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"deified" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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47
Already the month of August 2018, May never become a je June'm (Forget-me-not) time of year, especially for nouveau homeless and, penniless residents, (now more like worrier), who reside in the (burnt to a crisp) Golden State where, towering uncontrollable wild fire infernos veer really did tax mental, physical, and spiritual oye vey iz mare (to the bajillion power of Google Plex) their heirlooms, mementos, and trappings of das kapital lifestyle went up in smoke, which tragedy didst seer the eyes (yes, iz traumatic, but also the air) looms with toxic particulate matter, though concerned former propertied owners (now ashen faced) as utter grief doth rear a scorched (bumping) ugly head, yet the onset of Autumn, (and the main purport of this poem) (oh my dog, that twill be in approximately three weeks, when Eastern Orthodox Church denotes beginning of ecclesiastical annum mull house for straight or queer (these times opening doors to LGBT, or GLBT (an initialism that stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender), nonetheless history replete with app pear chock full of factoids such as: September (Latin septem, "seven") with near exhaustive steeped in pagan glory of antiquity. Ancient Roman observances for September include: Ludi Romani, originally celebrated September 12 - September 14, later extended to September 5 to September 19. In 1st century BC, an extra day added in honor of deified Julius Caesar on 4 September. Epulum Jovis held: September 13. Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22. Septimontium celebrated September, and December 11 on later calendars September called "harvest month" in Charlemagne's calendar. September corresponds partly to Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire of first French republic. On Usenet, September 1993 (Eternal September) never ended. September called Herbstmonat, harvest month, in Switzerland. The Anglo-Saxons called month Gerstmonath, barley month, that crop then usually harvested.
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Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
September Daze Haint Sapphire Away
Already the month of August 2018, May never become a je June'm (Forget-me-not) time of year, especially for nouveau homeless and, penniless residents, (now more like worrier), who reside in the (burnt to a crisp) Golden State where, towering uncontrollable wild fire infernos veer really did tax mental, physical, and spiritual oye vey iz mare (to the bajillion power of Google Plex) their heirlooms, mementos, and trappings of das kapital lifestyle went up in smoke, which tragedy didst seer the eyes (yes, iz traumatic, but also the air) looms with toxic particulate matter, though concerned former propertied owners (now ashen faced) as utter grief doth rear a scorched (bumping) ugly head, yet the onset of Autumn, (and the main purport of this poem) (oh my dog, that twill be in approximately three weeks, when Eastern Orthodox Church denotes beginning of ecclesiastical annum mull house for straight or queer (these times opening doors to LGBT, or GLBT (an initialism that stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender), nonetheless history replete with app pear chock full of factoids such as: September (Latin septem, "seven") with near exhaustive steeped in pagan glory of antiquity. Ancient Roman observances for September include: Ludi Romani, originally celebrated September 12 - September 14, later extended to September 5 to September 19. In 1st century BC, an extra day added in honor of deified Julius Caesar on 4 September. Epulum Jovis held: September 13. Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22. Septimontium celebrated September, and December 11 on later calendars September called "harvest month" in Charlemagne's calendar. September corresponds partly to Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire of first French republic. On Usenet, September 1993 (Eternal September) never ended. September called Herbstmonat, harvest month, in Switzerland. The Anglo-Saxons called month Gerstmonath, barley month, that crop then usually harvested.
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81
1735 One crown that no one seeks And yet the highest head Its isolation coveted Its stigma deified While Pontius Pilate lives In whatsoever hell That coronation pierces him He recollects it well.
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One crown that no one seeks
here is something that mother told me about god complexes: “everyone believes themselves to be gods among men: even that hideous monster from your half-remembered Hellenistic dreams will retreat back to his craggy hideaway and continue with his hedonistic ways. the poor creature: he will don a halo, iconize himself in caricatures pretending that if for a moment his veins flow ichorous that Icarus may have envied when his wings beat in tandem with the footfalls of the sun chariots’ horses. “the sun shines upon hallowed ground, though Polyphemus will avoid Helios’s scornful gaze. he herds sheep––his only acolytes–– an unabashed king in his realm, like a god plays war, or as a child would play house, humming hallelujah, veins running gold-blooded. when moon rises, he will hang his weary shadow at his door and retreat to his fire-pit. perhaps this will be the closest he will be to the gods, basking in the heat of Hestia’s humble hearth. “in the end,” mother said, “Nobody will end up deified. Icarus may have rained down wax and feathers in godlike fury before tilting his head to Helios once more; Polyphemus waded into the sea, eyes clouded in godlike fury before resigning himself to fate, head bowed.”
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Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
POLYPHEMUS
371 A precious—mouldering pleasure—’tis— To meet an Antique Book— In just the Dress his Century wore— A privilege—I think— His venerable Hand to take— And warming in our own— A passage back—or two—to make— To Times when he—was young— His quaint opinions—to inspect— His thought to ascertain On Themes concern our mutual mind— The Literature of Man— What interested Scholars—most— What Competitions ran— When Plato—was a Certainty— And Sophocles—a Man— When Sappho—was a living Girl— And Beatrice wore The Gown that Dante—deified— Facts Centuries before He traverses—familiar— As One should come to Town— And tell you all your Dreams—were true— He lived—where Dreams were born— His presence is Enchantment— You beg him not to go— Old Volume shake their Vellum Heads And tantalize—just so—
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A precious—mouldering pleasure
*sailing on the blue-sea sailing unknown-beauty*.. 1. the seas laugh in raucous-hacks as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides seeming no more than                     spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points                     bloated fish who didn't make it                     swollen seals with child and the blue-boy on the whale's back confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds of his true-age and pure-soul nobody would believe              how many trips he had to make to get to this shore              how many deaths he had to live through to understand the purpose              how many tears he saw shedding of nature's total-patience              how many of so much.. 2. on the back of a whale he traverses the width of seas                       the span of lands                       the points of stars                       the truth of man and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break so hard on the interminable-wheel of penitence turning and grinding                       grinding                       grinding.. always bent upon that gauntlet-grind if they but knew how futile the turn.. carrying loads of mercy and goodness only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end 3. cruel deified-laughter exists not at man's readiness to crucify hope with such four-square certainty that redemption lies in suffering.. oh no.. 4. faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast whose sands give way to shy-dossiers of nature's confidence in the evening sun secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round have I failed myself.. ? (but not again) when awareness taps one on the shoulder, is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence that all the leaves and seas are willing to share? *true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms and opened-eyes and saying.. yes when the sun-breeze dawns* S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
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Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
on the whale's back
*sailing on the blue-sea sailing unknown-beauty*.. 1. the seas laugh in raucous-hacks as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides seeming no more than                     spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points                     bloated fish who didn't make it                     swollen seals with child and the blue-boy on the whale's back confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds of his true-age and pure-soul nobody would believe              how many trips he had to make to get to this shore              how many deaths he had to live through to understand the purpose              how many tears he saw shedding of nature's total-patience              how many of so much.. 2. on the back of a whale he traverses the width of seas                       the span of lands                       the points of stars                       the truth of man and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break so hard on the interminable-wheel of penitence turning and grinding                       grinding                       grinding.. always bent upon that gauntlet-grind if they but knew how futile the turn.. carrying loads of mercy and goodness only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end 3. cruel deified-laughter exists not at man's readiness to crucify hope with such four-square certainty that redemption lies in suffering.. oh no.. 4. faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast whose sands give way to shy-dossiers of nature's confidence in the evening sun secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round have I failed myself.. ? (but not again) when awareness taps one on the shoulder, is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence that all the leaves and seas are willing to share? *true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms and opened-eyes and saying.. yes when the sun-breeze dawns* S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
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In preserving Hugo Chavez, every method will be tried. If stuffing Hugo doesn’t work, They’ll try Formaldehyde. Madam Tussaud’s was consulted But their wax was doomed to melt. It is steamy in Caracas And Hugo’s not exactly svelte. A corpse in a glass coffin Like Snow White on display The late lamented Hugo Was a saint some peasants say. What is it with these communists Who all faiths do decry? They long to be like Lenin; To be worshiped, deified. In the end they'll use McDonald's secret sauce to tan his hide. Their burgers last forever don't get me started on their fries. If you go to Venezuela Be sure and say hello for me To the carcass of Caracas preserved for posterity.
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Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:06 PM UTC
The Carcass of Caracas
There is a word More powerful than any other... Mythologised, Romanticized, Deified. Men would fast for it, Fight for it, Live for it, Die for it, In hopes it could be passed From one generation to the next. Religions have been founded on it. Countries went to war for it. Way before Tolkien devised one ring to rule them all There was a word, Whispered and screamed. The word was peace. All I ask Is don't tell me Show me.
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Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
There is a word
The beat, the snare, the drum Starting in at the floor and flying to my brain **** all the people who say I’m numb I’m sane, oh so sane! My thinking, once a cloudy, congested, coagulate of incoherent thoughts, Now flows free from its once catastrophically, closed chasm, Bringing fourth meaningless, mindless motions and movements, Showing all, that you are who you are, don’t be afraid to fall. As the smoke clears, the crystallized casts of crushing vocals Radiate to my ears; all we hear is the hate, the hassle, the hustle The bustle. Look beyond what has spawned to see what you find fond. Blinded we remain; we fight, frightened and furious against this foe. Conformity hinders our ability to show individuality. They attack us With ambidexterity to keep us statues of our own subconscious design, Yet we continue to follow these wrongly deified prodigies. They’re using Us as antibodies to cleanse what are others conformities. Enlightened I will stay to ensure Elysium for my fellow enthusiasts. Free from these prodigies, my persistence will not fade To grey, black, white, withered, wretched wasted thoughts. My mind is free, my soul deep, this music is the up-beat.
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Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
Music and Government
My darkest friend who knows my darkest side, penumbral spirit might eclipse her own; she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride. While living through what most would not abide she bleeds for us through all the cuts she's known, my darkest friend who knows my darkest side. She feeds the beasts inside we've deified and knows my monsters right down to their bones. She gladly walks my shadows stride for stride. She wades abyss's waters at high tide and dives in eagerly to swim alone, my darkest friend who knows my darkest side. Sensual, seductive, sanctified, soft as woman, hard and strong as stone, she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride. She writes her deepest secrets, never lies, while keeping from herself how much she's grown. My darkest friend who knows my darkest side; she gladly walks my shadows stride for stride.
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Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
My darkest friend
Early in the morning You prepare to face the world Like the mall Or school Or the mall You face the mirror, Just a piece of glass With a dark background You’ve deified Ooh! You need eye make-up You reach for your eyeliner Max Factor’s finest And open your eyes Forcibly Like some deer caught in the Stage lights Now, you begin to line your eyes with a swipe A million children’s stomachs growling for zilch Swipe Mosquito-infested mothers digging for lunch at Payatas Swipe Cuts on a little knee from scrap metal Swipe Oh look! You’re tearing up Liquid fake crystal Forming on the dusty window to your soul Feel it form in the corner of your eye Feel it drip like cloud-seed rain Feel it streak your powdered, masked face Oh wait! You can’t feel it You’ve gone numb But those tears fall and fall Perfect! Just the way you wanted
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Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
Eyeliner Tears
Words set to music give the body tonic-- poetic melody: rhymes, rhythms, caesuras, meters, beats, stanzas and envoys in use. Making millions of dollars off an album, platinum pop stars: hounded by paparazzi, landed in a Jaccuzi; deified are poets-- pursued by Muse's mustang midst the prairies of inspiration trotting. Poetry draws no pretty penny, prizes like the Nobel praise. Mummy poetry is exhaling in the lyrical pantheon of music.
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Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Alive in Music (10w x 7)
Poisoned. Veins on fire. Ashes fill a mouth once deified Yet those standards fell short even for me Smoldering beneath the surface Waiting to pounce Didn't see it coming in the form of a gold rimmed cup Tasted sweet at first then bitter and acrid Smoke tendrils slither around my ankles This blaze will not be put out A silent scream wrenches tender flesh and bone Poisoned. The water. Don't drink the water.
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Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
A Cautionary Tale
these are our leaders: ash-born, clay-footed, emerging in the fudge grays of beyond light, shadows of the incense plumes we light in prayer long washed ashore here from yonder worlds of darkness and mystery by a wand wave thieve-made, exiled our kings to the far realms, alien then this self-lost band of otherworldly priests, effeminate our smiths and weavers, liars our bards that sung of heroes and conniving crooks our tradesmen no we are not to prosper in common with our kinsmen across the hills but in the name of God, amen, say peace to the holy ghosts, rises deified a language and a nation so we break the idols of the past and garland our heroes of reason clay-footed they come, and die drowning without an heir alpha and omega of our rootless world,
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Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
alpha and omega
She invited me into her palace of art, Where everything signified something else. She wore a silvery gown, Covered with a million miniature mirrors. I was badly dressed. “Beautiful lady, be my love and heal my soul. My life is fragments. Make me whole.” “I made this place to stand apart, A window to a world purer, deeply felt. Everything here is for you but my heart. Don’t get the idea that it’s going to melt Later on.”  Music played. Nirvana. Or maybe it was “Deacon Blues.” Twisted letters carved On doorknobs offered clues To someone else’s mystery. “Then be my muse, Teach me the language of clouds The coded words on the ceiling’s vault.” A digital river flowed beneath A winding stair down to an analog sea. I asked “Are these ‘caverns measureless to man’?” “Yes,” she said, “But not to woman.” I wandered through room after room, One printed, one painted, one sculpted, one Paneled with friezes like the blazing tomb Of an epic queen deified by the sun. I saw a near-empty room with a single chair. The light defined its form, its form escaping into light. “Is this real or a photo?” “Yes,” she serenely replied. I came to two doors.  One said Discipline, One Desire. “How can I possibly choose?” “They lead to the same place,” she said. What was real and what wasn’t flowed together “You’re starting to figure it out.” The innocence of a woman’s arched back, And the wisdom of children.   The solitude of a lonely pier. I knelt and I thanked her “Was all this for me?” “I made this to give away. Not just for you. What have you learned?  Let’s review. “Art is a shield Against falling glass. Art healed My divided mind, which used to devour Itself, giving away its power. Art is hunger, a piercing lack. Art is a ride on a gull’s back. Art is a dodge, the as of the mirror. Art destroys, callous clearer Of old order.  Art is a dance, a surrender to chance. Art is not all seduction and fire Or tethered to your desire (Except when it is).   Beyond the dazzle of you and me, Art is a failing light for learning how to see.” I said “Now I understand less than before.” “Then you’re ready.   Imagine starry ways beyond these walls. Use an innocent eye.   Confusion calls.” I never saw her again. But it was enough to start small.   She tempted me like an empty page. From this immense vacuum, I write.
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Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC
In the Palace of Art
She invited me into her palace of art, Where everything signified something else. She wore a silvery gown, Covered with a million miniature mirrors. I was badly dressed. “Beautiful lady, be my love and heal my soul. My life is fragments. Make me whole.” “I made this place to stand apart, A window to a world purer, deeply felt. Everything here is for you but my heart. Don’t get the idea that it’s going to melt Later on.”  Music played. Nirvana. Or maybe it was “Deacon Blues.” Twisted letters carved On doorknobs offered clues To someone else’s mystery. “Then be my muse, Teach me the language of clouds The coded words on the ceiling’s vault.” A digital river flowed beneath A winding stair down to an analog sea. I asked “Are these ‘caverns measureless to man’?” “Yes,” she said, “But not to woman.” I wandered through room after room, One printed, one painted, one sculpted, one Paneled with friezes like the blazing tomb Of an epic queen deified by the sun. I saw a near-empty room with a single chair. The light defined its form, its form escaping into light. “Is this real or a photo?” “Yes,” she serenely replied. I came to two doors.  One said Discipline, One Desire. “How can I possibly choose?” “They lead to the same place,” she said. What was real and what wasn’t flowed together “You’re starting to figure it out.” The innocence of a woman’s arched back, And the wisdom of children.   The solitude of a lonely pier. I knelt and I thanked her “Was all this for me?” “I made this to give away. Not just for you. What have you learned?  Let’s review. “Art is a shield Against falling glass. Art healed My divided mind, which used to devour Itself, giving away its power. Art is hunger, a piercing lack. Art is a ride on a gull’s back. Art is a dodge, the as of the mirror. Art destroys, callous clearer Of old order.  Art is a dance, a surrender to chance. Art is not all seduction and fire Or tethered to your desire (Except when it is).   Beyond the dazzle of you and me, Art is a failing light for learning how to see.” I said “Now I understand less than before.” “Then you’re ready.   Imagine starry ways beyond these walls. Use an innocent eye.   Confusion calls.” I never saw her again. But it was enough to start small.   She tempted me like an empty page. From this immense vacuum, I write.
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You chided and misguided-- Sighed and chided snidely-- While I stood there and deified: Your opinion was once so sanctified That it petrified and putrefied 'Til I was drawn to suicide. And I won't lie, I doubt that you'd have even cried. Now this patricide's not emblemized; Not glorified nor a source of pride. It's just that I've been rectified; I'm satisfied and verified. You see, old man, your claims have been denied. I stride beside a stronger pride, We're unified, not terrified, And, were you here, I'd just... Laugh. Sure, We simplify and vilify, All that we fear, but I-- I can't bring myself to cry; I'll no longer will myself to die-- Because, in the end I'm just too high To even look you in the eye. I've modified and purified. And, while you're compelled to sit and hide, I'm glorified--self deified-- And your podium's is now occupied By the one who you once toxified. And NONE of it's been for you. No, old man, it's not for you!
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Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
It's NOT For You!
The thrill of the chase... A chaste example, to acquire a hill Meant in dole and measure, the evening pace Of a risen question, which has nerves to chill Heat is a wavering sense of redoubt Sent by accept and due a looking herald Find a shadow of differ, with a comparison's pout Share and weal to endow, a question of waiting held? Maybe, a light has a wealth we can have? Said to bared and curious, superiority Will a stranger deed in the presence of need, pass? Asking for the so, a mutual live to do, is am affinity? Character is a reigning hope, to understate a gift? Soul to deified how, in a calling to wryed eyes When we are the eyes of rightness, risen of airs to lift A season of justness, with a moment assuring silence... Is the goal of sincerity... Is the given of simplicity... Is the god of serendipity... Is the gesture of sakes city... Who? And the hill, of reason taken to reality Of visions fortitude, a ply of when sense is too soon Will we become like ourselves, at the sight of future integrity?
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Mar 19, 2023
Mar 19, 2023 at 3:03 PM UTC
Tonight, The Sun Waits Here For Us
I don't eat no beef No **** no lamb no swine Only on the verdurous etch Doest I within my thine I dine I don't eat Jellie and sauces slick with ill Confounded with animal **** Nor powders and honeys dripping and grime Spent with the wretch of genocide's time I don't hunt for game or trophy **** I don't glorify **** or bile or swill I don't bow to the customs and conventions of now Now matter what serve of the demonic a sow I don't **** my brother or sister for food It's not blood on my hands that's reddened and hued So why take the life of an innocent babe? An animal born here of terrestrial habe? What for the taste of delicious a flesh? To accompany sauce Cantonese wan szech? Or is it to sate gastronomy? That bloodies the hands of you and me? That forces the carnivore? To act the ****** ***** And ***** an animal innocent and bright Is this self deified act requite? What do you proclaim to be? To ****** an animal's right to be? A god with insight and power so great? To forsake your right to heaven with hate? Or a devil or demon anon? To justify your sleepy murderous throng? Or merely a human who follows the lead? Of our common culture's bane banal creed? So what is it that drives you to the deed exact? To cut the throat of creatures in act? Are you saying that murders ok? And you'd enact this upon your own whether or may? If you could knock or whack a human for merely the taste of its flesh? And not because their discord did not mesh? With your idea of what justifies life? And end a being forever of strife? Is it ok for aliens to prey? Upon our earthen developments stay? And enslave our species to sate their gut? To fawn and feed and slupper and glut? Because they have a higher IQ? Or more dextrous fingers with which to hew? Are you sure you want to be an unthinking one? Of the masses maraud and to the deed done? As somnambulist reaching with a laden gun And end life forthwith no winner or won Unless you count dinner to the taste of your tongue Trained since a child to sing the song sung Of the glory of meat as to salivate and savour As if bowing to the idea of what will crave ya Haven't you ever heard of an acquired taste? Well couldn't we now apply this with grace?
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Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 11:48 PM UTC
Veganism No#2: A contrivance
I don't eat no beef No **** no lamb no swine Only on the verdurous etch Doest I within my thine I dine I don't eat Jellie and sauces slick with ill Confounded with animal **** Nor powders and honeys dripping and grime Spent with the wretch of genocide's time I don't hunt for game or trophy **** I don't glorify **** or bile or swill I don't bow to the customs and conventions of now Now matter what serve of the demonic a sow I don't **** my brother or sister for food It's not blood on my hands that's reddened and hued So why take the life of an innocent babe? An animal born here of terrestrial habe? What for the taste of delicious a flesh? To accompany sauce Cantonese wan szech? Or is it to sate gastronomy? That bloodies the hands of you and me? That forces the carnivore? To act the ****** ***** And ***** an animal innocent and bright Is this self deified act requite? What do you proclaim to be? To ****** an animal's right to be? A god with insight and power so great? To forsake your right to heaven with hate? Or a devil or demon anon? To justify your sleepy murderous throng? Or merely a human who follows the lead? Of our common culture's bane banal creed? So what is it that drives you to the deed exact? To cut the throat of creatures in act? Are you saying that murders ok? And you'd enact this upon your own whether or may? If you could knock or whack a human for merely the taste of its flesh? And not because their discord did not mesh? With your idea of what justifies life? And end a being forever of strife? Is it ok for aliens to prey? Upon our earthen developments stay? And enslave our species to sate their gut? To fawn and feed and slupper and glut? Because they have a higher IQ? Or more dextrous fingers with which to hew? Are you sure you want to be an unthinking one? Of the masses maraud and to the deed done? As somnambulist reaching with a laden gun And end life forthwith no winner or won Unless you count dinner to the taste of your tongue Trained since a child to sing the song sung Of the glory of meat as to salivate and savour As if bowing to the idea of what will crave ya Haven't you ever heard of an acquired taste? Well couldn't we now apply this with grace?
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She's tall and gaunt, and in her hard, sad face With flashes of the old fun's animation There lowers the fixed and peevish resignation Bred of a past where troubles came apace. She tells me that her husband, ere he died, Saw seven of their children pass away, And never knew the little lass at play Out on the green, in whom he's deified. Her kin dispersed, her friends forgot and gone, All simple faith her honest Irish mind, Scolding her spoiled young saint, she labours on: Telling her dreams, taking her patients' part, Trailing her coat sometimes: and you shall find No rougher, quainter speech, nor kinder heart.
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Scrubber
Sitting high on many horses Self Rightious. Professed all knowing. The ominous voice of our supposed deified ancestor I am not as sullied as you think Witch Bold women of the devil's desire Luring good, god fearing men from their pious marriage beds Pointing quickly with stone fingers From behind their fragile glass walls The acrid taste of fire licks at my tongue Trying in vain to block out the cries of my sisters As their tender flesh pops and sizzles into the waiting flames Supposedly it is to purify us Unclean and filthy souls that we are Yet we gave you birth Tended your sick and cared for your wounded Witch A mere woman's Pagan gods set your heart a flutter Filled your soul with the frigid winds of hell Scared. So scared you burned and burned even when no fat for the fires was found You always made sure there was wicked flesh to "cleanse" Superstitious nonsense. Your people will fear into the dawn No amount of slaughter will stifle the haunting howl of a full moon Nor will you ever silence the vibracious voice of magick For we are not few but many We are the blood of the earth
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Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 11:03 PM UTC
Ballad of the Bruised (never broken)
poetry is more than me it's more than words & more than rhyme it's vaster than space & faster than rhythm surfing the waves of time amplifying its frequency with each & every line pointed by symbols (signs?) clung to limestone precipices like vines within concrete crevices whispering screams of defiance against ignorance's yokes, again our arrogance jokes about the insignificance of other folks of the other ones of them, those people, the absentminders relentlessly fettered in golden coats profaning their shine thusly true so that the unnoticed may reflect upon the surface as the caustics of thought refract through the waters of spirit & soul churned out of each & every mind a field of poetics lurking behind the edifice of structure deified as functional perfection manifested but utterly infested with ***** sheets & replete with redundant repugnance filtered by plumbing that dumbs **** down to the basement level deep underground where much is mumbled but little is said aside from the storm a'brewin' overhead.
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Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
poetry
heaven sent graffitied wormholes to usher us out - busts of deified physicists presumed dead, noses chipped - like paint on old highway billboards - stacking "Welcome!" signs atop Vacuum Cleaner advertisements.
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Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:58 AM UTC
end of the known universe
Listening to Dave Grusin, "Mountain Dance," vintage 1979. The thought strikes: "Why is it that only the Early Jazz Giants are deified? Of course, we need Chet Baker and Miles Davis in our pantheon, & Gerry Mulligan & Charlie Parker Not to mention (cue Soupy Sales: "Smack. I told you not to mention that!") Coltrane or Stan Getz. And yet, we're all getting long teeth and there's a lot more Smooth Jazz to come, Post-1950s, take Grusin, for example, or George Benson or Herbie Hancock, and What about Earl Klugh & Larry Carlton? Let's not forget Spyro Gira & The Daves: Benoit and Koz. And we would be remiss To miss Chris, young Chris, Chris - "The Whippersnapper" - Botti. But I digress.
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Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
"Mountain Dance"
I’m falling off this rock There’s not enough gravity left I stood on the wrong side, too close to the edge Now, I’m falling, fare me well We didn’t pay all our bills to God Not insured enough, walk and run and trip and fall So, now. kaput! Save this crazy lifetime in a warped bottle Which soon will crack for all its solar scrutiny Insulate the bold things you can never have on stained glass fuzzy print A half eaten apple sitting on a dusty cloud still has that deified eye planted on it Globes are lit in insolence on mossy beds Dreams in armour pick up tell tale signs of cooing sounds very far away An autumn landscape falls upon the face on a knight whose real name is you A cruciform gift embedded in a rock only the worthy can retrieve A lump of coal burns in steady flickers within the palm of hand Hop out bowl and try to fly, yet land four seconds short of truth Hiding beneath a rude rainbow and peeping out at striker rays Cells squirm and turn, ready to burst out soma And a sky stretches on and on, like a dicey waterfall in ****** One photo snap and it’s all gone! tonight I watch it come alive at ten to midnite recalled clues illumine yet don't show all
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Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
gravity