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Ishita Feb 2016
I've let myself uncover from the bitter truth and false promises.
I've let sarcasm drip.
Like a river full of diamonds,
Shiny,cut and pointed.
I've liberated from your nasty attitude.
Cigarette butts scattered everywhere.
I've rise like a phoenix,
Like a tall skyscraper.
As a tear tricks down my barren face,
My fingers struggle to coordinate.
Maybe because this heart has bore too much.
Too much of pointless high emotions,
Of love,life and jealousy.
I was a simpleton indeed.
And you were the  destructor
But no toxic people,
There ain't any room for you this time.
Coz am rising now.
Rising-above all your ****** crap.
I'm your worst dream this time.
I'm your  NIGHTMARE .
18-2-16
I wonder what I'd do without poetry.
marina b Jul 2013
you know,
they say oxygen
though vital to life
is ultimately its very destructor.

you see,
it burns us from the inside
out
we willingly take it in
let it slowly ravage our bodies
and seep its poison into our precious vessels
so when we leave this celestial orb
we're still left grasping
for one last breath.

so in a way,
i guess i could say i need you like i need oxygen.
Surrationality Sep 2013
I plan on sleeping into oblivion into Armageddon into the end of the world.  
The earth shakes all around me as the sky falls in brimstone and rains sulfur and right now I think I see the angel of death in the distance.
I am not sure what it would look like though this vision is chilling me to the core.  
The molten core of this rock of life now death is rising up and overtaking the trees yet somehow I remain alive somehow I am not engulfed in the holy and divine flame of this apocalypse but I am sweating like a pig.  

I think I smell bacon.  

The sizzling of the flesh of those around me reminds me of bacon.
I think that’s why Hashem is ******.  
I know the smell of bacon.
I am not religious but the death and chaos around me and the angel of death above me and the burning sky and charred trees and buildings and bodies around me have given me a slight change of heart.  

Help me holy one!

I renounce my sins and blasphemy and beg forgiveness at Your all-powerful feet staring at Your omnipotent toenails and noticing a little fungus and thinking that we all have our flaws, even the Alpha and the Omega, the Almighty God that is prayed to day and night.  

If I could hear all the prayers in the world right now as we crumble into oblivion what
would they say?
I’m sorry Lord for what I have done Forgive me Lord for my indiscretions I was good, God, why have you done this to me what is Your plan Almighty tell me ******, why must I, your humble servant die at your hand because of the evils of others!  and I hear the reversal of fortunes.
The pious screaming at You for answers and the blasphemous like myself whimpering for forgiveness and the strong become weak and the weak become weaker and the terrible whine of hot steel bending and the crackling of flesh that reminds me of bacon and I remember now that I shouldn’t know that smell but forget among the cries of flesh and steel and concrete wood plastic explosions cacophony chaos bliss finality the end of days is on a
Tuesday

and I love it because I have always loathed
Tuesdays.  

Tuesdays
have always had a putrid green sky and a certain unpleasant odor lingering in the thick juicy air an odor not unlike fertilizer that has somehow gone bad and I wonder how **** goes bad because fertilizer is just that, ****, right?  
And that smell begins to flood my nose again as I hear the sizzle of flesh burning again this time
closer and louder and real and I begin to feel the heat all around me and my time for epiphany is now over.  
That fertilizer smell, that rancid **** demonic hellish smell is none other than my own burning flesh, none other than a warning sign that the end would come on a
Tuesday,
that most loathsome and evil of days, the worst of the week.
Tuesday.  
Insufferable intolerable
Tuesday
with your rancid **** burning flesh hell spawn demon smell, a smell only found in the bowels of the underworld and gym locker rooms, your rancid green brown sky, a color to match your smell in the thick sticky juicy air that never leaves.

Tuesday,
you evil being you devil you lost soul you destructor I hate you now more than ever as the sizzle crawls up my body and engulfs my nose and for that I am thankful because I can no longer smell that evil putrid narcotic smell of death but it stops before my eyes so I can bear witness to the end of days to the last whimper of the earth as it is consumed by fire and hear with what is left of my ears the eternal silence of this beautiful Apocalypse and begin only slightly as the bacon sizzle crawls up my forehead
in silent reverie
to love

Tuesday.
Babu kandula Feb 2015
When Gods tried to churn ocean
For nectar with Meru mountain

Firstly it was poison which came
Because of its severity all life forms
Where in great threat

All Gods prayed him

He decided to take the poison
And save the world

Which eventually made his neck
Blue in color

So we call him Neelakanta

He has a third eye

So we call him Trinetra

He is the destructor of Evil

He wanders in Cementary
To pacify and soothe the spirits

By doing Shiva Tandavanam (dance performed by shiva)

And saved us from those spirits

Shiva is his name

Chanting his name can save you
From any hazardous situation
Shiva one of the prominent Gods in Hinduism

I am an amateur guy to explain about a powerful God

Please forgive me if there are mistakes
MKF Mar 2014
Destruction,
After all,
Is a form of creation.
And you've destroyed me,
My dear,
From the inside out.
You smashed in my brain
With a sledgehammer,
Sawed off
All my nerve endings,
And clipped
My blood vessels.
Then you found something special.
Then you burned my heart,
My dear,
And I crumbled
From the inside out.
For Trevor
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2015
In the shadow of Everest people are dying
Crushed in a chaos embirthed from beneath,
Emerged as destructor of temple and Taos,
Emerged as an innocent killer... bequeathed.
History crumbles as heavens roar mightily
Ghorka is dead in an avalanche of rock,
Beggars and potentates crushed  in the brickfall
Dharahara’s fall leaves men gaping in shock.
Shuddering mountains in avalanche of free fall
Wails of the stricken as quaking defiles,
Gold topped pagodas and statue of ancients,
Sculpture of lions now a rubble in piles.
Khathmandu in the clasp of calamity
Nightmarish forces arisen from deep,
Grasping the earth in their grip of profanity
Monstrously tearing the bedrock from sleep.
A techtonic ****** of Asia by India
Nepal’s Himalayas ****** to the sky,
Inconsequential, this plight of humanity
Nature proceeds as poor Nepalese die.**

M.
ANZAC Day 25 April 2015
jeffrey conyers Mar 2013
Child support.
Those evil words that seems to destroy so many of us.
That they destructor the love etablished between the two parents.

For sake of the child.
Place friendship first.
A child needs their parent to get along to grow.

Saying she's this.
Or that he's this.
Sometimes has a triggering affect.
That sometimes judges just don't see.

All they know is opinions.
And listening to experts claim they childd needs counseling.
When all they truly need is love.

For sake of the child.
Place them first.
And things will improve instead of get worse.

Think of those that went through the depression.
Segregation and wars and so on.
Or the parents that raised their children's alone.

They place that child at the center of their heart.
And in the mist of their life was God.

A child is like a seed.
Once planted with love and affection.
It will never leave.
It profit from growth.

So, for the sake of the child.
Parents work out ways to get along.
The love of money has ruined many things.

Some of them don't need to be explained.
Àŧùl Feb 2013
The Time For Humanity To Mature Has Not & Would Never Come. Read on - be intrigued.

Now that I believe for a long time after I attained the age of 22 years on 23rd December, 2012.

Many of the spiritual literature pieces are just contradictory to themselves, why would HE let the occurence of any trouble then and hold only the other end of a jittery life helping us cross to the other end safe & fine?

If you would excuse this question saying "HE can never be questioned and HE alone is the destructor & the creator," then it's just a desperate excuse which you hold to considering theism as flawless & unquestionable, me & any similar people as psychos, or perhaps losers.

I don't discourage theism nor do I encourage anybody to share similar thoughts as mine, but I myself don't encourage idling over the concept of the special spiritual unseen power. I agree that some phenomena like love, kindness, greed, lust & hatred can't ever just be scientifically explained in total completeness by just citing some natural laws of nature or physics. But then again why do we often indispensably need that imaginary hand above our heads for protection or more than often have to spend money in praise of the imaginary hand above our heads?


Any mention about theists' escapist nature would be countered by their many statements of the following kind:

o Us theists, we don't escape problems, we just gather courage when we have identified a problem in our lives by remembering the imaginary hand above our heads sheltering us from all troubles and then tackle the problem with enough strength.

o Theism does neither lack anything divinity nor does it lack even anything evil, both of them are manmade concepts, the world was created as a perfect place for the existence of human race.

o Instead of just leaving us all alone in this troublesome world, He has sent few of His men and we can blindly follow them to resolve our own specific troubles with solutions ideated around age-old books written by great men and we don't need anybody to question our faith wherever it is.
Now please don't utter such curses as "You'll only be deep-fried in hot oil when you die!"
:D
© Atul Kaushal
Cuando me confiscaron la palabra
y me quitaron hasta el horizonte
cuando salí silvando despacito
y hasta hice bromas con el funcionario
de emigración o desintegración
y hubo el adiós de siempre con la mano
a la familia firme en la baranda
a los amigos que sobrevivían
y un motor el derecho tosió fuerte
y movió la azafata sus pestañas
como diciendo a vos yo te conozco
yo tenía estudiada una teoría
del exilio mis pozos del exilio
pero el cursillo no sirvió de nada

cómo saber que las ciudades reservaban
una cuota de su amor más austero
para los que llegábamos
con el odio pisándonos la huella
cómo saber que nos harían sitio
entre sus escaseces más henchidas
y sin averiguarnos los fervores
ni mucho menos el grupo sanguíneo
abrirían de par en par sus gozos
y también sus catástrofes
para que nos sintiéramos
igualito que en casa

cómo saber que yo mismo iba a hallar
sábanas limpias desayunos abrazos
en pueyrredón y french
en canning y las heras
y en lince
y en barranco
y en arequipa al tres mil seiscientos
y en el vedado
y dondequiera

siempre hay calles que olvidan sus balazos
sus silencios de pizarra lunar
y eligen festejarnos recibirnos llorarnos
con sus tiernas ventanas que lo comprenden todo
e inesperados pájaros entre flores y hollines
también plazas con pinos discretísimos
que preguntan señor cómo quedaron
sus acacias sus álamos
y los ojos se nos llenan de láminas
en rigor nuestros árboles están sufriendo como
por otra parte sufren los caballos la gente
los gorriones los paraguas las nubes
en un país que ya no tiene simulacros

es increíble pero no estoy solo
a menudo me trenzo con manos o con voces
o encuentro una muchacha para ir lluvia adentro
y alfabetizarme en su áspera hermosura
quién no sabe a esta altura que el dolor
es también un ilustre apellido

con éste o con aquélla nos miramos de lejos
y nos reconocemos por el rictus paterno
o la herida materna en el espejo
el llanto o la risa como nombres de guerra
ya que el llanto o la risa legales y cabales
son apenas blasones coberturas

estamos desarmados como sueño en andrajos
pero los anfitriones nos rearman de apuro
nos quieren como aliados y no como reliquias
aunque a veces nos pidan la derrota en hilachas
para no repetirla

inermes como sueños así vamos
pero los anfitriones nos formulan preguntas
que incluyen su semilla de respuesta
y ponen sus palomas mensajeras y lemas
a nuestra tímida disposición
y claro sudamos los mismos pánicos
temblamos las mismas preocupaciones

a medida que entramos en el miedo
vamos perdiendo nuestra extranjería
ei enemigo es una niebla espesa
es el común denominador o
denominador plenipotenciario

es bueno reanudar el enemigo
de lo contrario puede acontecer
que uno se ablande al verlo tan odioso
el enemigo es siempre el mismo cráte
todavía no hay volcanes apagados

cuando nos escondemos a regar
la maceta con tréboles venéreos
aceitamos bisagras filosóficas
le ponemos candado a los ex domicilios
y juntamos las viudas militancias
y desobedecemos a los meteorólogos
soñamos con axilas y grupas y caricias
despertamos oliendo a naftalina
todos los campanarios nos conmueven
aunque tan solo duren en la tarde plomiza
y estemos abollados de trabajo

el recuerdo del mar cuando no hay mar
nos desventura la insolencia y la sangre
y cuando hay mar de un verde despiadado
la ola rompe en múltiples agüeros

uno de los problemas de esta vida accesoria
es que en cada noticia emigramos
siempre los pies alados livianísirnos
del que espera la señal de largada
y claro a medida que la señal no llega
nos aplacamos y nos convertimos
en herines apiñados y reumáticos

y bien esa maciza ingravidez
alza sus espirales de huelo en el lenguaje
hablamos ele botijas o gurises
y nos traducen pibe riñe guagua
suena ta o taluego
y es como si cantáramos desvergonzadamente
do jamás se pone el sol se pone el sol

y nos aceptan siempre
nos inventan a veces
nos lustran la morriña majadera
con la nostalgia que hubieran tenido
o que tuvieron o que van a tener
pero además nos muestran ayeres y anteayeres
la película entera a fin de que aprendamos
que la tragedia es ave migratoria
que los pueblos irán a contramuerte
y el destino se labra con las uñas

habrá que agradecerlo de por vida
acaso más que el pan y la cama y el techo
y los poros alertas del amo
r habrá que recordar con un exvoto
esa pedagogía solidaria y tangible

por lo pronto se sienten orgullosos
de entender que no vamos a quedarnos
porque claro hay un cielo
que nos gusta tener sobre la crisma
así uno va fundando las patrias interinas
segundas patrias siempre fueron buenas
cuando no nos padecen y no nos compadecen
simplemente nos hacen un lugar junto al fuego
y nos ayudan a mirar las llamas
porque saben que en ellas vemos nombres y bocas

es dulce y prodigiosa esta patria interina
con manos tibias que reciben dando
se aprende todo menos las ausencias
hay certidumbres y caminos rotos
besos rendidos y provisionales
brumas con barcos que parecen barcos
y lunas que reciben nuestra noche
con tangos marineras sones rumbas
y lo importante es que nos acompañan
con su futuro a cuestas y sus huesos

esta patria interina es dulce y honda
tiene la gracia de rememorarnos
de alcanzarnos noticias y dolores
como si recogiera cachorros de añoranza
y los diera a la suerte de los niños

de a poco percibimos los signos del paisaje
y nos vamos midiendo primero con sus nubes
y luego con sus rabias y sus glorias
primero con sus nubes
que unas veces son fibras filamentos
y otras veces tan redondas y plenas
como tetas de madre treinteañera
y luego con sus rabias y sus glorias
que nunca son ambiguas

acostumbrándonos a sus costumbres
llegamos a sentir sus ráfagas de historia
y aunque siempre habrá un nudo inaccesible
un útero de glorias que es propiedad privada
igual nuestra confianza izará sus pendones
y creeremos que un día que también que ojalá

aquí no me segrego
tampoco me segregan
hago de centinela de sus sueños
podemos ir a escote en el error
o nutrirnos de otras melancolías

algunos provenimos del durazno y la uva
otros vienen del mango y el mamey
y sin embargo vamos a encontrarnos
en la indócil naranja universal

el enemigo nos vigila acérrimo
él y sus corruptólogos husmean
nos aprenden milímetro a milímetro
estudian las estelas que deja el corazón
pero no pueden descifrar el rumbo
se les ve la soberbia desde lejos
sus llamas vuelven a lamer el cielo
chamuscando los talones de dios

su averno monopólico ha acabado
con el infierno artesanal de leviatán

es fuerte el enemigo y sin embargo
mientras la bomba eleva sus hipótesis
y todo se asimila al holocausto
una chiva tranquila una chiva de veras
prosigue masticando en el islote

ella solita derrotó al imperio
todos tendríamos que haber volado
a abrazar a esa hermana
ella sí demostró lo indemostrable
y fue excepción y regla todo junto
y gracias a esa chiva de los pueblos
ay nos quedamos sin apocalipsis

cuando sentimos el escalofrío
y los malos olores de la ruina
siempre es bueno saber que en algún meridiano
hay una chiva a lo mejor un puma
un ñandú una jutía una lombriz
un espermatozoide un feto una criatura
un hombre o dos un pueblo
una isla un archipiélago
un continente un mundo
tan firmes y tan dignos de seguir masticando
y destruir al destructor y acaso
desapocalipsarnos para siempre

es germinal y aguda esta patria interina
y nuestro desconsuelo integra su paisaje
pero también lo integra nuestro bálsamo

por supuesto sabemos desenrollar la risa
y madrugar y andar descalzos por la arena
narrar blancos prodigios a los niños
inventar minuciosos borradores de amor
y pasarlos en limpio en la alta noche
juntar pedazos de canciones viejas
decir cuentos de loros y gallegos
y de alemanes y de cocodrilos
y jugar al pingpong y a los actores
bailar el pericón y la milonga
traducir un bolero al alemán
y dos tangos a un vesre casi quechua
claro no somos una pompa fúnebre
usamos el derecho a la alegría

pero cómo ocultarnos los derrumbes
el canto se nos queda en estupor
hasta el amor es de pronto una culpa
nadie se ríe de los basiliscos
he visto a mis hermanos en mis patrias suplentes
postergar su alegría cuando muere la nuestra
y ese sí es un tributo inolvidable

por eso cuando vuelva
                                      y algún día será
a mis tierras mis gentes y mi cielo
ojaló que el ladrillo que a puro riesgo traje
para mostrar al mundo cómo era mi casa
dure como mis duras devociones
a mis patrias suplentes compañeras
viva como un pedazo de mi vida
quede como un ladrillo en otra casa.
Justin Chinyere Mar 2018
Freezing causes wheezing,
Leaving leaf spores breeding down my trachea,
Allergens spin n turn sharply attacking the tools that physicalise my life with its ins and outs
Oh 2 see oh 2 breathe oh 2 feel free from the obstructions that structure my schedule to be dormant
Walk up the stairs hold on to the side "are you ok?" No Annie in sight,
Just I, end
is nigh
I roll my knuckles and pinch my palms
Shouldve cut my nails, shot shoots up my arms.
I knock 3 times on the bannister,
I Commit to it being my balancer
Eyes leaking, chest croaking
tight feeling  like I'm choking
Gasping hurts but needed to soothe the need of a response

"I'm fine, just a bit chesty"

Don't ask any more or i can get tetchy

Lecture me on meds im taking
if my rooms tidy or am i forsaking,
still smoking? buffing and *******  that sweet foam **** till it turns hard and golden tarred like caramel muck.  
Just my luck that the something that makes me feel at ease can send me bending to my knees
not for pleas
But to construct a wheeze
Leaving me
Starting every sentence with please,
help me.
Don't even know what im pleading to
Or Who is listening to the self harmer
With a clear thought that I deserve to be preserved and cured of this karma
Inherited from my grandfather which I didn't know until I was told to ask my mother.

Ask ma

She knows about your Asthma.

She's a self destructor
well known for being a self wrecker
A self pecker
leaving holes to be filled by watless ***** carriers
Frieghts of frightening memories
Sure one day shed love to tell me.
But she destructured herself
And left me for others to construct by themselves.

Destructing the self: is the art of not giving a **** but really not giving a **** to the point that there's no fcuks to give and giving a **** means you're affected by fcuks who dont give a **** or willing to give you an iota of optimism
A helping hand
A hope full of hopeful hopes
Hopping fluently between the structure of the destructed self
Which makes me feel woozy

As i struggle hard to say no to this tobacco
especially when it's been weeks
And the feeling of ease is punishing me for a past ive not seen but i realise in that moment we have much in common

Self destruction is our common denominator
Our choice is the same and is made the same
over and over again
Its still the same
results never change
And still leave us with this taint
That we are responsible for cleansing

So what more do i need to ask ma for?
She's giving me answers by her flaws. That's her gift to me,
her way of setting me free
well here's hoping she breathes easy.
Liz Carlson Jan 2022
This dark storm has been wreaking havoc within me for so long.  

It starts by twisting my thoughts and feelings upside down,  

Bending the truth so that all that remains are lies.

Then it tightens my chest and my throat

Making it nearly impossible to catch a breath,  

I pant, pant, pant, just for a single breath of air.  

This tornado lands on my ribcage and settles there a while,  

weighing what seems to be a thousand pounds.  

Breathe, breathe, breathe, please!  

Then the destructor settles on my eyes and covers them,  

making it difficult to focus my sight and see clearly,  

The reality around me blurs,  

see, see, see, now...  

Now it decides to zap my body  

so that I shake, shake, shake as if it's 0° outside.  

I curl up into myself and roll back and forth.  

Through all this movement in my body,  

the lies never stopped waging war in my mind.  

Like the sounds of swords being sharpened before battle,  

the terrifying noise sends a shudder to my very bones.  

My body and mind are so weak and tired from this relentless torment.  

At the first signs of battle, I try to fight back with the truths I've been told since my youth,  

but the enemy keeps pulling and pulling at me.  

Little by little, my strength wears down,  

and the only response I can seem to find to the lies is...

Submission.
aury Nov 2018
You play the victim well
Beg for sympathy where you know you’ll get it
As if you aren’t the galvanizer of the hell that you live in
Present yourself as the sad boy
With the broken heart
Left alone with no one to love
As if you didn’t isolate yourself
The destructor of each and every single relationship
Like a tornado
Blowing through all that once was happy
I have no sympathy for you, lonely boy
Just a hope
That one day you’ll open your eyes
And end your pity party
you’re a sinner
and you always have been
O Flame,
curiously swaying in the wind.
How too I endeavor
To dance with my destructor.
Your careless swing,
In the blue mystery of the dark.

In this moment you are all I care for.

The illustrious glow more becoming than sixty sirens
Coated in sterling silver.

You
Harmful to touch but enthralling to watch
I adore you my dear
Simply as I know of your fate.

My empathy runs deep as we are both
Snubbed by the wind.
Sing to me my muse,
Let my end be Joyful
But only at hands of you.
preston May 2020

(note~ This is a rather lengthy story about trauma and brokenness..)

I have a patch of skin on the back of my left hand, indiscernible to the
human eye as being any different than any other part of my skin.
It is my heart of hearts.

Five days a week I am not with my little ones.. there is a place I go.
A broken one awaits me there; Unknowingly. On 'day one' of my
non daddy-time, I go where the longing of my heart leads me.
When I am not with them.

There is a vertical shaft-- hidden in the tumbleweeds at the base of the
mountain's foothills that leads down beneath the surface. There are
rusted rebar steps in the shape of hoops, embedded into the hardened dirt
and rock of the shaft that gives me access to what lies down below.
With each ten steps, the shaft becomes noticeably darker. After thirty
steps, there becomes a pungent smell in the air that begins to cover my
skin, and a dank mist that enters my lungs and begins to coat the
inside of my skin. As I continue to descend down-- all becomes covered--
everything.. but the 4 inch square patch on my left hand.

There is a foul 'burning' in the permeating mist that wants to place a
film over my eyes and cause them to water, but as I descend I grow a
new pair of eyes over the top of my old ones, and though it is nearly
pitch black now and the pungency completely fills the air;
I can see.
Faintly, but I can see.

Directly at the bottom of the shaft is a room barely lit by what little
light has made it down the shaft through the mold and musty mist.
I get a strong sense that this room is the antechamber. Dirt and rock
line the walls as if they had been there since the ancient days. There is
also a black mold and an unavoidable saturation of the wall. There are
two doors in the wall, but I sense that both lead to the same room, so I
take the door on the right and slowly enter into a windowless and
nearly pitch black room-- old and partially torn up asbestos-tar tiled
floor-- filthy ***** with strewn about rags and used up things. The
pungent mist would be completely overwhelming had I not already
been fully permeated in it and received the new set of eyes in order to
be protected from its permeation and also to be able to see through the
darkness and wet, fine dust that floats throughout the air.

On the walls, there is a saturation to such a degree that it almost moves,
and there is a permeation of mold throughout. Mold on the walls, floor,
ceiling-- everything permeated in the mold.. and whatever it is that has
saturated everything. I have now entered so far into the room that all I
can see is shadows.  It has become that dark.
There is a sense of movement.
It is large-- behemoth even, methodically slow in it's self caught-up world.
It is perpetrator. Abuser-- And it only knows one thing--
destruction of anything of life for its own gain.  It cannot see me
because I am permeated in the foulness of its own perpetual emission--
The walls.. they are *** soaked. The air is filled with an ever-evaporating
mist of pungency. The only life form attached to it is mold, a fungus
which covers every square inch of floor, wall and ceiling.
I am not afraid, because I know that what I want is in the room also--
and I know that the only thing perpetrator can see is what hasn't been
permeated by the filth-- and so as I move.. remembering to place my
right hand over the back side of my left--
covering the only part of me that is not his.

Protected by the fact that I have become permeated in and with the
outcome of his abusing ways, I am hidden from all that he is,
as long as I keep that part of me covered.
I begin to move slowly around the room knowing that I cannot be seen,
but needing also to make not an ounce of sound. I am looking-- searching.
In the corner is a small discarded pile of ***** rags, and there my
eyes focus as I slowly move towards it. Perpetrator has begun to
shuffle off towards another smaller room that I have just begun to
become aware of. I head towards the small pile of rags.
I can feel him-- someone else in the room. The one I came for.

I move towards the rags on the floor there in the corner of the room
and I can see him-- just a part of his hand sticking out from underneath
the pile of rags; he is face down. All my focus is on him now, as I kneel
down next to him and sit alongside him-- pulling the rags off of his
head, revealing the side of his face. He is face down with eyes closed,
barely breathing-- barely a pulse.. only kept alive by the perpetrator to
serve his purpose. I am with him now and his brokenness takes over
me. I cannot touch him with any part of the permeated filth.

I reach out with the unaffected four inches of skin on the back side of my
hand, and touch it to his face. There's a slight movement, but he
remains face down. He's just a little boy, but because of the horrors
he was subjected to, I knew not to try to move him--
the trauma of just the slightest movement would **** him.
And if I were to look directly into his eyes, the light I had brought into
his broken, dark world, would have burned the back of his retinas and
ended what little pulse and breathing he had remaining. This is where I
want to be, even if the only thing that I can do just let him feel the
warmth and cleanness of my skin through the back of my hand against
his face.

I feel him quietly breathing it in.
He never opens his eyes-
face down still-- pain.
It takes all the energy he has;
just to survive.. to breathe.

And outside of the warmth of my hand, I know
that he may never again have the chance
to see the light of day--
he is broken, abandoned.


This is where I want to be.. but to be near the broken-one of my heart, I
have had to wear the 'full outcome' of perpetrator, and know full well
through what I have learned when young that I'm putting myself at risk--
of forever being banished to hell for what I have 'chosen to wear'.
I will stay with the broken one wherever that may be. This is where
my heart is most at home (the times I'm not with my little ones).
If heaven doesn't want to let me.. or the broken one in,
then I don't want to be there.
I will stay here with him, and if hell is his final resting place..
then it will be mine also--
perpetrator cannot see me here-- destructor will not see me there,
and I will sit with broken-one forever.

But for now I must return at the end of the five days-- climbing once
again back up the shaft and receiving the washing that happens once
daily life sees the four inch patch-- I am clean again in order to play
with and love my little ones.. holding them and protecting them from
the daylight-perpetrators as best as I can.. and as I love them and look into
them, I look into the broken one also. He is with me in my heart even
then. I will be with him again soon and also once again with my little ones.
    I am both.
They will grow up and become responsible loving adults with children
of their own. Broken one will always remain young and broken.
I will remain with him forever--come hell or high water.
He is me.. and every broken-one who has ever had to suffer alone.
It is with the broken ones that I will always want to be.

I live within the four square inches of my skin.
https://youtu.be/eYoINidnLRQ
.
Doug Dombrowik Jan 2013
Succumbed to Dionysus' will.
We wallowed together out of the door.
We left them behind, the moment stood still.

The hand of Apollo seems to urge more,
For I express what I most love and fear.
You are the great secret that I adore.

Aphrodite seeming to interfere
With our forbidden moment that kills time.
The harrowing stars is what brings us near.

How do I express our moment in rhyme?
I caught you here in my arms as you fell,
our song played in a harmonious chime.

Ananke  bares upon this twisted hell
That inevitably will make us one.
How long will we continue to rebel?

Mnemosyne remembers the past we shun,
And she now sees the moment in our eyes.
When, I wonder with this, shall we be done?

Right now you hide not behind all the lies
Our faces close, we are about to kiss,
The  interruption led to its demise

Perses, the one who creates our ill bliss,
Is also the destructor of all we
Ever hope  to both love and to e'er miss.

Now all that will be left is you and me,
and our moment though close, ne'er came to be.
Poem#10
Nysa Jul 2018
Once I was the one when I followed you,
Now I am the one who regrets following you,

Once you were a statue of honesty in front of me,
Now you are a statue of delinquency in front of me,

Once you were an angel to me,
Now you are a devil to me,

Once you gave me happiness,
Now you are taking away my happiness,

Once I thought you were my saviour,
Now I know you are my destructor,

Once your halo was too bright and lustrous for me,
Now your halo is too dark and dull for me,

Once you were everything to me,
Now you are nothing to me,

Because I NOW know about your BETRAYAL.

You are the Poet,
Among the first five;
I do understand,
You are the
Poet of the Poet;
The best poet!
Neither “Homer”
Nor “Gibran”;
Neither “Neruda”;
Nor “Tagore”;
Like all other
Poet of the Poets;
You too scribbles nonsense,
Sometimes like the
other famous poets;
You yourself is the originator;
As well as the reader.
then you become
victorious; defeated…….
________________­____
  You are the King
Among the first five
I do understand
You are the
King of the Kings;
The best King !
Neither “Charles II”
Nor “Henry V”;
Neither “Edward”;
Nor “Asoka”;
Like all other
King of Kings,
You yourself is the Creator;
as well as the destroyer;
You  too declares world war
sometimes like the
other famous Kings!
Without warnings
You yourself is the creator;
As well as the destructor;
then you become
   victorious;the defeated..
________________­_________
*
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
williamsji@yahoo.com
www.williamsji.com
My intention is to tell of bodies vanished
Or mutated; the "others" who made the mutations,
Will help me-or so I hope so-with a poem
That ceases with the world's ending,
Back to civilized days.

The Destruction

Before the deaths occurred, or vanishings, or mutations,
Civilization was, different, a diverse, organized, so called,
All intelligent and of moderate matter. Everything had its
Place, no creature nor object lay in contradictory conflict.
There was electricity to light dark rooms; clocks to keep
Track of time. The universe, worked well in harmony.
There was land and air and ocean.
Land for every creature to live on, and water
For fish to swim in, air for all the living to breathe,
Societies didn’t fight, a world finally repaired.
Forever at peace: within this utopia.
The gazelle lay beside the lion; the youth respected the elderly,
The strong and rich provided for the weak and poor.
A beings' lowest emotion was simple satisfaction.
Till "The Others" or alien nature,
Settled on earth and spread out.
They took children from their mothers, warriors from their
Towns, and eyeballs from their sockets.
From another planet they brought terrorization.
Beings so evolved, and out of the blatant blue,
Found humans and bound them to trees and poles.
Some forced fire down mortals' throats, and flesh,
Some leaped in air, claiming their human slaves in the
Highest planet.
Some hid their humans below the earth, their last wish
Ungranted, grasping for life, gasping for air.
Some did indescribable, grosser torments, with water as a weapon,
Lowest of all, some mutilated babies, tormented women, and
Ate their limbs for breakfast.

Whoever their god was, he demanded chaos,
First there was disorder on this earth, and then came
Their divisions, laws and uniformities.
In the end, there was no hope.
On every riverside blood discolored the waters,
Alien vegetation spread and rose under their new sun,
Surrounding our homes; alien pawns and their diseases.
Banks and stores where rummaged through and destroyed,
Sea monsters were fed fresh earthlings,
Women were made their ****** and experienced excruciating pains,
Spread apart from their families and friends.
We assembled prisons and torture chambers for our kind,
We were their precious jewels, and earth was their vault.
Our world was divided into three zones,
The north and held prisons and torture chambers,
The south now a feed ground of the growing aliens population
And in the center, a paradise with perfect seasons and organization.
The other zones held contaminated air that darkened
The earth, grease floating atop of waters,
And chemicals that instigated fires and explosions.
Towers and buildings were torn and disassembled,
And fear struck each soul every time
The Destructor called orders of
General *******.
We fought and argued with them but nothing good
Came of it for us, the aliens continued
To tear our universe apart.
     These boundaries taken away,
The stars went dim,
The hazardous mist covered their sparkle,
Fish were depressed of their water,
Beasts from their land, birds from the air.

But something else was decided,
By a man capable of thinking logically,
A man born to a civilized earth and to the middle class,
And now, recently and forever separated
From security, love and even his God-
Such destruction made with unknown forces,
Turned humans back to clay and running water.
All animals slowly expired; one man,
Alone and crazy, rose his face to his lost heaven.
"This is the end", he knew.
A parody of Ovid's Metamorphoses
Alyse Lee Feb 2010
I was a saint
I was a sinner
I was a tree
I was the wind
I was a feeling
I was a numbness
I was a prisoner
I was a bird
I was a flower
I was a thorn
I was your light
I was your fall
I was a creator
I was a destructor
I was alive
but what am I now?
Everything I do is destructive
Nothing I say is constructive
You always see a destructor
In me, not single a constructor.

The day you were my great friend
You talked of great a trend
In me was a super brand
A hill touching the clouds,I stood.

I haven't changed
I am the one you used to know,
Everything I used to do is what I do,
You hold no water to accuse me.
You forgot that you used to praise me,now when you make false accusation at my back
Lakhwinder Dec 2017
Thundered cloud, drops falling!
Here the rain, o rain ! Kids began shouting.

Frogs start dancing ‚ hollow steams overflow.
several bossomed‚ barren land get glow.

Far from it‚ a lady who dwelt in hut‚
Moaning‚ pleaded to God‚ to cease it up.

Her tears eulogize her sorrow‚
The grain now vain which she'd borrowed .

Tatter shelter is leaking‚
Her kids start weeping.

She cursed to the averse rain ‚
The scudding drifts  and extreme pain.

Sudden‚ rain-storm abated‚ the sun began gleaming.
A saint consistently stared her‚ come her nearing.

"What you have lost? trifles ! Which was not yours ‚
Nor the God's Havoc ‚your turpitude make you poor".

God doth need to menace His child's treasures,
you are own responsible for your laments and pleasures.

The Hell and Heaven are not in world,
All have to suffer sooner or later,
If God is the Destructor, than who is the Creator?
Almighty God never desire to menace His child
Unrealistic imagination is the notion of believing we lead by Leaders.
Sexist lamination is the economical struggle we voted for.
The ones leading Texts imprinted.
The last time I forgot how to dream Imaginations got arrested.
A suit of the selfish gratitude.
A Brief Touch of the Variable Earth.
A Sudden threat to death.
Directly a touch and kiss for affection.
The ****** and buried are hounding reminders.
Where can you go when the winner is a destructor?
Sobered in the wall exactly when I remember,
The moments I've seen Are Confusing gender.
Reality is deceived by deceit and conquered by the brainy brains.
How these life mirrors reflect is solely based on the act of who lived before I did.
The True Vector.
I'm a gift to my self.
A Glass to my efforts.
I break easily out of focus.
I’m A blur surface.
Just A sample of a naive creation.
An Illusion of trust doesn't deprive evaluation.
They small,
But worth being recorded on an exhausted wall.
Why?
Because the Demonstration is a dead verse.
I don't feel like rhyming,
I will lose the essence of runny energies.
Critics are a cut laser.
The best time to rush faith being held to travel back in scriptures,
sorting obvious elements.
The trick is in the creativity.
Everything I do leaves a mark,
I'd rather mark the approach and invest in my potential.
Shameful victories lost a chance to remain,
In everything the best is the main.
Boldness to the public discussion is excitement,
As always, Great value reflects great taste.
Be a matter to the dancer, Since
Problems are playing sounds of sad wisdom.
A runner bug dug deeply in the routines.
Great Task is fixed if found.
A search begins as an error to your persona.
A name you lift.
A push depends on the boundaries of attention,
Who Set up the scripts ?
Isn't the circle Merciful when the presence
of the absence mothers compatibility?
Does The routine of existence exists in the routines?
How do you know the best route is the one you took?
I do hope!
When hope hugs embarrassment
I’d be a date to the Procedures.
For the same reason a Normal life compiles loss
A remote locating Emotionless directions
Allow me to run silently
Because There exist nothing to alter
The adroit medication the doctor refused to accredit
It would heal a lot of witless moments
Blonde is the color ignorant
As I said
It's a meaningless scrabble
You listening but you see confusion
That's The live end of an entry.
Rohit Goyal Jan 2018
Faking a proper life and living a lie
hiding what has been long dead inside
the damsels in distress find him there
and he takes it away, their dead and their rotten

and he gives them life,happiness and love
and they give him themselves and quite right so
he owns them, cherishes them and nurtures them
he strengthens them for hurricanes to come

he knows when they're ready to be on their own
to stand tall in midst of a storm
to face the tides and to still move on
and that is when he lets them go

he breaks them again, even smaller so
but he doesn't let him rot inside them
he walks away with a will of stone
knowing full well that they will be fine

they will pick up those pieces and be whole again
now stronger than they were ever before and much more beautiful
for beauty does not lie within the eyes of the beholder
rather it does in the ruins of a destructor
Arfah Afaqi Zia Sep 2018
I vehemently try to trace the lost pieces of my heart
The ones shambled and hidden behind all the exterior
One's not accepted in the eyes of our society
These pieces, that awoke my soul and once made me who i am
Now insignificantly veiled, as if they were garbage
I try to find my insignia
One that differentiates me from the rest
My ambiguities, my hopelessness might as well be the root of all this lurking
Putting an end to my peace
And the constant rage n war that i so got caught up in
This could be my way to cope through this ghastly phase
All this vandalism and all these changes must stop
For i am the maker of my persona and i am the destructor of myself
I must rise, for its my time to ignite and shine
To once again show the world my true colors
I must embrace it all
Be it deadly, be it ugly
Yet, that's who I am, me!
Sk Abdul Aziz Apr 2016
She had tears in her eyes
She slammed the door on her way out
And left me
Never to return again
And i was left to rue over what could've been
I had someone special who cared for me
I had something good in my life
But i just couldn't appreciate it
I took it for granted
And i lost it all
I am my own destructor
No one else is to blame
I realized that when I woke up
That I'd still be me
No changes were made at all
So I prayed on bended knee

It's all that I could do
To not get in the way
My spirit at an all time low
Living day by day

I struggle just to make my bed
To leave the house and venture out
This isn't who I am
Or what I'm all about

An infamous self destructor
Of a life without
Sluggish with no money
Riddled in self doubt

It's time to make some changes
Wash away my drought
Look into the mirror
Raise my voice and shout

Have a greater purpose
Destined to achieve
Light a fire under my ***
Make myself believe

I'm special and unique
By all accounts a freak
Hideous on the inside
When all seems lost and bleak

Take a stand and be a man
Fight, but be discreet
I'll cross the finish line in time
Even if I have to cheat
Amiga, mi larario está vacío:
desde qu'el fuego del hogar no arde,
nuestros dioses huyeron ante el frío;
hoy preside en sus tronos el hastío
las nupcias del silencio y de la tarde.

El tiempo destructor no en vano pasa;
los aleros del patio están en ruinas;
ya no forman allí su leve casa,
con paredes convexas de argamasa
y tapiz del plumón, las golondrinas.

¡Qué silencio el del piano! Su gemido
ya no vibra en los ámbitos desiertos;
los nocturnos y scherzos han huido...
¡Pobre jaula sin aves! ¡Pobre nido!
¡Misterioso ataúd de trinos muertos!

¡Ah, si vieras tu huerto! Ya no hay rosas,
ni lirios, ni libélulas de seda,
ni cocuyos de luz, ni mariposas...
Tiemblan las ramas del rosal, medrosas;
el viento sopla, la hojarasca rueda.

Amiga, tu mansión está desierta;
el musgo verdinegro que decora
los dinteles ruinosos de la puerta,
parece una inscripción que dice: ¡Muerta!
El cierzo pasa, suspirando: ¡Llora!
on my ivory mantelpiece
it is perched like a broken hourglass.
day and night, unmoving,
whispering unspeakable things.
it sits watching,
no eyes.

are you my god?

it has no mouth
and yet it speaks.

                  no, i am not
                  i am more than you will ever know
            i am the aggregate of all your sorrow
                     i am your creator
                              your destructor
                                    i am all your fears
                             and all your loves
                     i am your soul
                                    and your darkness
                            your light in the dark
             and the dark that extinguishes your flame
                                     i am all that you are
                             and i am nothing at all
                                             i am a very terrible thing



darkness responds
taking my vision from me
and i bleed from my eyes
some catastrophe
afflicts my psyche
an aphrodite
my almighty
razes me like her own
Brijpal Mar 2019
An unwilling journey of mine!
Started with a hope that everything will be fine
Knowing that it wont be as straight as a line
Why I am so afraid of doing something inline ?
Does my hopes are limited only to money and wine ?
Why cant I be superfine?
Knowing that I am the one who penetrate the misery with carabine!
Why I am willing to find a job between 6 to nine ?
Why cant my dream sublime ??
Into the cloud that don’t stop for time .
Why the people around me are like stranger?
Why they are not my  protector power ranger?
The whole jist is that I a am intruder
Who constantly  deserts my thinking of a researcher!
Committing a crime why I am thinking of a preacher .
Instead of being a learner I end up being a a self destructor.
Why I am not happy with the voyage I am in ?
Knowing this trouble are not going to end.
Why I have not done something great ?
Knowing that I missed various opportunity to create !
Why I want opportunities  more?
But not ready to explore ?
Why I am thinking  alone in this sea shore ?
Instead of doing something fo my inner core ?!!
The reason is  I am an intruder
Who bounds himself with negative thoughts powder.!!!
I know my journey will be good and great
When I will found my inner mate
But I am in  unwilling journey
Which I am making by missing the opportunity to create!!!!
Kinsey Jordyn Jan 2020
I was 14 when I was put in prison.
Controlled by a guard that would threaten if I disobeyed to collapse all I knew around me.
To ruin the lives of those I loved but he wouldn’t
I promised my word of silence, tell no soul then no souls would be lost or damaged.
I was their protector.
They’re only hope.
Do as I say he demands.
Wear this!
“No don’t wear that.”
and call me by my name
“Who am I to you?!”
Daddy
That crippling word used for control
Taking away any meaning that word could mean in different context
Crumpled me up by his fist and blew away the dust
I tasted freedom for the first time
19
I sipped on the ability to run, free
Fly
I was able to breathe
Those souls were released
But what do I do with mine?
Fill it with the poison of what I hadn’t experienced before
Drugs
Alcohol
I became the destructor of those souls
Crashing and setting fire to them all
With my hatred for anything tying me down
And throwing those chains back on
Turning my back on those who would’ve searched for the key til the end of time.
I ran
back to prison
My own prison of thoughts and chances I missed
Consumed by the “what if’s”
Losing my mind
Lost
But slowly crawling to a stand
Stand to a walk
Walk to a run
I will fly again
I will fly
The poison ****** from my body.
I am living.
I’m flying
22
My attempt at smash poetry. Be gentle with me.
I’m a night owl, one that rarely hoots
A repeated self destructor
With no signs of resolute
I never followed a dream
Because of battles behind scenes
Raised by single parents
Since the ripe age of two
Only child, without a care or a clue
I grew to like all team sports
And I practiced; got good
But my emotions compounded
And I felt misunderstood
I was labeled disabled
From a very young age
And I used some poor judgment
At many a stage
I was always an odd ball
Never fitting quite in
I’d use humor as armor
To deflect and defend
I’m true to myself
I admit I’m no saint
But it’s been a really long time
Since I’ve heard a complaint
Or committed a crime
Now I’m giving and kind
I have a big heart
My compass wasn’t broken
But I still misread the charts
I use expression through writing and art
This is my pride and my passion
And a good place to start
I’ve procrastinated long enough
I’ve grown hungry over time
I’ve stood in my way long enough
For my glow not to shine
I’ll pick up my paintbrush
On my canvases; new
And I’ll pour out my emotions
So that I can share them with you
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
whereas there might be some "other" day...
any bilingual might complicate the mutter-zunge
of the natives: perhaps "just so"...
but here i am...
          drinking a little - if not leonard cohen,
then some bee-bop big diddly dylan....
or what's left crispy... with a blue valentine
akin to... whoever sang about...
ancient egyptian pyramids...
loosening to team up
with Chinese hieroglyphs...
that they retain and precursor
x-ray vision.... that they do that they are
a skelettanzen...

these fortnight once in a blue moon
bulldozer events...
  i, completely, mesmerised...
some gravity toward constellations...
the ugly punch of lacking verbiage...
i said clouds: no... i didn't say clouds...
i "said" cutting into a clarity of night
and the leftover gleaming pebble
of Mauritania...

       fastened like something done up
with... a goo of glue...
says i'm comfy...
but in the grand architecture of
cauliflowers a "sputnik" of eyes that see me,,
that will leave me riddled
akin to the names
like: very much furniture -esque:

     Adam Smith....
          Jean Paul... and a Sartre...
placebo solipsists... i imagine...

yes, these cauliflower floaters of sky,
being obstructed... some hue of blue
in a lineage of... Monet's Marseille...
  
clouds my hyped-up cauliflowers...
what's the difference between
Dublin and Edinburgh...
well... everything that's what's Paris
or... Loon'dough.... of... donned... piercing...
scissor fighting like
metaphor for *****... scissors... *****...
it wasn't exactly "fighting"...
just... a quest for establishing disparity...

cauliflowers in the sky...
extending masks into contortions of smile-lee...
pour some red wine over my wait for
a grave...

poverty stricken metaphors: like like...
time just yawns...
when incremental details of space are allowed
to do what space does....
metaphor like, like this, like that...


wouldn't i ever, wouldn't i ever be one for
one of those
philanthropic romances
of detailing life by every face i would ever
see when cycling toward st. paul's...
and how gravity contorts
these faces... tell-tale signs of physiognomy...
that physiognomy is not, truant...
perhaps i should polish up my
punctuation...
        on some faces a signature: life-is-elsewhere...
perhaps some syntise onym of Heidegger's
dasein...
                my own investment in
hiersein left me with structure to see
how subjectivity will be undermined
because: some clerical baron of...
no, not stoicism... of some leech purr
negativity starts making stark demands
against uniqueness etc.
of all that's true in that...
heavily invested in subjectivity...
i can't see a balance of placing an order
on everything "shience" **** me:
alles großartig!
             no... but i don't need a parasite
of an ego of the other... concretely
the other within the confines
of an oozing membrane of authority
akin to journalism...
to think that melancholy does not have
viral essential, components - res extensa
manoeuvering dittos and other wriggly bits
of out-of-focus "thinking"...
more like labouring with a hammer
in a... forest of nails!

   always this bilingual "curse": something
older than this acquired Ęglish...
          a history as known only via etymological
study...
   notably a "concern" for nouns...
in my native zunge (not that anyone should,
care)...

       1: and when i count...
                      raz, dwa... trzy...
otherwise...
when i don't count and the number reaches
a pronoun status...
jeden... dwa...
              no innovations in grammar...
no ******* revolution...
just one obstruction after another...
or akin to, the metaphor of an iron
egg-shell... i.e. when you crack it
open for a fwyed (a velsh) fried egg...
the yoke tease puncture and spills
and you're left with nothing doing
the runny runny runner: woe...

alert the superiority complex(ed)
unlike those with delusion of grandiosity...
not teasing solipsism, although:
it could be alternatively written as...

mit ein hammer im ein nägelwald...
          who needs a vector, coordinate / preposition
akin to of - relateabl... although...
could be compounded... to... nailforest...
although... in english, english being english...
no diacritical markers... it plain *** rhombus ugly
to put nailforest together...
forest of nails...
        not who's the pwetty face 'ere on in?

"jedynka":
otherwise what's "missing" in the english
zunge?
the dimunitive suffixation...
and all the plethora of gender inclusive
nouns...
wholly complicated stuff...

dwójka, trójka... czwórka...
     piątka:
                   pięść....
    pięć... five-set...
                      six-set... fo-ur!
it's not like there's
a... a...                           (щь)
      dość...                 enough!
otherwise, yes...
  sh-ch...
                       szczerość - truthfulness...
in lingua franca...
an angry english skin-'ed
might shout a remark as
i... bicycle cycle wound and wound
looking for a trill in the R
in something / -where as remote
as Rales...

teasing katakana: no...
syllables weren't enough...
"they" went beseeching architecture... etc.
i came back with some punctures (lettering)...
my stomach shrunk...
my ego fizzled out...
my thought became my oughts

while the equation... if it can be called an equation
(at best)
is more of a question...

'how', or rather, 'why', is it...
that... ц
cz't...
           no...

    how does it go again?
hard sign soft sign etc.
i can tell you "how" i.e.:
             х

i am disgruntled by the sound encoding...
i guess i lean toward too many
tongues and ask for esque Barmitzvah...

bad internet connection:
somehow satellites are
governed by... earthen-work
of worms...
          
   ж(ъ) - *******' worth of a riddle...
here's to from havering-atte-bower
toward, lady in waiting...
my neu fwend... chalky why-ite-ite...
i.e. ж(ъ) should not exist...
unless... gli-mm-er...
is aesthetically proof of condescending
non-essential Lithuanian sprechs / spresch...
tighten the reigns on a hu-SH...
and don half a crown of a crown...
you'll get the acute

   it's already included...
   unless...
                   зъ = ж
         hard, signature...
more, sounds than a peacock's digress...
since                 зь does = ź
to hide diacritical markers
by way of creating "new" letters....
hardly letters more: digressing
graphemes... shortcuts...
apostrophes... supposed surds...
cult of compound hyphenation
in...

   noun contra noun contra:
etymology as: me toy... truancy...
and here: hey presto...
some snippet of history...

3 days said; shared spared "******"....
what's my...racial slirring
at the bottom of the vex / wax mobile...
impromptu: forward thinking...
a H without an F....

   racial slurr...
chalky white... someone i used to...
the demonic king of *****....
toying for tongue over
the already broken egg shells...
next time we meet...
sure as **** there will be, meat...

cucked...gloryhole... "avant garde"...
           as if i were the father...
as if fathering implied ownership...
let the ****** nad tha trapazees get
away with: oh much more than...
this...

concerning the coercive structure
of peer... pressures...
peer pressure...
without any fundamental...
yes the walking abortions...
    unbelievable "pun-and-play-truant"
   punctuation marks....

mea... culpa...
mea culpa... tu-ah...
                    this tired bone
of the same new bite of youth...
          nothing cleaving... toward...
moon heading toward closures...
of... reversing mirrors...
        
i'd sooner turn to ****-******
literature than
study: ****-wit...
Belgravia manual...
******* load of expectation...

      no, clearly i'm Copenghagen "safe":
children are nice...
at leasgg when not
having to invest in them...
from some darwinistic predominant...
squat.... sire...
most cleaving to the crown...

horrible tides of ashen...
the tails of non-existent streets of Holborn...
b'wing heave  nuanced h'american....
boyish... boy-told...
same round of *******...

i say crease a ****** for a, paul-lack....
i hear you say...
i own \ tiresome...
i say crease a ****** to crisp up
a ******... i say... mine ******* bounty
that's hardly passing Irish... you...
******* mummified thumb and
a... m.o.p.e.

          most offended people ever?
i guess i must be tired of lying down,
being pressed down,
estimating that... squat?!
is best what red hot chilli peppers were
circa 1999... and a garage an uncle
and a porsche... was... what Ilford was...

here's my handicap score... scrooge...
what, the, ****?
here's looking up for "better"...
seeing how the natives perform a better: less
than the ingested scrutiny of:
welcome...
here's me living in Kenya...
here's me... past for past's worth
currency: displaced...
hier ist mich!

           X X - like the Spaniards version
of ****... jack... jilly... i.e. Ha... Ha...
imagine how bleak, paradoxically auburn
and albino i must have appeared to appear
WWI shell-shocked... entrenched....
in some aum-of-mud...

these... walking abortions of a kindred of
mine... men... somehow...
laxing in contemplating devoid(s)...

        here's a letter or two, towing,
tied:
make a gimmick... pillow fighting...
moth-mouth (mottemund)...
elder english i.e. german -
some byway of etymological:
von ost...

           kommen sie (der) sonnenaufgang...
cauliflowers in the sky...
eyes that... ripple...
clued in death summarise....

i might ask...
  i probably will wilt sooner...
here's a spoon
and here is:

         зъ = ж (ż)
soft-sign... acute...
      źrenica (pupil)...
it's female... it's tow-tied...
it's leash prone... too...

             зь = ź

wouldn't i ever, wouldn't i ever be one for
one of those
philanthropic romances
of detailing life by every face i would ever
see when cycling toward st. paul's...
and how gravity contorts
these faces... tell-tale signs of physiognomy...
that physiognomy is not, truant...
perhaps i should polish up my
punctuation...
        on some faces a signature: life-is-elsewhere...
perhaps some synonym of Heidegger's
dasein...
                my own investment in
hiersein left me with structure to see
how subjectivity will be undermined
because: some clerical baron of...
no, not stoicism... of some leech purr
negativity starts making stark demands
against uniqueness etc.
of all that's true in that...
heavily invested in subjectivity...
i can't see a balance of placing an order
on everything "shience" **** me:
alles großartig!
             no... but i don't need a parasite
of an ego of the other... concretely
the other within the confines
of an oozing membrane of authority
akin to journalism...
to think that melancholy does not have
viral essential, components - res extensa
manoeuvering dittos and other wriggly bits
of out-of-focus "thinking"...
more like labouring with a hammer
in a... forest of nails!

   always this bilingual "curse": something
older than this acquired Ęglish...
          a history as known only via etymological
study...
   notably a "concern" for nouns...
in my native zunge (not that anyone should,
care)...

       1: and when i count...
                      raz, dwa... trzy...
otherwise...
when i don't count and the number reaches
a pronoun status...
jeden... dwa...
              no innovations in grammar...
no ******* revolution...
just one obstruction after another...
or akin to, the metaphor of an iron
egg-shell... i.e. when you crack it
open for a fwyed (a velsh) fried egg...
the yoke tease puncture and spills
and you're left with nothing doing
the runny runny runner: woe...

alert the superiority complex(ed)
unlike those with delusion of grandiosity...
not teasing solipsism, although:
it could be alternatively written as...

mit ein hammer im ein nägelwald...
          who needs a vector, coordinate / preposition
akin to of - relateabl... although...
could be compounded... to... nailforest...
although... in english, english being english...
no diacritical markers... it plain *** rhombus ugly
to put nailforest together...
forest of nails...
        not who's the pwetty face 'ere on in?

"jedynka":
otherwise what's "missing" in the english
zunge?
the dimunitive suffixation...
and all the plethora of gender inclusive
nouns...
wholly complicated stuff...

dwójka, trójka... czwórka...
     piątka:
                   pięść....
    pięć... five-set...
                      six-set... fo-ur!
it's not like there's
a... a...                           (щь)
      dość...                 enough!
otherwise, yes...
  sh-ch...
                       szczerość - truthfulness...
in lingua franca...
an angry english skin-'ed
might shout a remark as
i... bicycle cycle wound and wound
looking for a trill in the R
in something / -where as remote
as Rales...

teasing katakana: no...
syllables weren't enough...
"they" went beseeching architecture... etc.
i came back with some punctures (lettering)...
my stomach shrunk...
my ego fizzled out...
my thought became my oughts

while the equation... if it can be called an equation
(at best)
is more of a question...

'how', or rather, 'why', is it...
that... ц
cz't...
           no...

    how does it go again?
hard sign soft sign etc.
i can tell you "how" i.e.:
             х

i am disgruntled by the sound encoding...
i guess i lean toward too many
tongues and ask for esque Barmitzvah...

bad internet connection:
somehow satellites are
governed by... earthen-work
of worms...
          
   ж(ъ) - *******' worth of a riddle...
here's to from havering-atte-bower
toward, lady in waiting...
my neu fwend... chalky why-ite-ite...
i.e. ж(ъ) should not exist...
unless... gli-mm-er...
is aesthetically proof of condescending
non-essential Lithuanian sprechs / spresch...
tighten the reigns on a hu-SH...
and don half a crown of a crown...
you'll get the acute

   it's already included...
   unless...
                   зъ = ж
         hard, signature...
more, sounds than a peacock's digress...
since                 зь does = ź
to hide diacritical markers
by way of creating "new" letters....
hardly letters more: digressing
graphemes... shortcuts...
apostrophes... supposed surds...
cult of compound hyphenation
in...

   noun contra noun contra:
etymology as: me toy... truancy...
and here: hey presto...
some snippet of history...

3 days said; shared spared "******"....
what's my...racial slirring
at the bottom of the vex / wax mobile...
impromptu: forward thinking...
a H without an F....

   racial slurr...
chalky white... someone i used to...
the demonic king of *****....
toying for tongue over
the already broken egg shells...
next time we meet...
sure as **** there will be, meat...

cucked...gloryhole... "avant garde"...
           as if i were the father...
as if fathering implied ownership...
let the ****** nad tha trapazees get
away with: oh much more than...
this...

concerning the coercive structure
of peer... pressures...
peer pressure...
without any fundamental...
yes the walking abortions...
    unbelievable "pun-and-play-truant"
   punctuation marks....

mea... culpa...
mea culpa... tu-ah...
                    this tired bone
of the same new bite of youth...
          nothing cleaving... toward...
moon heading toward closures...
of... reversing mirrors...
        
i'd sooner turn to ****-******
literature than
study: ****-wit...
Belgravia manual...
******* load of expectation...

      no, clearly i'm Copenghagen "safe":
children are nice...
at leasgg when not
having to invest in them...
from some darwinistic predominant...
squat.... sire...
most cleaving to the crown...

horrible tides of ashen...
the tails of non-existent streets of Holborn...
b'wing heave  nuanced h'american....
boyish... boy-told...
same round of *******...

i say crease a ****** for a, paul-lack....
i hear you say...
i own \ tiresome...
i say crease a ****** to crisp up
a ******... i say... mine fuckibng bounty
that's hardly passing Irish... you...
******* mummified thumb and
a... m.o.p.e.

leftover wonders:
   dream of the Faroe Islands...
my cat-**** snippet of a "reconquista"
and some, boring h'arab of barking & kin...
did his pakistani trick-easy...
a malcolm x mythological blonde
summary...
the spider suckles the fly...
life gravitates toward a
membrane of juggling **** and a...
pyramidic persitance of: give a ****...
less that i do...

while the red wine flows... and flows....
crab bucket destructor...

such are the joys of white liberal...
****...
magic carpet... what not...
here's a walking abortion...
here's monkey lingo-linguo
                  Otto the next Urban... once
Islam was to be agitated...
forever: *******!

my... unwinding under the scrutiny of
reading into... spine.

— The End —