Pacing the floor in the middle of this
watching the kettle 'til steam starts to hiss
A strange fascination we have with the bliss
with nothing behind us but one heated kiss.

Underneath an umbrella I stand in the rain
and wait on the platform for the six o'clock train
well you never quite hold me and I rarely complain
and soaked with frustration I walk home again.

We bid for each other in some Chinese auction
and you got the ***** one mixed up concoction
we checked out our prizes at a much closer range
What were we thinking and can we exchange?

And without any memories to dry up the tears
we long for the fire and the comfort of years
but it's just one more lesson, a good one we learned.
the slow-cooker is better and we're less often burned.

And then as I ponder you come in the door
I smile at your tired eyes and looking for more
I stir up the *** as you take off your Totes
and you ask me to make you some Five-Minute Oats.

"I made 'em already to warm up your cockles
the seat of your heart and without the debacles
I sensed that the cold rain would stir the desire
so I whipped up a batch and rekindled the fire".

And inspite of my rambling it seems rather clear
that Five-Minute Oats can mean something more dear
it's that person who waits in your kitchen above
stirring Five Minute oats into passionate love.

-Gina Morrone

Pacing the floor in the middle of this
watching the kettle 'til steam starts to hiss
A strange fascination we have with the bliss
with nothing behind us but one heated kiss.

Underneath an umbrella I stand in the rain
and wait on the platform for the six o'clock train
well you never quite hold me and I rarely complain
and soaked with frustration I walk home again.

We bid for each other in some Chinese auction
and you got the ***** one mixed up concoction
we checked out our prizes at a much closer range
What were we thinking and can we exchange?

And without any memories to dry up the tears
we long for the fire and the comfort of years
but it's just one more lesson, a good one we learned.
the slow-cooker is better and we're less often burned.

And then as I ponder you come in the door
I smile at your tired eyes and looking for more
I stir up the *** as you take off your Totes
and you ask me to make you some Five-Minute Oats.

"I made 'em already to warm up your cockles
the seat of your heart and without the debacles
I sensed that the cold rain would stir the desire
so I whipped up a batch and rekindled the fire".

And inspite of my rambling it seems rather clear
that Five-Minute Oats can mean something more dear
it's that person who waits in your kitchen above
stirring Five Minute oats into passionate love.

High and dry it’s all deserts and tumbleweeds with you.
But I’m a cat that likes to travel and move.
So I go the opposite way. Because stagnant dreams at high altitudes don’t suit me.
I’m a flat line realist with big aspirations, but I need to understand the game board.
So I hope there’s gas in the tank. Not for terrorist motives
Although I wouldn’t mind wide scale destruction
And my friends and I
We try to live like pirates.
We wish we could steal
But my mazda’s not a ship
And I’m not boarding port side.
Although to be perfectly honest
I feel that introspective ramblings
Aren’t going to save me.
When I ‘m fine with my self
It’s the flannel wearing 30 somethings
Raised trucks
Medium beer
Hats
Bro’s with community college degrees
The death of California
So My friends and I
Should drown in tar
Like dinosaurs .
Hypothesize our end
Our demise was overdue .
A few years ago I was cutting edge tongue flapping
Now I’m electrodes to spit older quips for lack luster
Gents.
I know the kinds h & m uniform, scarves in California heat, military grade boots.
This one’s name is Jeff and he slings dehydrated lines about charity like it will save his life of mediocrity and empty,empty,empty pockets
For the things he needs to do
To make people like him
Some where
Maybe india
Yes india
We’re friends that are just a 7 dollar donation away.

So leave me high and dry with your corner out eyes
Save yourself from the breakdown’s the x, y, z’s
Of predictable lines and same old stories
It’s the same thing with *’ of varying size
So if I quench my thirst from leaky pipe dreams
Or water plants with the excess, it’s all the same.
Because a silver tongue and debatable morals is the selling point but we’re not vinyls
Value is measure in age.
And wisdom wasn’t the call your made.

I’m sick of cut throats in Sunday dresses
And thief’s in cheap yellow sunglasses
Life’s not a ***** of a flat line or a mountain to be ascended or descended
-Kevin T.

Life goes on with a daily dawn
No time to make a single yawn
Many decades have sadly gone
Still, no leisure time is born
Head despite pillows has thorn
To be calm, my soul, I warn
Due to losses, heart is torn
For past debacles, fate, I scorn
I hope during night and morn
But, life is to fear a meek pawn
Rarely, mind, peace does adorn
As, my heart, it tries to ****
Heart tirelessly tries to wisely horn.

mvvenkataraman

All through the afternoon,
among these drinkers
to their tables to java cups
all from a bird’s-eye view.

Blended individuals,
of varying hues
too much sugar, no need to stir
hot, no ice - “a language of their own”
adding “cream to this crop”
like fraternity’s rushing thought
to seemingly **** out the weak.

Textbook before my face, coffee to my right
surrounded by chatter, and apparent debacles
behind the rearing of my ear lobes
set the seem from my shirt and cut
play the motion picture, film, pan out.

360 crossover,
these eyes wander, merely to ponder
conscious parenting to the mind; reminded
yes I did complete that -
atoning to what could be done,
view now from my eyes
around clouded peripherals
(zooming into this page)
trying to read to figure
a Venn diagram of the temporal lobe;
committing to memory ironically
it’s long-term function to maintain
the conception of this thought.

Distracted, back to this drink
re-calling coffee mythically impedes growth
or so they say to stray from focus -
the holder is the cup, to handle is abrupt
but we drink it, to straighten our view
so much as this morning vice stimulation
branded by a jaded graphic mermaid,
or possibly a siren, or to some a muse.

But, it’s the afternoon; no need to rush,
just here and there, casually taking sips
temporary jolts of caffeine
a temple of thought,
temporarily fading,
due to lacking the day-to-day rest.

Same perspective,
but this time curious, calm, and collected
like a child looking above an ant-farm - proud
gazing at moving points like synapses
of our coffee cups as opening our wakefulness.

Can we just remember to understand
that everyday is different.
Our mornings may start mundane
but we find joy in the day
for afternoon connections
no matter what they may be, just to remember,
so that we can have lasting memories,
and not the caffeinated ones.

Coenesthesia replicates and assimilates the pataphysical constellations that constitute the bulk of the perceptible but, because of a strained echopraxia that adheres to aleatory mathesis, the subconscious imprint of permutations of an integrated reality differ by capacities of percolation of the corporeal through the lavaderos of limit and the strain of hypertrophy or atrophy. Consciousness is like a shattered mirror that is corrugated through spatiotemporal circumjacent boundaries that constitute the psychogony of complexion rather than reflection. It is a comprehensive if beleaguered sentience that caresses the subliminal and accentuates the caprice of esemplastic tentacles that span variable gamuts that are ultimately subordinated by a celation that borrows from girouettism to create a shared approximation that circumducts around the babeldom of conclamation that is a categorical mutualism which becomes the nomothetic girdle of differential gradients of idiosyncrasy meeting the normative constraints of algedonic psychogony that deviates greatly from geotechnic optimum and even greater from geotechnic pessimum (by the necessity of dampened Brownian Motion which is defied by the congenital syntax of learned organization). And because the sum of conscience results in ecclesiarchy hobbled by impetuous purpresture of habit we can similarly conclude that the sum of consciousness is the percolation of both intrinsic valor and inane echopraxia into a contempered emancipation of the compounded breadth of learned cathexis and the depth of innate gangues that embody a flash of literacy augmented by flexible subroutines of habit that are the motatory rebhibition of sociocracy flimsy but inveterate to success and forgetful of frustraneous debacles if never in enantiodromia.
.
The concatenation of idioglossia (instinctive childlike communication; gabble) for example reflects a shared orbit of personas that share different gradients of volatility as the ludic fouter of the quintessential protoplasm is an origami of perception magnified by an inherited caprice that is the mandate for a terpsichorean but sympatric sphere of contraplex vectors of category intersected with the mutiny of syntax to abridge and simultaneously expand the protensive durative process of cohesive bricolage prone to the intuitive tenacity to absorb and then manufacture a farrago that abides by evolved awareness and churns a consequent solidarity found in definition but beyond the surmised threshold of the callow retread. I conclude, therefore, that consciousness depends on the superorganism of the macrobian and lively interaction between shared experience which centuples only if by a cultural imprint that is either hobbled by uniformity to result in a reductive certainty or a blandished flummery of the hackneyed (when collectivism is imperious draconian conformity) or an expansive tug of idiosyncrasy to sublimate in divergent imagination that is the stew of redintegrated ingenuity. Therefore consciousness began as an insular nesiote that is the primitive primogeniture of the canvass of circular dynamism but evolved into a superlative and supernal field of variable constitution that embodies both self and other but neither in totality.
I believe, therefore, consciousness began with an insular awareness incapable of anything but instinct which became the primipara for an advenient conjuration of language hobbled by the nomadic sprites of the protensive fouter with aimless lunarist siderism and eventually into an ethereal medium hypostatizing a replication that with virulent force and vehement conviction motivated fractured piecemeal dirigismes that confound boundaries of raw uniformity and ideal ipseity of the individuation of seminal rather than frustraneous ideas that collapse on algedonic ritualization. Consciousness, therefore, is both the measure of the collective weight and gravity of contraplex ideas differing their orbits but remaining reconstituted as unitary forms that achieve both sprawl and speed and simultaneously the constrained sphere of self-aware reticulation that bowdlerizes (depending on the age and capacity of intellect) the axiomatic and outmoded procedures such that what remains requires is somewhere between the conversant and the ineffable. Consciousness is more unitary than dualistic but it requires the projection of the known and the communication of the obvious to form the bulwark of the arcane and the degrees of the metemperical are actually an apagoge of academicism and acatalepsy because in good fortune we find that the reach of culture is the replication of stratified and replete originality contempered by the necessary politics of skeletonized frameworks of vulcanized but inflexible models to become the mainsail paragons of traction. Therefore consciousness is replicable and idiosyncrasy is unmistakable but the divergent imagination is intractable but rarely ever untethered to the humanity of culture rather than the mechanics of dehumanization.

It's in the struggle of achieving dreams where adversity introduces a man to himself.
Those are the same moments where you brawl with the inadequacies that plague you. The grotesque sight of failed expectations and debacles that burden your mental like a clogged bathtub.

I've met myself on many occasions in the heat of adversity.
Each man different than the last, because I rejected each mediocre version of myself and demanded more - better!
I have done this until there was no more to meet.

I can't tell you who I am, but for the first time in many moons...I have met the person I worked so hard to be and just for a brief moment, I can finally be content with who I am.

Tangent debacles I inherit from your stream;
Your face is otherworldly, inside of my dreams.

Shimmering infinity of warp and woof;
Tapestries uncurled by creation's hook.

Recorded epiphanies and pertinent facts,
Of life and death, proceeding on track.

Truth and reality's mortal refrains,
Embodied in man, so we'll know them again

“I wish to seek the feeling on the banks of our enclave,
It has been a part of our procurement of happiness,
Just my words cannot repair all that is now lost,
The copula as of our time together cannot be repaired,  

My thoughts is all I now have to ascertain moments,
Those fortunate moments we shared in passion,
Bitter is the voice of calamity and sounds of anguish,
A bemoaning of once flourish will destroy ones heart,

Remorse weakens strength from within where love has left,
Cataclysm sounds nothing in the ears of those once loved,
Vacillate music of sadness has no fortitude for the heart,
Delve not the sun above until it sets away from surge,

You were the chapter that I was unable to construe,
I knew it existed then finally upon highest mountains,
Yet were always there to help walk on stormy mountains,
As days pass the nights wear on it is only harvest days,

I strife with the rationale as you grovel in my mind,
I Strife now no more I shall bow down my weary eyes,
Eyes which to all these woes thy hearts have guided,
Adjacent the agitated brine the aqueous banks beat,
Soul tethered debacles in aqueous banks of the brine,
Thus home I draw as death's long night draws afore”
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/04/2018 ©

I want to lose my mind and have my sides split and crack with laughter. Grow my smile lines and go giggling to the here after. To be that batshit lunatic with contagious savage laughing fits. To thrive in hysterics, lose my marbles and half my wits.. I want to dress loud, double down and even learn to juggle. Be the clown that jokes around and gets you in and out of trouble. A jovial spirit creating extravagant jubilant debacles... Laugh my way to the grave and dance insane among the crumbling rubble.

Unsuspecting pawns
get played
in someone else's game

fragile
misinformed minds
become volatile
their minds molded
like clay

hardened by
manipulated
anger
and discontent

their lives
are sacrificed
on the altars
of evil, greedy politicians

whose strings are pulled
by the ultra wealthy
and the devil himself

they think
and believe
in all these politicians
and their promises

who temporarily
stroke their egos
and satiate
their bellies.

They are being
used, used, used...
their youth being devoured.

Sacrificed, sacrificed, sacrificed...

They're on somebody else's
front lines
and they don't even  know it.

Somebody
won't
somebody
wake them up?

Of course their lives matter.
They are precious.

ALL LIVES MATTER.

God says He made us
ALL
in HIS IMAGE
after HIS LIKENESS.

HIS SON DIED
for us
ALL.

Not for the
SOME
but for the
ALL.

Should not these
"scheduled"
demonstrations
and
"days of rage"
be  projected
towards
the manipulators????

The disillusioned...

they are blinded
they are being used
as a tool
a veritable weapon
to achieve
someone else's agenda

they are being primed
pumped up
like air in a tire....

The media
the purveyors of information

are they not responsible
to tell the truth?

If not,
by default
are they not  responsible
for orchestrated
debacles
in the making?

They are bought and sold
the price paid for the lie
is higher
than for the truth.

Pawns.

Don't be a pawn.

The time is now.

Please

Wake up.

cj 2016

She jumps through the whisper
of the wind
To harvest their sweet blood, to
ammend
The loathsome world, and to ascend
In the world with no sheen—a fiend.

Cursed by the painters, and earthlings
For debacles are what she brings.
She lifts herself through the
mutterings
Even when she's shattered in her
beings.

She, who sheens no light at fight,
Has been mistaken as benighted.
She carries not the death of a dead;
She's an art who's known the shadow
of a knight.

The days have become
cast lead ingots
that hold me under
The seconds a plague of locusts
That devour every shred of dignity
The weeks that lay ahead
leave me horizontally inclined
Now the years are rubber stamped overdue
or return to sender
The hours oscilliate from day to night to a monotonous finale
with every note short of breath
The months have compounded my interest of doubts
Leading to decades of debacles and debauchery
And to a lifetime devoid of hope

What A Fatasy
My love be bold and vivid with your fantasy
If you can conceive it, you will achieve it
My love love is eternal and wonderful mercy
Be a true lover and never evr decieve it

Ups and downs are part and parcel of life
Pain and happiness go but hand in hand
At times it is full of enjoyment at times strife
We have to bear all to stand and withstand

What a life full of circus or set of miracles
Making life wonderfully simple and great
At time it remains spiritual at times debacles
Whatever we narrate we are can't tolerate

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan