poet
Sarah Jystad Feb 2010
As long as you are at the center of the earth
Or the edge of the universe,
Hell will never enter your existence,
Your experience.
Once, flaws embrace, sin sought with haste,
You can reject disgrace, attack commonplace,
But all were misplaced,

Without a trace.
Disappear.
Without fear.
Now,It is worth anything.
Other than avoiding fate.
It is never too late.

Face the sense evidence:
A blade of grass, a tender touch, a slice of sky,
One piece of sand holds billions of lives,
However fleeting, however insignificant,
All unending, all replicants.
The warm sun embraces your face’s unstable, tedious nature;
The earth steps on you as erratically as your feet follow you instincts;
The wind refuses to help you succeed in life
Except for a nice breeze;
The stars shine for your hope, for your passion
But they flicker.

The universe is relative –
Shocked crystal glass shards shared
Among the blissful crowd abusing the floor
With their tranced feet and ceaseless beat.

Or
Blissless Hypnosis,
Soul lost, listless,
Embracing shears and splinters
Of sneers and tears.
They merely bicker and snicker,
Trade fingerpoints and lies,
But forgive in time-
Who can bear to live alone?
And so, they retreat,
Return to the white strings of
Existence;
They compete
On who can fabricate a better
Phantom sheet.

Or
Slash the shoelace ties,
Fraternal, maternal,
Return all the beats, rhythms, revisions,
Riffs, myths, cysts.
Live on inflated lifeboats shrouded in mist.

Your haunting, taunting dark amethyst eyes with
Decorations of admiration exist:

As strong as –
As special as –
As much as –
As harmless as –
As constant as –

A grey, limp piece of neck string,
An empty swing,
A melancholy molecule of water dripping,
A monarch armed with thorn swords on its wings,
All of the things
Arbitrary and inconsistent
As existence.

The universe laughs at individuality,
The stars sob, pitying those persistent dancers
Who stomp their feet on sheets of glass.

The hypnotist smirked,
Phantoms never could resist the redundancyOf hell.
12/08
Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

The rain has been pouring,
Yet, the glass hasn't filled,
Though, never has it spilled,
And the answer they are ignoring,

No one knows,
Oh, the hollowness that exists,
The endless repetitions only shows,
These the worlds, these the cysts,

There has been given a warning,
Of this their creations of great sleight,
To achieve such false height,
But, still their hearts they are adorning,

And so it goes and goes,
While they raise their fists,
Right until the final throws,
The world fades into mists,

Meaningless is this warring,
Of a world that remains untilled,
Of dreams that remain unfulfilled,
Look on vacuous, look on abhorring,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
.I: the minotaur teased at the labyrinth and the tornado

i was readying myself to keep these words stashed
long enough for the drawer to be overflowing with them,
i waited for the closet to grit teeth and give
birth to a skeleton - i waited and waited and i felt
like being a dam no more -
i wanted to keep the waters like i might keep
a foetus - but of man and pregnancy -
only a tapeworm at the end of this alley of wishing...
after all... what is a the umbilical chord without
a mouth - what is a tapeworm this hyper-reality
of scientific synonyms...
                              i wanted to write a few, a words...
like i might be a tourist in Dublin... mouth made into...
gob gloryhole having my teeth removed...
some sand poured into a sock the sock shoved into
the abyss whenever some ref. to Joyce might be noted...
ah yes... succinct beauty in words....
never that rambling narrative...
space!
                               cascading words... and...
better no myopia... reading congested paragraphs
of Kafka...
it will be duly noted later...
                    a short poem about...
drinking 13: hop house lager... and a diet of bushmills...
making it up to 12 units per night...
and the full dosage of amytryptyline 25mg and
250mg of naproxen...
   and saying: better finding the dead...
the gun club - jeffrey lee pierce...
                   and just drinking... putting on the radio
and no longer... foraging for the d.j. headset...
as ever... sticking to new rules... nothing posted...
social media "grit"... attention ******* -
like counting falling stars of a niche viewing...
or some other grand muddle of things...
as i once told the doctor:
there was once a "carpe diem" narrative lodged
in my head...
there was the squirrel impetus for thoughts
the nuts that would become an entire tree and a day...
now? only shrapnel... riding the betting beast
of day-by-decay-by-day...
               if attempting to cook with hops...
i'd recommend sticking to hop lager...
stay away from the ale... stay away from the ale...
ale overpowers... with the hops...
i love hops more than i might ever love chocolate...
i love hops more than i might ever love chocolate...
but not when it's an indian pale ale...
it has to be a hop feast of a mr. guinness' lager...
and next to his stout... there's no other beer on
these isles i would be found drinking...
you learn to talk by talking...
you learn to walk by walking...
you learn to write by keeping your mouth shut...
keen eye - one eye blind...
as i have been...
walking under a constellation -
i call it scorpio or rather...
the exfoliating-צ (tsade) - and so too up-side down...
i too might have mistook the constellation
as... ayin (ע) but there's a spine to this up-side down
letter...
they dare not say the word: n•••••
but dare to say the name of the name:
ha-shem: tetragrammaton - as easily as the fizzy
fizzling out to a stalemate of jesus: hey'zeus!
just saying: there's not a kippah on me or a snippet
of ******* to be made into an earring "missing"...
i have no gamble in this...
perhaps... this is farewell poetry...
the adieu poetry of: what began with Casimir III
when the YIDS were given asylum in the north...
this musst be farewell poetry...

i never liked the word: jew... and yew: well...
that's a tree... well: to borrow from the ******* german
of the hebrew slang...
yiddish... and ergo... you have the yids...
which i find a more pleasing word to hear...
after all: a jew sounds a menace when...
compared to dew: due...   a matter of:
do i mind the sound of fork on porcelain?
do i mind the sound of nail on a blackboard?

how i once complained: the english and
their cats and kettles...
                                  and then... their cysts...
the greeks and their omicron and omega...
their (F) twins: theta and phi...
of course... no diacritical marks were harmed
in the process: since none were used!
what's not to like about 'ebrew and their
   two vowels that act as consonants
(ע) ayin and aleph (א) -
even if the argument stands:
the letters have a name, unique...
but we use the first letter of their name...
the prefix A- and discard the rest...
have i ever mentioned the minor a in 'ebrew...
the kametz? oh yes... there are five minor vowels...
well... there's only one minor vowel the 'a'...
given ayin and aleph...
the rest remain in the sheol of diacritical
marks... yes: left to right
               (ש)(ל)
                            indeed: where is tzere (e) and
cholem (o)?
         me too... can't see them...
because... they're not there...
just like a spanish... abajeño - abahenyo...
acompañada - (panyada)...
          there i see the equivalent of the hebrew vowels
in that halo and pentagram...
not in latin, in greek... the rubric...
A)lpha - a...
B)eta - b
G)amma - g
D)elta - d...         the prefix rule of letters
having names...
exceptions? a bit like roman numerals...
6,6,6    - X)i - 600 (χ)
            - Ξ)ι - 60 (ξ)
            - Σ(igma - the exception -
then again... a cardinal number...
             -    6 (ς') and that's always written
with an apostrophe...
akin to how... braille numbers are
                                         prefixed with ⠼

          why not expect the same prefix rules to apply
to hebrew?
    after all (א)lef ≠ (ל)ef
                          given (ל)amed
                otherwise... (ב)et, (ג)imel, (ד)alet,
                  and how did the other "adam"
get tangled up?
        well... he became tangled as a suffix...
                  of (ז)ayin... hitting the snoozzzzzze
button...  (L, B, G, D) respectively
                      and... (ע)yin ≠ (י)in
                                                        given... (י)od
           so much for pandering - cucking out...
                                      while... comparing the name of
the name within the name: ha-shem tetragrammaton
Æ: adam ******* eve...
but a minor "threat"!

II: change of pace

there had to come about a change of pace -
no point drowning in the fast paced logistics
of reacting to almost every opinion -
what words to describe drinking and sitting
these videos - a silent masochsim of sorts...

that and the cheap *****... waking up stinking
of ferret / cats' **** - which:
is what you end up perfumed as...
esp. after calling beer: the gods' ... same old...

one can simply tire of going to bed at 5am
with not much and still: not really admiring the sunrise
come the right month...
i won't even publish this now...
i'll publish it tomorrow...
why? it's a very niche observation...

******* until you're running on empty...
at least to imagine ******* is better than seeing
what i sometimes see...
imagine a sausage factor harem...
and picasso and dali contortions of flesh to boot...
imagine a human centipede...
i can't imagine a need to fall to sleep
fully celibate and "pure"...
unlucky me that i have to manually dispose
of the ***** that's not going to be used
for an egg... unlike a woman who does so...
automatically...
i have to manually dispose of the ***** that's
not going to be used...
otherwise: sperma ut caput!
         i'm empty down below... i'm somewhat
empty in the middle - the heart beats
but is numb - i'll go down and forrage
for a snack after the dosages are complete
after an hour's worth of toil...
then i'll bumilia it out the old fashioned
way... ticking the uvula and the third tonsil
with an index and *******...
till i feel a pinch between my **** and my
*****... that slit of skin that would sometimes
be called: how the coccyx was formed
from the scolded dog's tail...

and of course turn on fama.radio.pl -
between 10pm GMT and 6am GMT...
i don't mind the music they're playing -
when i'm aiming for a KO when it comes to getting
a 6h shift in the land of Nod...
i'm not going to play the pretentious high fidelity
d.j.            (either)...

i could be sitting up with these content
creators... by the way... since i leave no comments
on these type of videos...
having read the blood sports the beefeaters
and meathead bashing in general for the crab crown...
for an up-vote...
a commentary of "concerns"...

i could be doing that and waiting for a blitzkrieg
blah blah i'm usually prone to...
but...
there is an alternative... the radio.fama.pl alternative
of autopilot d.j. and no adverts...
rare footage of me choosing to sleep on
the other side of the bed...
for over 3 years i've only been sleeping on
one side of the bed... but the bed is made for two...
and through the radio and in between
twilight and deep nox "consciousness"
of still hearing the music, feeling myself breath...
the voice as if saying:
now i know what it feels like to sleep
with you: on the other side of the bed...

and other lyrics flooded my head -
each song became a solipsistic advent of only me...
nearing deep sleep or...
that period of the throes...
but i hardly death is knowing -
just somehow "me" telling: fall into the body...
turn the lights off...

i could waste my time with cheap *****
on all these people are are alive...
bogus alive... clickbait alive... video alive...
not exactly blockbuster friendly...
sure... competing with news channels...
but... these are not the good old blockbuster days
of VIDEO...
competing on the medium of opinions...
i binged on that...
but then i had a moment of revelation...
try looking for the dead...
drinking better alcohol...

so i came across the gun club -
notably jeffrey lee pierce - well... he's no bono...
or a kurt cobain... and even if he wanted
to be a chris isaacs... it doesn't matter...
i'll be in bed before midnight...
and all i will have accumulated...
no - no liter of cheap whiskey...
no 4 cheap 8% iders and roughly 35cl of
co-op brand whiskey...
i will have drunk...
what's better than an IPA?
what isn't better than budweiser? the HOPS!
the HOPS! but what's better than
an indian pale ale?

              a HOP HOUSE LAGER...
because you have more of the carbon dioxide...
and less of the staleness of an ale...
because it's a lager...
and... unless you're asking for...
a guinness... there's no better hop lager
than 13... which... is again a guinness...
every bottle every story...
i won't ditto what the bottle reads...

so i'll be drinking two bottles of that...
and... 5cl + 5cl.... let's say... roughly 150ml
of... BUSHMILLS irish whiskey...
yes... come to think of it...
who brews the best lager on these isles?
the irish do...
and who brews the best whiskey
on these isles? the irish do...
that's settle... i will write this before i take
to nod... but i will not...
imagine going to sleep with someone's
eyes prying in on this...
it would be like bedding something
worse than a ghost...
a voyeuristic c.c.t.v. mob-machine
i need my sleep - the reactions are not necessary...
lazily done in the day...
and i'll have forogtten about it...
occupying myself with... trying to remember
a word in braille... or something...
like making silesian dumplings...

it doesn't matter... niche writer for a niche
readership... let's not get too excited;
i'm not going to **** for a viral video
or a viral tweet or etc.

a youtube algorithm can still be found – from the good old days –
compliments: the gun club, mother of earth
followed by… the black angels, young men dead…
and if supposed to feel, less “puritanical” about *******,
while the girl has her ***** at the ready and a video-cam
broadcast… the cure’s album ******* while
watching a sasha foxx  VICE documentary…
before setting on… doing it over still photos imagining…
well… a crude Botticelli… visceral Matisse…
when Lucian Freud met up with Egon Schiele…

just empty empty before a good night’s and 7am beginning
of tomorrow’s borrowed time.

III: revelation 1:0 on the River Niger

i'll be very sensible for for little piece of trash -
i just hope it's worse than a column from
some tabloid newspaper!

honestly... i will bring out all the "self-cencorship"
sensibilities for this one...
it feels that the need has to be fed...

but... i'm sorry that you will not see
it as bi••er - you will see 2 bulls...
and the 2 hexes: &#x2022...

  or you would see motherf•••••...
then again: ck is not an acronym for calvin klein...
nor would it be a... crawling fahrenheit...

not even a Σ(νιγγερ) helps...
and because of all of that... you are ready
to watch pornographic material
and whatever floats your boat over on
rotten.com -

back in the day - we the first explorers
would come across such sites without any parental
control...
but i figured... if everyone is having
a hot day over a sour toothache bound
to the crunch of a pickle...

but if Σ(νιγγερ) is already crossing the deathpit
of sjw wrath...
either you, or i, do not deserve to see greek...
let's see who's ⠎⠝⠊⠛⠛⠑⠗⠊⠝⠛ in the dark then...
will you pluck out my eyes...
or will i pluck your eyes out?
or perhaps: you pluck your eyes
out and i'll just cut-out my tongue, how's that?

- i'll be honest... i'm not even going to compete
with will alexander's enclyclopedia lexicon...
and it's not like i have some...
repressed tauret's syndrome to boot...

   (tokens! tokens! tokens! they say...)

but i figured: you know...
i can listen to patti smith and her rock & roll
'igger...
              but because patti smith can...
doesn't mean that american head charge
can cover it...

but i did come back disappointed when
i put on... Grachan Moncur III's 1963 debut...
the çymbals got to me...
avant-garde jazz... it's no acid jazz...
and there i was thinking that
"too much" of alt-sax is bad enough...
                 not even i can stomach Mahler...
unless i want to self-harm...
holding a cat in my hands...
who's nails have not been clipped
imitating a sufi dervish while Mahler
is playing with the cat in my hands...
i'm terrible at such times...
when it comes to blinking with my eyes...
for fear? for fear of them being gauged
out by the cat... i prefer the scratches
on my hands...

     why would an östlichmann
why would an østligmann come to these isles
and no see a K in plain sight of (Plaid) Cymru?
why not immediately see:
Cornwall - as south Wales?
instead... he comes and attaches a tail...
calls it...                Çyrmru....

why oh why... perhaps because...
the word for dragon... for the östlichmann...
is... smok... the flag does the duty of:
in plain sight...

because there's a revelation at the end of this...
just today i thought: there are non-negotiable
historical events...
i was wrong... notably because of the holocaust
deniers...
you might think that some events in history
are non-negotiable...
i would think some things in life are tinged
with: non-negotiable standards of moving
forward...
                    
but if there's a word that one black man can slander
another black man...
because... whatever the etymology...
someone giggling on the River Niger...
or someone giggling in Nigeria...
the time in nigh... a sigh prior to the gig of giggles...
i get it...

but if a black man can have his own term...
to call another black man with a wink of...
ridicule... then as one: this being black on white...
i should have my word too...
and that's without a screetching mob of leftist
propaganda tools...
or whatever you want to call "them"...

now the eyes can be flooded with all the *****
films and all the masterchef episodes of
how the chinese prepare streetfood...
how a dog has to be beaten dead...
so it will taste more tender...
no... the actual cuts of meat of the dog
are not cured... made tender while the animal
is dead... the animal has to die by:
a softening of a good beating...
some would say that...
europeans didn't become wholly barbaric...
and changed their ways...
because... in them... there was something
of an animal-lover... a safety-net...

             but if a black man can call another black
man a n••••• in a rap song...
it came... via a song by m.d.c. (millions of dead
cops) - john wayne was a... n•••...
communist is dry... although some in the former
eastern bloc would find that offensive...
offensive enough to not speak an apology
to a fellow family member and vice versus
with regards to a papist and born again catholic...
etc. (born again under communism)...
and take that apology / non-apology to the grave
or otherwise stand over the grave and say:
and where was god for you, papist...
as he is for me, your supposed "communist"
brother-in-law? now standing over your grave?

a ****** revelation... come to think of it...
it will never catch on...
if a black man can call another black man a née-ni-ni...
i should be able to call another pig in blanket
a na-na-na...
but no... it will never catch on...

IV: No brainer brain-dead hard-on

i just have come to expect anything
by the standards "western chauvanism":
the world is no privy over my output
come a certain hour...
11pm is the cut-off point...

everytime they mention "eastern european" -
eastern... as in... 1 hour ahead of
gmt?
not the sort of sodden bed-fellows just
30 years ago... and the whole death of communism
bonanza of the early 90s dried up...
"our" women were just "your" women...

clearly: the **** of the sabine women
turned out to be: the revenge of the sons...
or... how the mothers would play off...
the daughters and the sons of the rapists...
against them... if not first generation...
then at least one... down the line...

accents accents... spoken by people with
no diacritical markers...
today i visited a vet... with two cats...
he still spoke of Velencia as if there
was a Greek phi or theta lodged in his teeth...
not a whisper... not a lisp...
an F where a C is embedded into text...

the world is not welcome after 11pm...
therefore this will remain a draft...
until tomorrow, or maybe not tomorrow...
i want to have a good night's sleep...
i'll be waking up at 10 to 7 in the morning
in order to properly shuffle my feet...
and... catch-my-shadow-off-guard...
because i will not be boxing the alpha-to-beta
alphabet of ontology with regards to
man- and -hood...
as one might... at least the circumcised
yids don't gloat...
about their circumcision...
no waving the h'american flag as there's
no waving of the kippah...
or throwing a kippah like a mortarboard
upon a high-school graduation...

does exactly what it says on the tin:
you already did your college graduation early...
*******... tool...
i still need my "beauty" sleep...
no output after hours...
like those laws in germany...
no work related phones, text or emails
after 5pm...
none! no obligation to reply!

england... the country of workoholics...
pish-poor russian alcholism does not
compensate... and that's really stretching
the sterotype canvas...

all i have to do, is think of tomorrow...
and how... i'll suddenly be thrown into
my neighbour's house... the eddie gain no more
to let the dog out...
albeit... there's no immaculate locked-off
room where the mother slept...
even by "western" standards...
they're not quiet sure what to make of me...
a doctor needs an assistant when he "tries"
to help me...
whenever solipsism is mentioned as a cipher...
a cipher is given because:
something needs to be deciphered...

now i'm writing for the drawer... the shelf...
the closet... the skeleton...
it's not much of an "in-crowd" to begin with...
the goalposts keep changing...
once it was a turkish kebab...
soon it was the curry... then the persian sour
grapes... then came the sushi...
then some chinese noodle soup...
sooner or later a pizza sputnik...
old rivals... but i'm not money...
i need to sleep...

p.s. and as much of this last "verse": poo'etics...
is anger: grrrr gritty and how much of
it is a response to niche comedy?
the in-club the breakfast club...
the pandering to the rubber-ears?
        the regurgitated - well once upon a time
they would meet in secret...
but now... they meet in the open...
and anyone can just... sift themselves in...

and this whole... identifying the periphery
of western culture... in eastern europe...
no... not in greece... or the balkans...
eastern europe...
from under the iron curtain... immediately
shoved under a silicon veil...
change of masters...
once a satellite state of the soviets...
warsaw pact blah blah... now...
the leftovers from: and what if the mongols
and the ottomans just... walked all over us...
why didn't ****** start digging the EUROTUNNEL
instead having that hard-on for the luftwaffe?!
thought like an elf...
or... ang...         never took notice of any dwarfish
grit... hey! daydreaming....
fifty shades of black vs. 50 shades of bleach...
there's the cinnamon man,
the chocolate man...
the star anise man... the oak man...
the auburn autumn man...
there's all that:
                 − · 
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                 · 
                 · − ·             since i'm the ham man...
the piglet pink ms. cuck...
   no... for anyone who goes blind later in life...
i don't see the point of braille...
morse-braille yes... you need tender fingers
to read braille, ergo: you can't even learn
to play the guitar... perhaps piano...
               coco? 'coz' what?
                          i'm a... *******                − · 
                                                                    · −
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an NZ (נ)(ז)... yes yes... a new... zealander...
which is the hook bait... and sinker...
for that alt. r.e.m. song...
the one that goes... shiny happy pep... pep...
trigger happy woke zombie b-listers...
     there's a name for almost anything in this
shitshow of what a Hamleys Regent St....
boutique of toys would look like...
when you used to play with toys like a puppeteer...
aye'up! as they say in york-shyre.
Sam Chin Dec 2010
7.
I’ll not think love at this age,
but I’m a hypocrite assuaged.
A liar in my dying right,
spread gasoline and then ignite
the blaze of want and desire,
watch my flames lick the fire.
But then you make a thrilling twist,
dampen the rage, remove my cysts
from my thoughts and my soul,
my former self but a ghoul.
And I can no longer see,
the blighted thoughts of younger me.
Yet at the same time, I still wonder:
Have I been ripped asunder?
My very being become otiose,
my speaking words, too verbose.
Nevertheless, I’m quite at peace,
as if I’ve become one deceased.
L T Winter Jun 2016
I've been licking sandpaper,
-Again scraping away
The disease.
I let you carry,

There were only icicle covered
Cannibals; bearing hearts of lead.

My anchor to it is gone--

I think-
I think.

-I killed it for fear,
And now I'm sugarcoating-
Poisons, giving cysts.

To lesser parts of me.
Help me--

I would ask the husk of my heart.
Unabletofeel.
Ally Sep 2014
The stillness saps molecules of animosity
in the bleak sunsets that stain your teeth
it is heavy and it is sullen
choking on spoonfuls of perjury
pitted sorrows trail down avenues
in the form of sunken eyelids and cheap gasps
your words seem crooked
somehow at bargain and veiled in gasoline
I am nothing when you say my name.
and these lesions are vacuous
with tiny cysts that camp out
on your tongue, with daggers
in my sheets,
wielding assaults on those phantom eyes
that I used to call my palaces
And when I reach out there is no one there
except a dense gloom
the same murk that I still feast on
the same fumes that I bloat my infant lungs with
in cities of dust
across oceans of filth
I will gawk at earth's decay
and slow dance in landfills of us
Commuter Poet Dec 2015
Broken sleep
Sweating
Troubles
Shouting

Self flagellation
Professional
Life

Great propulsion
Modern day greed

Perspiration
Shouting
Broken sleep

Friendship
Laughter
Love
Kindness

Strangers
Lovers
Passio­n
***

Two nails
Driven
Through
Troubled childhood

Cysts
Twisting
Aching
Burst

Liberty
Marriage
Brotherhood
Death

Control
Comfort
Softness
Care

Inequ­ality
Separateness
Loneliness
Dread

Sadness
Despair
Aching
Spend­

Bitter
Regret
Hope
Grunt

Broken sleep
Perspiration
Troubles
Shouting

21st Century
Luxury
Living

21st Century
Living
Death
Written 18th December 2015
Time and again
It's easy to see
first I do drugs
and then they do me

Because I say
I don't believe
in the devil there
is no real assurance
that he doesn't exist

When he's found out
 he's not getting his due
 My guess is that
 he's going to be ******

Santa
and
Satan
they be
making their list

I'll get
what's coming
my way
On this
he'll insist

A lump of coal
slung in a sock
and a wicked back hand
with a doubled up fist

Just enough rope
to hang myself
if you get my gist

expel my blood
in the bath after
I've slit my wrists

Full on boils and
***** oozing cysts
Gassy smelling vapour air
charcoal coloured mist

The  forked tongue
pushes out a steamy hiss
Master of many moves made
a charming guile hard to resist

Pre-paid passage
on the wretched raft
his water minions
pulling me out
to cross the Styx
  
You do drugs
then they do you
You know it in your heart
there is madness in the mix


So if you don't mind
I'll stand over there
while you keep six


© 2014
Wrote this after hearing a friend of mine tried to **** herself.
Ottar Feb 2015
Forecast was for rain,
Misdiagnosed a pain,
What we got was mist,
That hung in the air, tiny cysts,
That clung, to pant legs,
To sleeves, to skin and
To the glasses, that beheld
Them,
Like spots before my eyes,
As all passed through them.

The Collective heaviness,
Was not felt but the steadiness,
Of the curtain after curtain of,
Droplets on fine twine, some seed
beaded Macrame, threaded not
Threatening, to pass the time as
You pass their way, they keep the
Peace
And soak you as an afterthought.
Hippies dripping in love,
A mist for the generations.
We have had a little constant rain ...lately, often.
m Feb 2018
21
February chills,
High kills,
Soft touches of skin
On skin. Breathing
Deep in the dim
Light of streetlamps
Borrowing needles
And comfort and stamps
To pretend
To end
To exist
With cysts and blood
And tears and floods
Of masochistic love
Of lonely tugs
Heartstrings and
Missings and kissings
And darkness
Always, always,
Darkness
In a lost paradise where the sea shrinks with feminine conscience, compassionate flashes are ratified in each groove and I calculate footage, this previous present attracts the magnanimous representation of the lightning emission of its speech representing itself where the queen judges the king Consummatum Est, with little difference from culinary art and its very dense genre. Here is the carious aspect of the bluish faskéloma or exasperating of the paws that move the occasional ones in sub-vibrations softening in the shiny mark of the sessile columns in consistency of its weak receptive propagation and masculine science, lacking what prospers with moist regulars of flashes that are cooling from their imbibition. With thousandths of his enchanted parasitizing and prior ego I wonder afterwards not far from a Para-Celestial and sacrilegious lore of Lochnith; Who, what and where would have been able to support such or such, rising on the beams and girders that make a whole for an inaccurate Menthe, going to the arcane of the seventh external love with clear magenta lights, on rounded ultraviolet reliefs, here is where everything lulls from the adverb Eleusis, seething with a consonant flight that suffocates in spite of a Pseudo Vernarthian, where it will go without any exception disrupting the courses of hesitation, leaving no more the divine portent and going back to the loaded Cibatus or barley in northwests that flatten ultra winter, mowed down to its glacial bluish water discharge in unequal thickening of fast secrets with thirds of vox with bordering called in pair of trios, and symbolic of a reborn flashed subsoil of a lifetime swollen in its low course and ministerial occultation that isolates itself on Patmos. The skies were beaten where nothing germinates from dreams waiting for thousands of those like me with acute senses of the Anthesterion, or of March taking me towards an enigma not posed even if it is not clarified yet not resigning from love or smelling in the singular uni-lunar desolate with venerable fulminations and inquinas of the branch of the bakchoi, which was whistled by an Aulós that was remade generic when restarting fasting from a day rebuked and repaid in the emaciated Cibatus. Such light grasses were polarizing prohijadas when recovering from resounding beginnings of the rhizomatous aromatic nuance, and from super life machined from the metallic oscillation of the fires and rites ruined in the aromatic arthrophagous of Lochnith, nauseating at night in flowing enigma and gramineous rictus, intermingling while he longed for the ritual and his graceful plumes in feasts that honored his Canephores transferring mead towards the bakchoi psychic adept revealing himself from the masculine to the feminine in aqueous positive bed and supra negative redemption, which was fading into sharp matter attended while the world was created that they would live with more than forty stratagems, seeing themselves praised before their eminent Truth. Myself…being its own tyranny…, which erects whoever classifies it sacramental, and notices the squalid lack of control of its barbarism flash when I still pursue the darkness of my purge that is falling even without finding where to do it, falling however from its end and of guilty thunderous glances..., what more public decree do I wish, for more rituals that you have close to you when feeling sharp minorities of its aftertaste although in double life and night your memory continues to spy on whoever denatures you from the paganism of Lochnith, more than a proselyte , plus that a lien conceived in dethroned galleys of homeland and fusca haze. Meanwhile, quantities of Omphalos from the ego micro center are distancing themselves from mine, my faded lost throne hallucinates lost knowing that it is a probable sculpted flash subject to the gleaning of the Cibatus in fraction of the cereal ritual, and of sanctified illumination with tableares that have to dwell all the times that they revive from the vivid purple red, and from the debtor clairvoyant mystery sky that is reviving in the revealed luminescence that throws it in ornate nickels and acidic rattles at midnight falling on a positive particle devoid of yours returning to mine, and preparing for the flashing praise that pigeonholes him from his crippled fallacious and previous theory suggested after favors by not being reconverted. Lochnith capitulate capitulation suffers from glare towards her beloved, placing his phalanges on circular and angular waves on the virtual milky river of Eleusis caressing her face and glare from her. “I, Lochnith, was on the cliff with my Canephor Aerse, near his Athenian paternal landlord, I was going to say goodbye to myself and carelessness, not being able to see myself in the reflection of the water separated from my ego, knowing that Aerse would not choose me, much less to my abandoned superior.

In Keri on the Island of Zakynthos, I synchronized the fall of Aeschylus in Leucas, which perhaps without my local would offend me by reputation and snoop on cliffside suicides that only see nascent effigies of the bakchoi as a potion for serials of life and cities of the incongruous dramatic space , where its tragedy and antithesis do not fit in the basket carried by my priestess Aerse. I am flying over the structures of the acropolis, not yielding as a deity who prophesies where there is no room for the world in which she and I can inhabit. Lochnith, jumped after her as she was falling down the frontispiece of the cape..., She watched him as he fell..., forbidding to skew him from his gestures and get close to her so as not to fall where the wind is more docile and free, intervening with pashkein inclination or entangling them of the vipers and rims of the heroic hair in a condition of evanescent reckless touch against her suitor, trapping her from the Omphalus that she had tied to her neck transferred from brilliant didactics before a puerile boxing of vicissitudes, and spring flower shops next to the flayed serpents of Persephone and Kashmar floating on the Lilies of Aerse. Prey to the escarpments and cliffs, she remained possessed among the sedimentary dolomites that emanated near her veins before plunging down the steep side in over cascading prayers for her, always knowing that he would love her on a singular base of enchantments while he looked smiling before fall yielded In the end, forty-one seconds she was thrown off the cliff..., Lochnith passes from one end to the other the Omphalus of her neck by a lofty plume ready for love, imagining herself in the midlands of a ruthless positive affection of the mysterious flashing Eleusino, and by the divided ***** that took them as they fell into a splendid world with serials and images of Aerse, tied to the prehensile sacrifice and the cold hand of Lochnith, together as they fell between their subconscious selves, becoming heaped and vivid as something plunged towards them fleetingly, knowing that he I was going to survive him.

Lochnith's gleam was northwest of Athens once lost in the scrupulousness of a pagan polis and cult that kept docked in the sands to find her on the cliffs of the acropolis, where they had lost each other after two thousand years since they Theodosius abolished by decree the rituals of Eleusis. With revulsion and unprecedented insight, Aerse remained a recluse with excessive eagerness to self-eliminate, possessing for both the due imagination that he had possessed of the devoid neckline of the omphallus causing the inclination of the avalanche and their bodies towards where they supposedly would land on the divine and Dionysian path which leads to the eschatological of Vernarth's Diokitis. Apparently they were leaving as a result of an immortal Vernarthian existential catastrophe or decline, at the same time of a rhythmic alkaloid hemlock with its Achene that carried them for any pretense by being triggered towards the meeting with Persephone without her or he knowing why to fester at Eleusinos as Lochnith and Aerse in a single concentric whole, and quantum beings of the octagonal by the straight or transversal line that slipped into the hypotenuse at the instant that they were conceived implicitly as they took him from relapses when he went towards Aerse, after winding up from his conclave Hypomorphic writing and Magna Mater Misterica. Under the established power of his ministerial, the redemption that went in adjoining the ins and outs was consigned to resurface from the subgenre, and from himself procreating exultation with the analogs of Vernarth that were prolonged in excremental purges and disagreements of the cult of what should be twisted in the ****** of the magnetic genre and of positive tendency that would be eternalized after the cessation of the active decrees by Theodosius. Eminently Aerse suffered on some semi-dead watery slabs next to Vernarth, she remained after the agreement to centralize what irradiated her humanly as semi-Itheoi from a reinforced gender that was cohesive in retrograde worship to achieve pre-flowering in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen together with Persephone in the finnis that was distanced ultra terrestrial towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, not being categorized as a mystery rather as an unknown of a super method of rummaging in the lanterns where no reflection of Aerse could to be found by Lochnith after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in watery nitrosities on the escarpment of the cliff. Physiology will influence Eleusis with systematic naturalness for the active hydrogenated elements, and of such unknown prebiotics or phyto-estrogens where remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity are manifested, as it is found to rise from the true hecatomb of July with a hundred halters arranged with foreign beings towards the oasis of transition. The little will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, taking him in transit to a more exciting late management by harassing the search for Aerse in a clear mystery already in the jaws of a clamoring night by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone! even being with the inventive fallacy of a addicted spirit in correlation to the rite and its lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look sleepless with the servile promise of divinity from a vision that fades from the winepress and the Boedromion party, moving from the born ****** position of a hierophant towards the mold that dies and that does not renew itself from Boedromia itself. The representation of Aerse was reflected with transfused majolica and Eleusinian threads when she was seen walking from the beginning floating remotely in the meadows of the knoll, from which the cyclical anagram of the lost cliff rises when it separates from its Adonis being able to expose them in mythological treachery and transcended from epic truth to be related to the treaty between Zeus, Hades and Demeter for the rescue of Persephone after being dented from the beginning of the arcana that sprouted from a distorted symptomatology. She aerse carried the flayed serpents even on her body as if she should look for them in an omnipotent volatile gray so that it would come out by itself and be unguarded by her gone eyes, witnessing secrets and resting in anarchy from where there is not and will not be. Archon or governor What a mesmerizing problem is improvised from second after third that provoke astonishment to see him in the course that he could not have of his cursed detection! Aerse was beginning as a curious Canephore, he came to meet his ephebes Lochnith after excessive self-inferred hypotheses by following him at her command detailing the Kykeon that paled her psychotropically from a discarded and mineral exhibition, of which she would be devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach with his Sunday appearance or concerning the numen manifested with the eternal powers in front of the hieratic presence of the man who looked at her paternally, with a crass profile like a Damian Hessian drawing them in, plotting in a colossal fascinating stealth. Here she wraps him up but does not approach him and falls, lost in love, such a Faustus dilemma, granting herself at the initiation of the portal of the twelve lunar months in Eleusis, with immutable years and origins where they will bounce to meet in childhood that made them known as Aerse and Lochnith . Here in the greatest trance of life, both would begin to overcome all the twists and turns of the gestated gloom that separated them due to the shaken annoyance and confusion still divergent in sediments of runoff and bark oscillations that emerged from the unevenness of the acropolis, until a meeting in the amazing light and divine libertarian of two tendernesses, and martyrdoms that purely push them back towards a new end of the muddy gleam in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by male consciousness and is ratified mercifully in each flash of the striated. They will meet again in similar attachments divided by the fluctuating one who unmasks the one who drives him away with his dominant ******, and ill-advised caudal space seducing the contiguous public and private astral bodies that have never been coarse or dissimilar in ablution or sacraments of gods the pagans, everywhere nor whatever its fragmented remains by the gullies and ravines of the Kêphisos. After the remnants in politics, the desolate serpents of Aerse flowed down the river, as a link section that declared itself from an initial that was an evident flash that enveloped them as a cardinal canon with bucolic politics in all the nearby regions. Athenians, after the vertiginous regressive parapsychology like an Eleusino flahsback or Anadromí sto Parelthón Eleusia, with the visualizations of Aerse and Lochnith when they follow each other through the learned induction of feedback that was arranged in the inclinations of both, refining their morphological bastimento for the purpose of instituting them as articulators of the evocation of the millennia. Prophecies were reported from the 8th century BC. with ends, and interprocesses of the eternal in the unknown mystery that began to be clarified with the reinvented personality of the amendment of Life and Expiration experienced with Lochnith of the month of Boedromia, fleeing from a federated Polis that would be unified to a substantial dimension and of sacred Eleusinian space with brand new warmongering for the culminations of being incorporated into the Hexagonal Primogeniture integrated in this way in the indissoluble ephemeris of foundation and hegemony of the Megaron or Opisthodomos of Patmos. This is thanks to the beaten serpents that were nesting the reanimates of the question with subterfuges that make the widths of inter-pairs prevail, which are consolidated as a reality of session and space, agreeing on the defeated parapsychological memory or future in the economy of two resignation blocks of the repealed Sacred Space, in consensus of the beams of the Vernarth Military Command forging from the beating sacralized ***** that cultly intensified from its mysterious nature and territorial domesticity to come from the attracted Agoras that were repositioning themselves with the metaphysical agents that they will be restored in the polis with the scope of furrowing in a civic action induced towards someone who virtually recognizes him in the purge of the exclaimed strangers. More ardent passion was added to receive them even being wary of further mutations vibrated with the Faskéloma, or exasperating that moves the tint of the occasional vibrations, similar to the tendencies of the Sacred Space of Gethsemane, with the disastrous passing of the aqueous levels of the Kêphisos, which it would mean the presumptive ordinal of unreal historical worlds. The parapsychology of space was absorbed with torched quadrilaterals that were hanging from the invoked meditation, they were lying on futile folders and anodyne Aerse molecules, which were still welcomed by the magical exposed extra-corporeal substances that were deduced as they were experiencing unprecedented transit preserved of the eccentric deconcentrated radio of the refurbished of the spectral chromatic. The precipitated mental field dared to invade boldly towards another unheard-of generator that dissipated between Aerse and Eurydice coming near the Coasts of Patmos, coming from hypothetical planes that flow for their definitive moderated unions. The static refluxes bounced in simultaneity of bilocation of the Eleusinian exordia that were exorbitating each other with the rollers that were uncrossing the corporeal margins that concelebrated the quantum crankshaft, and the fibrous distinction that was teleporting the rescue rituals unforeseen astrological

Lochnith says: “in the proximity of the mortuary reality there will be no hesitation outside of our body and geodesy of our lost zafral or of lives in transit sub or supra quantum, obsessing in the eyes of erudition and unknowns, while our contraption self-obstructs with our electromagnetic sensory interactions paraphrasing in the convoluted distance and residues of related-metaphysical electros that are reconverted into the appearance of a premonition” The ligation of the arteries of Cephisus carried the emanations of Lochnith to love him in a healing act suspended with beings devoid of physicality, on the way to specters and healings of a perverse, to repair his extra-corporeal suffering confined to those who condescend to the androecium and gynoecium as a unit of mental physical motor gender, at the instant of the exacerbated and ectoplasmic world regulated by means of the Vernarth regression that was going lowering your blood pressure, increasing your red blood cells side effect rivers intertwined with Eurydice and Aerse in the opening Othon, directed at Vernarth's outcomes that came in the bow of the super-aqueous ship with some fabrics from the ship's stowage directing the speculative and autonomous advance that was already dispersing in the waves. Dead cells of the right Lynothorax,  A savvy military mancomunal became syncretic with Lochnith, he was determined to continue reinstalling us in his white blood cells that rose when it was already dawn on the shores of independent Skalá, and in the circled cohorts of Phalanxes and Psiloi that accompanied him in minutes that seemed millennia, all succumbing to the physical dismay of the underlying necrosanct and telepathic prayer that took place at the dawn of parapsychology trances cysts of recovery that descended on them in pure novel regenerative membranes, persé of merciful acts that became thick in the flashes when freezing from the weightless rays of the ultraviolet, which was separating between Sóma and Gnómi or corporal opinion that was joining synthetic networks with indefinite emissaries and receptors, subsequent bodies of the Bachkoi chemist, already deficient for a compensatory universe and varieties that were taking shape in a disintegrated emotional quantum world. Each time the bodies were reinserting themselves into the full unknown and subjective material, the concrete material united in the network with each other as a single force was transforming into the greatest passion and sparkle among their own, reinstalling themselves in the Super Egos.

In the Latest Minute Dogmate according to the rictus mortis thesis, the globules would move like a big explosion interacting with everything, so starting everything from the beginning of nothing to the indivisible with optional digits of coincidence or inseparable digitized, such a phenomenon of meekness of aligning times were massified with the probability of finding them in the vestige of real anomalous presences that occurred millions of light years ago. Aerse replies: “My admiration, the sparkle has a measure of astral body in reason of the vigor that underlies reiterated expiation and measurable virtuosity in its perfection of semblance p and corporal providence, inquired of being transformed far from disaffection rather than a continuous healing . The smallest and most coherent in the fabulous Griffins will join my clairvoyant and component with the ballast of his final game, not reflective of another who can measure or predict him for an undivided being. But I am already here, and I am your infinite…, I no longer know of other bad illusions of trying to separate myself from this life of what Eleusis is, perhaps a cosmic coarse that is and was in all time that passes speculatively, for this flash that is reflects whether it pales visible or not, I hope it will be compact on our intertwined attachments”
As living organisms, various life methods will be postulated as an initiative in the announced Big Bang, for the profit of those who are real close and real logotypes of resonant neuroscience as a daring that will influence the progeny, for ****** volumes, exonerations of bearers experiences and evolutionary lives of the emitter outside of an ignored Parthenon, since the gender of the world is also associated with random ambiguities from anode to cathode, positive-negative towards a Hellenic parallelism of roots in life dressed with lasting vernacular inheritances. Much of Lochnith's electro-dermal conglomerate was in full congruence with retrograde Eleusian parapsychology propagating from Vernarth's Invisible Eclectic Portal, which was nebulously teleported down the Kêphisos River with saprophytic living organisms acknowledging it in indigenous originality. of the species of reborn Vernarth, and super regulation of the euphemism and mysterious underworld below their protocols.

Revelations of the mental-material, made reluctance and support of the estrangement of inviolate perceptions, precognitions, telepathies and premonition, which debuted in this intrepid adventure intuiting in perpetuity with the sensory corridors and interferences of a reality of body in an explosive world incontestable. Lochnith, was already in possession of a hypnotic mental reincarnation formula in the form of neuroscience vessels close to scarecrows of expiration, allocating the subsequent locks of an enlightened decency of the ethereal sleepy baggage and the oracular review. The more we experience the laws that explain his prodigies, the more our perspective of media and complete fiction will increase in something that begins to be typical of the laurel of a true slowed-down ******-kinetic process. Within the curvature and the dim light that remained in the Lochtian days, normality returned to them after this long epitome in the parapsychological biosphere, and the intriguing contemplation and even mischievous tenuity of idea that can die suddenly, after self-incubate in the intangible coexisting passage and medication rupture of lived art with alien morbid beings. For a character archetype, it is only known that reaping is consuming capital from the disruption of a non-profit loss and its incontrovertible paranormal, which is paranormal and parapsychological from the plane of posterity of life, which will be an act of peaceful coexistence in playful spirits, compensating for seclusion in the vaults of an involutionary dramatic past, if its material or monad (spiritual) is not dissected in the cosmic train of perception of unfolding, and of the concept of purging energy that goes out of its way in its seventh heaven. The hypnosis of death and purgation to whoever requires it in the convoy of their conscience continues to be a tiny unruly space that transports us physically, reverting to minimums that are neutralized in alien foundlings. From an aedicule depository to an empty body that is neither independent nor from the lord who claims it (V.g. aedicule of José de Arimatea). The impersonal voices that officiated at the ritual of Eleusis were heard far beyond those who could hear them merely with memorable spaced therapies, recording themselves in interspersed layers of sounds and imprecise electroacoustics in the serial of an alarming complex frequency of the regenerative stumble in an organism of Continuous movement. Everything spreads in bends of abstraction that revives those who promote the perfection of marigolds like buttercups that they wear in the clothing of the Canephores like Aerse, but soulful and latent ephemeral of the ethereal alchemical entitative of ignored molecules. Lochnith says: “My submission heals, it no longer maintains being far from who represents it and where it comes from, I know that its remains in me do not reason, clarifying more my journey towards the crown and vilifications of a nascent humanity that mourns me, and that does not recognizes by rebelling in my desires to attract him"
the sky closes in vermilion digression and you inquire that they should answer for the silence of confusion in the parapsychological aqueducts of Athens with Patmos. The organization of the Sacred Space starts with the bizarre totemic quantum by sacred paths, Megarons, fictitious hunting places, double surrounding lunar ring, curves of virtual walls, Propylaea to embrace the Vernarthian enigma and finally the Telesterion that received Vernarth with a naked torso that perched in front of Aerse and Lochnith, looking at them towards the futuristic survival with five digits in a quarter of the waning of his right hand containing the small coat of Betelgeuse and the Pleiades in inklings of the umpteenth apocalyptic Megaron of Patmos. Scrupulosity as an Electro-Eleusian placebo effect, went alone, dismissing itself in the singular of a Templar niche and towards a Megaró-Omega Telesterion for catechized who endowed themselves with super-resident halos and litters of priesthoods that fled in terror from the Aerse-Lochnith fusion, prior to each rudeness and their contours swearing eternal exaltation and idealism, to be reconverted into individuals saved and votive to love each other with third parties, escaping from small frames that still did not hold up from the ecumenical mess.
Lochnith Eleusis Quantum

— The End —