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Ophélie S Sep 2018

not bad,
i commented to myself as i watched you do your thing
for the first time ever ;
not bad was my way to say
still is today
i have standards, you see and —
they were met when i
heard you say,
"that's only half what
i can do."

let's get this straight:
i was the best at what i do until
you came around ;
it's not like i'm mad though —
quite the opposite 
in fact.


here's something else:
i have always liked the way your eyes
shot daggers
even when you were smiling ;
a death stare, they named it and, you know,
i won't call them wrong —
i'm rather fluent with the concepts of
and staring myself, after all.

do you remember?
when we spoke to each other —
it was always a sparring of
rather than words.


a fact:
you have been called cold
more often than
you have been called pleasant ;
i know  —
it's not like you'd disagree
not like you'd be stupid enough to
deny ;
cold is a comfortable shadow
to hide in,
something people like us
wear as a coat or
a scarf
from july to june.

there's this saying that the addition of
two negative objects
turns them a positive
result ;
i'm not much of a scholar so, honey,
what's on your mind?


i get it now,
if i'm propellers
you are wings —
rather than a mirror, we're
distorted reflects
a thing evolution knows
a great deal about ;
this yearning is the aspect of you
i'd wish to keep
bottled up ;
"what for?" you'd ask.

yearning is not a thing
i'm a stranger to ;
i've yearned for many things including
and you —
i've been struggling
to make them mine, though
perhaps because i'm never really trying.


that's how you do it:
you take what you want with
clawed hands
accomplish miracles with
thunderous silence —
an entity of cruel fairness,
icy anger but —
what you want is a complicated
with definite shape to your eyes
but blurry to those of

i'm neither believer nor seer but
here's a little prediction :
the day you are satisfied is the day
shuts down upon us all and
half of me
prays for it.


about extremes —
some will say grey is a better shade and
though i confess
it does have its charms,
it still has to paint me a picture more striking
than a soul with
adamentine purpose.

see —
i stare as you pass by,
terrific in beauty
beautiful in hardness and
off —
goes my heart, sanity, ego
and shirt.
Sid Lollan Apr 2018
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines

Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand

and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon

in big pink petals of bloom;

A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
       patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
      the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (

be gentle, though whispering wind)

Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign

      as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
      Consume the years between Here and Now;
      Watching from blank perch, among
      the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
      Sing the branches of experience, to wake
      in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
      of waking,

ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—

Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;

                          Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
        and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
        of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
The Angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, still stood fixed to hear;
Then, as new waked, thus gratefully replied.
What thanks sufficient, or what recompence
Equal, have I to render thee, divine
Historian, who thus largely hast allayed
The thirst I had of knowledge, and vouchsafed
This friendly condescension to relate
Things, else by me unsearchable; now heard
With wonder, but delight, and, as is due,
With glory attributed to the high
Creator!  Something yet of doubt remains,
Which only thy solution can resolve.
When I behold this goodly frame, this world,
Of Heaven and Earth consisting; and compute
Their magnitudes; this Earth, a spot, a grain,
An atom, with the firmament compared
And all her numbered stars, that seem to roll
Spaces incomprehensible, (for such
Their distance argues, and their swift return
Diurnal,) merely to officiate light
Round this opacous Earth, this punctual spot,
One day and night; in all her vast survey
Useless besides; reasoning I oft admire,
How Nature wise and frugal could commit
Such disproportions, with superfluous hand
So many nobler bodies to create,
Greater so manifold, to this one use,
For aught appears, and on their orbs impose
Such restless revolution day by day
Repeated; while the sedentary Earth,
That better might with far less compass move,
Served by more noble than herself, attains
Her end without least motion, and receives,
As tribute, such a sumless journey brought
Of incorporeal speed, her warmth and light;
Speed, to describe whose swiftness number fails.
So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed
Entering on studious thoughts abstruse; which Eve
Perceiving, where she sat retired in sight,
With lowliness majestick from her seat,
And grace that won who saw to wish her stay,
Rose, and went forth among her fruits and flowers,
To visit how they prospered, bud and bloom,
Her nursery; they at her coming sprung,
And, touched by her fair tendance, gladlier grew.
Yet went she not, as not with such discourse
Delighted, or not capable her ear
Of what was high: such pleasure she reserved,
Adam relating, she sole auditress;
Her husband the relater she preferred
Before the Angel, and of him to ask
Chose rather; he, she knew, would intermix
Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute
With conjugal caresses: from his lip
Not words alone pleased her.  O! when meet now
Such pairs, in love and mutual honour joined?
With Goddess-like demeanour forth she went,
Not unattended; for on her, as Queen,
A pomp of winning Graces waited still,
And from about her shot darts of desire
Into all eyes, to wish her still in sight.
And Raphael now, to Adam’s doubt proposed,
Benevolent and facile thus replied.
To ask or search, I blame thee not; for Heaven
Is as the book of God before thee set,
Wherein to read his wonderous works, and learn
His seasons, hours, or days, or months, or years:
This to attain, whether Heaven move or Earth,
Imports not, if thou reckon right; the rest
From Man or Angel the great Architect
Did wisely to conceal, and not divulge
His secrets to be scanned by them who ought
Rather admire; or, if they list to try
Conjecture, he his fabrick of the Heavens
Hath left to their disputes, perhaps to move
His laughter at their quaint opinions wide
Hereafter; when they come to model Heaven
And calculate the stars, how they will wield
The mighty frame; how build, unbuild, contrive
To save appearances; how gird the sphere
With centrick and eccentrick scribbled o’er,
Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb:
Already by thy reasoning this I guess,
Who art to lead thy offspring, and supposest
That bodies bright and greater should not serve
The less not bright, nor Heaven such journeys run,
Earth sitting still, when she alone receives
The benefit:  Consider first, that great
Or bright infers not excellence: the Earth
Though, in comparison of Heaven, so small,
Nor glistering, may of solid good contain
More plenty than the sun that barren shines;
Whose virtue on itself works no effect,
But in the fruitful Earth; there first received,
His beams, unactive else, their vigour find.
Yet not to Earth are those bright luminaries
Officious; but to thee, Earth’s habitant.
And for the Heaven’s wide circuit, let it speak
The Maker’s high magnificence, who built
So spacious, and his line stretched out so far;
That Man may know he dwells not in his own;
An edifice too large for him to fill,
Lodged in a small partition; and the rest
Ordained for uses to his Lord best known.
The swiftness of those circles attribute,
Though numberless, to his Omnipotence,
That to corporeal substances could add
Speed almost spiritual:  Me thou thinkest not slow,
Who since the morning-hour set out from Heaven
Where God resides, and ere mid-day arrived
In Eden; distance inexpressible
By numbers that have name.  But this I urge,
Admitting motion in the Heavens, to show
Invalid that which thee to doubt it moved;
Not that I so affirm, though so it seem
To thee who hast thy dwelling here on Earth.
God, to remove his ways from human sense,
Placed Heaven from Earth so far, that earthly sight,
If it presume, might err in things too high,
And no advantage gain.  What if the sun
Be center to the world; and other stars,
By his attractive virtue and their own
Incited, dance about him various rounds?
Their wandering course now high, now low, then hid,
Progressive, retrograde, or standing still,
In six thou seest; and what if seventh to these
The planet earth, so stedfast though she seem,
Insensibly three different motions move?
Which else to several spheres thou must ascribe,
Moved contrary with thwart obliquities;
Or save the sun his labour, and that swift
Nocturnal and diurnal rhomb supposed,
Invisible else above all stars, the wheel
Of day and night; which needs not thy belief,
If earth, industrious of herself, fetch day
Travelling east, and with her part averse
From the sun’s beam meet night, her other part
Still luminous by his ray.  What if that light,
Sent from her through the wide transpicuous air,
To the terrestrial moon be as a star,
Enlightening her by day, as she by night
This earth? reciprocal, if land be there,
Fields and inhabitants:  Her spots thou seest
As clouds, and clouds may rain, and rain produce
Fruits in her softened soil for some to eat
Allotted there; and other suns perhaps,
With their attendant moons, thou wilt descry,
Communicating male and female light;
Which two great sexes animate the world,
Stored in each orb perhaps with some that live.
For such vast room in Nature unpossessed
By living soul, desart and desolate,
Only to shine, yet scarce to contribute
Each orb a glimpse of light, conveyed so far
Down to this habitable, which returns
Light back to them, is obvious to dispute.
But whether thus these things, or whether not;
But whether the sun, predominant in Heaven,
Rise on the earth; or earth rise on the sun;
He from the east his flaming road begin;
Or she from west her silent course advance,
With inoffensive pace that spinning sleeps
On her soft axle, while she paces even,
And bears thee soft with the smooth hair along;
Sollicit not thy thoughts with matters hid;
Leave them to God above; him serve, and fear!
Of other creatures, as him pleases best,
Wherever placed, let him dispose; joy thou
In what he gives to thee, this Paradise
And thy fair Eve; Heaven is for thee too high
To know what passes there; be lowly wise:
Think only what concerns thee, and thy being;
Dream not of other worlds, what creatures there
Live, in what state, condition, or degree;
Contented that thus far hath been revealed
Not of Earth only, but of highest Heaven.
To whom thus Adam, cleared of doubt, replied.
How fully hast thou satisfied me, pure
Intelligence of Heaven, Angel serene!
And, freed from intricacies, taught to live
The easiest way; nor with perplexing thoughts
To interrupt the sweet of life, from which
God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares,
And not ****** us; unless we ourselves
Seek them with wandering thoughts, and notions vain.
But apt the mind or fancy is to rove
Unchecked, and of her roving is no end;
Till warned, or by experience taught, she learn,
That, not to know at large of things remote
From use, obscure and subtle; but, to know
That which before us lies in daily life,
Is the prime wisdom:  What is more, is fume,
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence:
And renders us, in things that most concern,
Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek.
Therefore from this high pitch let us descend
A lower flight, and speak of things at hand
Useful; whence, haply, mention may arise
Of something not unseasonable to ask,
By sufferance, and thy wonted favour, deigned.
Thee I have heard relating what was done
Ere my remembrance: now, hear me relate
My story, which perhaps thou hast not heard;
And day is not yet spent; till then thou seest
How subtly to detain thee I devise;
Inviting thee to hear while I relate;
Fond! were it not in hope of thy reply:
For, while I sit with thee, I seem in Heaven;
And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear
Than fruits of palm-tree pleasantest to thirst
And hunger both, from labour, at the hour
Of sweet repast; they satiate, and soon fill,
Though pleasant; but thy words, with grace divine
Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety.
To whom thus Raphael answered heavenly meek.
Nor are thy lips ungraceful, Sire of men,
Nor tongue ineloquent; for God on thee
Abundantly his gifts hath also poured
Inward and outward both, his image fair:
Speaking, or mute, all comeliness and grace
Attends thee; and each word, each motion, forms;
Nor less think we in Heaven of thee on Earth
Than of our fellow-servant, and inquire
Gladly into the ways of God with Man:
For God, we see, hath honoured thee, and set
On Man his equal love:  Say therefore on;
For I that day was absent, as befel,
Bound on a voyage uncouth and obscure,
Far on excursion toward the gates of Hell;
Squared in full legion (such command we had)
To see that none thence issued forth a spy,
Or enemy, while God was in his work;
Lest he, incensed at such eruption bold,
Destruction with creation might have mixed.
Not that they durst without his leave attempt;
But us he sends upon his high behests
For state, as Sovran King; and to inure
Our prompt obedience.  Fast we found, fast shut,
The dismal gates, and barricadoed strong;
But long ere our approaching heard within
Noise, other than the sound of dance or song,
Torment, and loud lament, and furious rage.
Glad we returned up to the coasts of light
Ere sabbath-evening: so we had in charge.
But thy relation now; for I attend,
Pleased with thy words no less than thou with mine.
So spake the Godlike Power, and thus our Sire.
For Man to tell how human life began
Is hard; for who himself beginning knew
Desire with thee still longer to converse
Induced me.  As new waked from soundest sleep,
Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid,
In balmy sweat; which with his beams the sun
Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed.
Straight toward Heaven my wondering eyes I turned,
And gazed a while the ample sky; till, raised
By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung,
As thitherward endeavouring, and upright
Stood on my feet: about me round I saw
Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains,
And liquid lapse of murmuring streams; by these,
Creatures that lived and moved, and walked, or flew;
Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled;
With fragrance and with joy my heart o’erflowed.
Myself I then perused, and limb by limb
Surveyed, and sometimes went, and sometimes ran
With supple joints, as lively vigour led:
But who I was, or where, or from what cause,
Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith spake;
My tongue obeyed, and readily could name
Whate’er I saw.  Thou Sun, said I, fair light,
And thou enlightened Earth, so fresh and gay,
Ye Hills, and Dales, ye Rivers, Woods, and Plains,
And ye that live and move, fair Creatures, tell,
Tell, if ye saw, how I came thus, how here?—
Not of myself;—by some great Maker then,
In goodness and in power pre-eminent:
Tell me, how may I know him, how adore,
From whom I have that thus I move and live,
And feel that I am happier than I know.—
While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither,
From where I first drew air, and first beheld
This happy light; when, answer none returned,
On a green shady bank, profuse of flowers,
Pensive I sat me down:  There gentle sleep
First found me, and with soft oppression seised
My droused sense, untroubled, though I thought
I then was passing to my former state
Insensible, and forthwith to dissolve:
When suddenly stood at my head a dream,
Whose inward apparition gently moved
My fancy to believe I yet had being,
And lived:  One came, methought, of shape divine,
And said, ‘Thy mansion wants thee, Adam; rise,
‘First Man, of men innumerable ordained
‘First Father! called by thee, I come thy guide
‘To the garden of bliss, thy seat prepared.’
So saying, by the hand he took me raised,
And over fields and waters, as in air
Smooth-sliding without step, last led me up
A woody mountain; whose high top was plain,
A circuit wide, enclosed, with goodliest trees
Planted, with walks, and bowers; that what I saw
Of Earth before scarce pleasant seemed.  Each tree,
Loaden with fairest fruit that hung to the eye
Tempting, stirred in me sudden appetite
To pluck and eat; whereat I waked, and found
Before mine eyes all real, as the dream
Had lively shadowed:  Here had new begun
My wandering, had not he, who was my guide
Up hither, from among the trees appeared,
Presence Divine.  Rejoicing, but with awe,
In adoration at his feet I fell
Submiss:  He reared me, and ‘Whom thou soughtest I am,’
Said mildly, ‘Author of all this thou seest
‘Above, or round about thee, or beneath.
‘This Paradise I give thee, count it thine
‘To till and keep, and of the fruit to eat:
‘Of every tree that in the garden grows
‘Eat freely with glad heart; fear here no dearth:
‘But of the tree whose operation brings
‘Knowledge of good and ill, which I have set
‘The pledge of thy obedience and thy faith,
‘Amid the garden by the tree of life,
‘Remember what I warn thee, shun to taste,
‘And shun the bitter consequence: for know,
‘The day thou eatest thereof, my sole command
‘Transgressed, inevitably thou shalt die,
‘From that day mortal; and this happy state
‘Shalt lose, expelled from hence into a world
‘Of woe and sorrow.’  Sternly he pronounced
The rigid interdiction, which resounds
Yet dreadful in mine ear, though in my choice
Not to incur; but soon his clear aspect
Returned, and gracious purpose thus renewed.
‘Not only these fair bounds, but all the Earth
‘To thee and to thy race I give; as lords
‘Possess it, and all things that therein live,
‘Or live in sea, or air; beast, fish, and fowl.
‘In sign whereof, each bird and beast behold
‘After their kinds; I bring them to receive
‘From thee their names, and pay thee fealty
‘With low subjection; understand the same
‘Of fish within their watery residence,
‘Not hither summoned, since they cannot change
‘Their element, to draw the thinner air.’
As thus he spake, each bird and beast behold
Approaching two and two; these cowering low
With blandishment; each bird stooped on his wing.
I named them, as they passed, and understood
Their nature, with such knowledge God endued
My sudden apprehension:  But in these
I found not what methought I wanted still;
And to the heavenly Vision thus presumed.
O, by what name, for thou above all these,
Above mankind, or aught than mankind higher,
Surpassest far my naming; how may I
Adore thee, Author of this universe,
And all this good to man? for whose well being
So amply, and with hands so liberal,
Thou hast provided all things:  But with me
I see not who partakes.  In solitude
What happiness, who can enjoy alone,
Or, all enjoying, what contentment f
Gita Feb 2016
The world has moved on and I am fixated on one **** detail. A blank stare that lasted maybe two seconds before he carried on with his work. The look was indescribable because the expression was void of emotion. This is incredibly ridiculous, but I am so horrifically bothered by it. That **** expression. This **** minor occurrence has somehow managed to ruin my day. But here's the thing - this is routine for me. I know myself too well. I will be incredibly self-conscious from now on in that space. So many things go past that man, but my stupid digressions didn't. I am a victim of over-analysis. I will patiently wait for the day my memory will finally let this go.
Rabbit Dec 2012
so let me tell you of my digressions
my hopeless realm of repetition
i am armed with
2 blacks
4 grams
and a pack of sour patches to keep me snackin
i have yet again
settled in
to my barb wired trenches in this hell

Better Is The Devil You Know
Than To Go Fishing For A Stranger

so i sit calmly
because i suppose it is
Better To Be Patient
than to act out of this anger
cause ive considered killing you at my leisure

Why **** Him
Cant You Just Leave And Feel The Same

cause if i could then
would i be here smackin on these cracklins
I brought those to delay the decaying of
teeth as i endudge in
what's first sour then sweet
my cavity
and i fein
from one fix to the next
Oh wrong C
i said Cavity
i mean
Crack rock
Crack baby
reaching for that pacifier
higher and higher i go
while diving deeper in this hole
no point of return
no lessons were learned by previous heartaches
i ache
cause i aint
exactly who i used to be
grabbed by my foundation
and ripped the roots from under me

God Heals All Things

But what about the ***** that breaks ****
takes ****
gets it how he lives and makes ****
Cause this sweet southern soul
is growing old
and i've been told that revenge is so sweet
and baby i'm gon eat

the troops have been patient
but now
we brazen
and a revolt is all i see.
A solitary solecism
An evaporating vision
Premonitions and superstitions
Withered hopes
Amorphous, insubstantial
Episodic swings
Digressions and detours
Evasions, deviations
Changing lanes
Accelerating and overtaking
Inhibitions colliding.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the internet wasn't originally intended as the playground for the young, who have no reason to convince themselves of a need to either dogmatise proper spelling, or proper diacritical-punctuation... hálo humpty-dumpty! utter that hark like a dragon!

i have something more volatile than atoms
to construct an atom bomb and
cite Oppenheimer -
i have letters as atoms, words as minor
twitches, and language as Samael:
the death-breathing harvesting resurrector...
  i call the film *a beautiful mind

a perfect case of a beautiful propaganda
machine that backfired...
  if that mathematician who died "tragically"
in car-crash was anything to go by
with having his negation of ease hijacked,
exemplified, magnified to scare the public,
then Gabriel must have been a really sweet
soothsayer in Muhammad's ear...
   because someone with that kind of imagination
to conjure up people should have never
worked for the emerging C.I.A. or F.B.I.:
but Walt ******* Disney... to be sure of it:
Bukowski run parallels with the story:
staying drunk: to keep up with the sober-imaginative
collective: i would have done the same...
can you believe i've passed the 50h mark
on not sleeping under a self-imposed
example of what's barely a scratch of the
siberian gulags?
                   can you imagine that i...
simply had a fetish for it? imagine being awake for
over 50 hours... and having a nearing-****
audacity to not fall asleep for a minute?
can you imagine the military rigour of such
an endeavour?
   must have been self-taught and therefore, very
much indie: selling to the highest bidder.
oh please don't take my literal Monday's worth
of vocabulary truthfulness on it:
i'll play truant on it:
   i don't have people-friendly devices to keep
up with gossip, the rule is:
you can only go mad once,
you can play double jeopardy with madness...
    talk going mad a second time...
        i'll talk about recreating carnage park
in essex... you know what's scary about
that horror movie? it happens at high-noon...
there's nothing eerie about the night...
with the night i think the solace of death
and the never-ending and the never-shifting queue
of names, dates, and the ultra sensitive invocations
of faking epitaphs, i mean, inscribing things
on graves the people who "own" the graves
never had the capacity to say, in the first place.
but you know what scared me about
the film carnage park? the first horror movie
based upon Hitchcock "resurrected" -
but it was never about it... there's no close-proximity,
you actually see the culprits face...
   the idea being: humanising the man executing
moral justification by tugging the guillotine
or pushing the switch on the electric chair...
it's all about moral ambiguity,
hence the horror is all about daylight,
daylight representing the quasi-assurance of your
own judgement: and could you do the justice
by bypassing all jurisprudence paperwork?
  daylight is important in this movie...
                 nothing is hidden, nothing is romantic,
because the man in question is a ******,
he's not a torturer... the invocation of agoraphobia
is seminal! no... subliminal! Greeks invented little
fears and allowed them to be wedded for magnification
given that theatre is extinct... little phobias
create big budget exploits...
   but this is a first of exploiting agoraphobia...
       and agoraphobia could only be exploited in
high-noon... when i think of night these days
i think of the j. r. r. tolkien romance novels of
what man once had... adventure...
these days? plain talk? tourism.
                            i never could think it could be done:
but apparently is has been done...
           the ever distant voyeurism is also gone...
how can anyone be voyeuristic in an agoraphobic space?
   you're basically knitting and deforming
a large space into a pixel... there's no sadism either,
no loch ness barrage of torture methods,
only what man employes to capture animals...
   it's militarism: solo...
        the true essence of a renegade:
   antidote to indoctrination...
             exemplified by the fact that no matter what
mask you give the horror, the mundaneness of it
doesn't go away: because it's not hidden,
  the placebo horror scenario -
          we fake hiding from it... horror these days
is medicinised by fantasy... which is the abhorrent
quality of our times: over-assurance...
    our times are too self-servient, too self-assured...
too comfortable... we're championing
arrogance, calling our predecessors incompetent
*******... oil on the flames? maybe...
                       we prefer to imagine dragons than
see actual dragons among us...
                       that's why we seem to begin with
congratulating dinosaurs into having begun
   as abstract spines that the serpents of our times are...
us? to our inheritors? brains in pickle jars.
we have already started the process of pickling ourselves
by extracting as much as we could from our being
and encoding it into artificiality...
        anyone with a global invasion tactic can easily
tap into this "economy"... it's not an encyclopedia...
it's an economised unitary model readied for
exploitation for invasion...
       do i share the film's culprit paranoia?
well... i share his defence of environmental study...
but having provided the most adequate striking-point
             with the utmost drama of cyber-warfare debate
and all counters against ourselves...
            would i choose this maniac over a wall st. yuppy?
          what's that... vomito ***** vs. huey & the news?
if only i was paranoid after having watched this
movie... i'd see it spread akin to the bubonic plague...
but it's apathy that's the bubonic plague:
since it's the most effective safety-mechanism virus...
you get that docile look and try to suddenly say huh?
with surprise, but you get a choking sensation
as if you just swallowed a hazelnut.
      people get these fantasies about other evolutionary
lifeforms... it's not ******* c.i.a. crap about
      everyone working for them being called mr. &
mrs. smith... just so they can dodge bullets
   and buy milk at their local supermarket...
                      without being asked for autographs and
selfies... and have you ever seen a film critique engaging
with a character that says very little, and then
hysterically laugh, with a sense of music akin to
playing front 242's album 06:21:03:11 up evil?
      the true test of horror is music... the visuals can
be Marquis de Sade in Disneyland... and no number
of groans will do it... if the music has
         transylvania's chant of the chastity of anti-sodomites
written all over it... you're in for a knee-jerker...
the diabolical thing about this film is that it
has the double-effect whether it's watched at night
or during the day... the first horror movie that
doesn't invoke close contact between predator and
the prey, along with not even making the night
as something orthodoxically necessary to craft
                                      horror thematism.
well... plus it's a testament to existentialism
in the case of the hostage being "unrightfully"
attested in a crime... the existentialist would
simply conjure up: possible bait / excuse and
unwillful thinking necessary for his own
             victimised self-reflecting-counter-via
the reflex-of-against-self-discriminatory-collective-input...
radical­ised into a reflex puritanism:
   abiding by cohort norms was not enough
                for the cohort minimum:
                    pyramidal elevation was necessary,
               and there was no human explanation
beyond certain matters, all else was justified
in the three digressions: diabolical, angelic or genius:
the madness only came when one claimed to
hear instructions from the devil, or from god,
                        or claimed to be a geniusº.
  disregarding the two fabrics of a self,
the one prior and the one post collective-input
    regarding a doctrine needing a "self", an "individual",
nevertheless: but a pawn.

      ºthere's no articulation of god, which is why
we have no article ascribing a definite or an indefinite
nature toward him, which is why paupers reduce this
argument, debase it to the level of pronouns -
the reason why we cite a genius and the devil...
is because only angels have names...
                              even the fallen ones...
           for they have a misnomer of god, as we have
a misnomer for many a good things.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
i always favoured Händel (see the hidden γραφεμη variation of the a diaeresis - some simply sprech Hendel, also not the aesthetic mimic symbiosis with sigma - aesthetically it is written Σσς, so too it should be written Εεη - with the variations of epsilon - η - written conclusively, as with the variation of sigma - ς - the remnant, a last resort - the greeks don't believe the tetragrammaton twins of the symbol H anyway, they already laid new pavements for the road ahead, ridiculing the old testament with fanciful quotation, so that man could imbue a godliness rather than the filth of prophetic warmongering in the desert, sacrificing children to a bear like Elisha, the new testimony and the clean prophet, beware the wolf in sheep clothing, sheep equating itself to Nazarene cleanliness, but the wolf inside that will be worthy a tri-summation of interests - before universal education in the Victorian era, when finally enough horses were used up and machines took over, and people were allowed to be escorted into the cinema of uncovered phonetic encoding - taught literacy - but to no avail, having squandered that on acronym shortenings... multifaceted digressions ensue, as i am true to the purpose of suddenly injecting venomous imagery into this whole crescendo of the new regime, nightwatchman every over day, to save myself the pointless stimulus of drinking - let's leave the realm of italics and regroup with the points already made...

what a glorious night yesterday's was, by me saying,
well, there is still over an hour left to include yesterday's
night as today - the heavy Baroque organs of thunder,
interchanging with brilliance of lightning -
7,000 accounts of lightning flashing in a square mile,
perhaps more - there was me, reminiscing what i missed
about Freddy Kruger in the original version of
a nightmare on Elm's street, the 2010 revamp made it
plain (i thought Freddy was a bit of a loser compared
to the other horror icons, like Jason, Michael, Pinhead),
but then it dawned on me... he, was, a *******!
the former two were mutes, hefty mutes, bodybuilding
mutes, bulls, charging, dragging around them a gravity
of pure animal, a bit like a lion hunting although without
the growling - if only lions had cat eyes,
but lions don't have serpent eyes, their pupils are more
mammalian than cat eyes, bonsai, Asian squint, inverse,
serpents in fur - their pupils dilate proportionately
to small pupil, large pupil, not vertical Asian squint in
leather... anyway... what a night to watch a horror movie...
the big brainstorm before the referendum,
morning's newspaper and the newspaper *the times

in revamp mode of the tabloid the sun with
a Shakespeare quote: i to the world am like a drop of
water (or, whatever, water is precious, Shakespeare
is about as much a schooled sneeze / quotation in
comparison), that in the ocean seeks another drop -
told you, the times is just a revamped tabloid version,
it's under the same umbrella group - the only two
opposition newspapers with credentials in England
are the guardian (the left) and the daily telegraph
(the right) - i can see now why Freddy seems pathetic
but is more frightening - it's the ****** talking,
the nursery rhyme jingle - that's the freaky part -
but in the same night i expressively enjoyed
t.v. caviar of Versailles, no critical essay mind you,
just noticing this strange pair of aristocratic ladies,
fakes, a mother and a daughter, what's revealing
is that the girl has no interest in the king, this
builder is eyeing her up, whistles, and loving it,
she has not desire for aristocratic **** *******
of her cousin who's courting Louis XIV brother
Philippe, the gardener ex-soldier (a Socratic type)
warns him, he's asked by the builder, what the hell you
doing here? oh, i'm trying to see the garden more clearer.
he ain't though, he's questioning the entire hierarchy,
later on the same builder puts a pink rose in a bucket
and lowers it down to the garden promenade
where the same pair mother and daughter are walking,
the girl engages... she isn't aristocratic in the least!
she's more interested in frolicking in the hay with
a builder than some king or prince... the mother is poor,
she knows all the salon politics, she basically wants
her daughter to get herself a pension by ******* the king
and bearing him a *******, but there's a scene where
the daughter asks late at night... what are you doing?
the mother replies... writing letters... now you'd expect
that to mean letters in the style of Voltaire or de Montainge,
but by letters she means A B C, D E F... she's illiterate!
an aristocrat and illiterate? how else to control the
masses so long ago if not keeping them illiterate
content with fables from Plato's shadow puppet metaphors?
later the mother becomes frightened that the motto
Louis XIV emphasises (appearances are power -
deception = poker-hand perception, bluffs the higher up
you go), she's walking alone through the corridors of
Versailles and starts chatting up the court inquisitor etc.,
Fabien Marchal - he ain't exactly the aristocratic type,
she's already seeing the failures of her daughter
and the failures of too much information being passed down
to her about how to catch the eye of the king - god i love
this show, Philippe taking an ancient form of a selfie
looking into a little mirror before charging on his horse,
the power struggle, Louis flicks some porridge
onto Philippe, Philippe flicks some back,
Louis shoves a whole bowl of it on Philippe's head,
Philippe ****** on Louis, a wrestling match after:
you might have ****** on a brother's head...
but i ****** on a king's head. so why **** this entire
notion from Detective Comics and Edward (e)Nigma
******* all the brains out from a television set?
the idea of a bulls-eye is still out there - just have to know
what to glue yourself to;
but never mind that, to give closure to this whole
random escapade -
vote leave, reason? three houses of parliament in Brussels,
not a single member is elected by the public,
they're all self-appointed or appointed by connections.
vote remain, reason? cheap cigarettes from Romania,
Bulgaria and Poland - under new regulations they might
not be so cheap, i might have to resort to e-cigarettes.
probable outcome? Europe is already failing, it seems
that the idea of the free-movement of people doesn't
really apply to member states, but to non-member states,
esp. those outside Europe - the stigma born from
the grand European expansion of ~2005 fuelled the problem,
free movement of post-British Empire peoples, yes,
movement of member states in the political union? no,
no one from California and go to New Mexico,
but Mexicans can go to Washington, what a ****** up
logic - the prophesy of a revived Roman Empire is a bit
daft - and if i really did have an illegitimate child,
at what age does paying child support end? 16 or 18?
i wasn't married, i asked about the contraceptive pills,
but still the hot-bun shoved under my pillow to think about...
i'm positive that's when the buzzing in the left
hemisphere of my brain will end, and a grand L.S.D. trip
will appear in the sky, like a big Christmas mince pie -
ask me then, it's been 9 years in, i might have a break,
but until then i'm contemplating juggling Joyce with
Burroughs, and telling you... you know what i'd really like?
hearing Händel messiah in German... singing opera
is English is so so horrid, i love the opera never mind,
i was inspired by the section:
opernchor - weil von mann kommen tod -
to want to hear it in German - and trying to write German
using English grammar, and translate it, is like
a little-Oedipus fable, not as bad as mother and son,
no gauging of the eyes, more like the standard practice
in Arabia with marriage between 2nd or 3rd cousins -
and D.N.A. quick-tests in Iceland, who i'm praying will
win if the vote is to leave, fairy-tale Leicester City,
a country with the same population, 330,000;
not to mention Gudmundur Benediktsson's ******
that beat any South American gooooooooooo(h)'l /
enlarged spelling of ~gall, and so on and so forth bladder
or blah blah blah blah blah.
Michael Tobias Jul 2013
Under white bulbs
Dr. Black studies me through the glass.
I will be figure A on page three,
and how I purchase jazz CDs will be section II,
which will have footnotes
on 21st century Latinos in White suburbia,
the economic decisions of lost boys,
references to Dr. Earnst’s
Entitlements of the Capuchin,
and droll digressions on such and such and such—
dear Erwin musing on the thirteen times
we happened upon each other in life,
the most embarrassing being when I wore a pig mask
to what I thought was a masquerade
but which ended up being my own funeral.
One day we’ll vaguely recall the white sky on the morning
we met through an imaginary friend,
a girl who we forgot to name.
Does it matter, if it never really happened?
I just remember when you were a child
you looked through the glass for me,
and when I wasn’t there you waited through the night.
Laurel Elizabeth Oct 2013
When I walk on
the treadmill roads
by my selfish feet
****** thy hands into my soul
and Yank
marionette strings

reverse my decisions
inverse my positions

your light into mine eyes
that blinded I may see
with humbled mottled clarity
thy boundless charity

transcend my omissions
And mend my revisions

do this
with harsh
decided love
protective father smile.
make every step
I feebly take
worth your matchless while

rehearse my transgressions
transverse my digressions

the dance you wield
with tangled strings
shall far exceed
my selfish dreams
so tear, dear father
every whim
devote me
unto Him
unnamed Apr 2017
When my winds cease to blow
And the glow of daylight
To no longer show
Will past digressions be visited upon?
Or be decided the forgiveness
That my heart has longed?
When I am laid to my final rest
Will hurts abscond from my weary breast?
Or will heartbreaks follow me
And linger for, all eternity?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
the blank or nothing, forged in the frost,
                                                          ­         harrowing,
thumb and time consuming,
     toward the rally of "thus" heard,
          as ever a language of lawyers, but no law
being passed.
             churn out charcoal.
           pencil stirp stimata sharpen a few digressions,
but nonetheless the main
narrative comes back....
          and it comes back
nuanced, relative, muted and
      somehow mutually exclusive:
the idiot always appears:
        he never is.
   same talk of god & genius,
devil & idiot,
                     & gentleman...
           we are clearly making
a new prototype of the Belgian countryside,
or the talk of Trenches,
          but no head to be hunted...
     no "bad guy",
         just a guy that's there to be respected
because enough philanthropy sides with him...
  or dittoing caption:
   no matter whether heard, misheard or
           it's called the Thesaurus Rex stomp,
the Panzer pulverisation assault -
                     i don't care what words you used,
iron grits iron
            iron nibbles iron,
                   both sides are given hammers
and made to talk about nailing nails in
rather than investing millions.
       talk easy? i'll iota a séance...
but tell me... why is diacritical markings
disregarded when a name like Bartók
suggested? why is it Bartok rather than Bartuk?
or why is that umlaut arithmetic?
       enlighten me!                      please!
    are you educating people for free while
ensuring you own the fisherman's keys?
i guess you are!
       if A is universal encoding from French
to Norwegian, diacritical markings can employ
transcendentalism, in this case alienation -
       it's Bartook -
             the acute incisor cut open the o
and made a parabola of u -
                     don't squabble for what's already an
incorrect answer: diacritics unanimous
is a bit like alcoholics anonymous:
         feed the ******* shame of not asserting
the prescribed marching orders;
the squabbling hogs that you are: pristine my ***:
it's not a ******* birthright! squeem!
  and, go on, squirt out another adolescent
   piglet oink of pseudo Auschwitz!
    i'm saying: why bother to use it in the
first place? why not do away with the whole *******
Belshazzar pantomime of insurance Latin
      for adaptability of working on robotics?
                          sure, effective in Poland as
an aesthetic-variant of u, but elsewhere: no point for
the acute comma above the o, it's still an o -
we implanted that diacritical mark for jokes,
to create an economic sieve!
                  it was never Bar-ticky-tocking-*****,
           but Bar-took -
              otherwise stop pretending,
  or i'll slap you with a raw herring across your face,
and it won't be a politicised red,
  and fish included, or colloquial for a: white lie.
          my advice? either respect the diacritical
application, or go away with the Latin alphabet
      the soul is born when the words are added /
                  no words, no soul...
the argument counter? humanoids and that whole
Darwinistic debacle to connect the dots?
     it's called a zoo...
             and a zoological investigation -
self-reliant logic, not something individualistically
accountable for in terms of man...
              and humanism as: less zoo
and more university...
                 or cracking the coconut Dostoyevsky -
but as you do, love the semblance -
            i guess history only exists within a timespan
of 1.3.2015, and the ancient Greeks
       are but a yawn.
                         i don't mind,
i have built up enough qua
                        to answer quo -
                                            qua? as being thespian....
quo (vadis)? where are you going...
                a place called the submission to applause;
the place i'm act? a bunch of neurotics mumbling
toward a statue they're desiring to *****
but never do... they are a bunch of people
mumbling and gesticulating toward a statue they
desperately want to *****...
     or as i said in my Holly Valance kiss kiss video
to a poor Syrian girl:
                     so you too? less exposing the frantic
differences between us but nonetheless attracted?
or what said masculine blonde to the olive-tan girls?
    well, listen, the girls kindred of my impression
         on the word bone are prone to play the
bad girl who-did-it ***-appeal...
                           i just drink to fall asleep,
    i might talk before i do:
god - don't you think that "spoken word" requires
a substantial consideration for lessened poetical optometrics
of complication, and and an eased consideration
of language?
                        well, whenever you feel like it,
it's a grand schematic of a Taj Mahal daydream,
had i the marble and the desire to ***** something
comparably worth a number of tourists
that the original attracts -
oh **** me! poetry can plagiarise everything!
i say plagiarise, but i mean: take the mickey out
of every mouse...
                                or the peppercorn ****
you try to get rid of...
             once i caught a mouse, and it committed suicide
by jumping down the stairs.
Ma Diva veut  être meublée de parenthèses
De ïambes de jade meuble aux couleurs de toutes les toques
Et manches et casaques de l 'arc-en-ciel
Toque blanche manches vertes et casaque noire,
Toque rose manches blanches et casaque verte.

A l'intérieur des petites lunes enchantées
Entre losanges, étoiles et petits pois
Ma diva, oh la vilaine,  a mis des accolades et des crochets
De jade blanc, digressions  ponctuées périodiquement
Par d'exquises parties de ïambes en l'air.

Qui dit ïambe dit trochée
(me suis-je permis de préciser)
Et qui dit ïambe et trochée dit scansion
Alternance dans le pied, donc dans la marche
Dans le pas cadencé, l 'amble, le trot  et le galop
De la respiration longue et brève des solipèdes.

A l 'intérieur des parenthèses enchantées
Entre une espace et l 'autre de l 'écurie
J'ai vu danser ainsi une diva de forte encolure
Revendiquée modèle de Botero
Embarquer en longe un soleil pas trop chaud
Pour égayer le paddock de son haras
De vieilles pierres et de prés, de sous-bois et de beaux paysages
De musées et de concerts et de galipettes
Au bras d'un cavalier épicurien
Dragon de paille, bon à tout faire :
Lad qui la sorte à la longe
En chemise polaire de luxe
Cavalier qui la monte
Au grand steeple-chase de l'immortalité
En cajolant ses flancs de liqueur de jade blanche
Et  en même temps  groom qui la soigne
En divaguant en elle au gré de ses envies
De pierre semi-précieuse en transe.
Nat Lipstadt May 16
man says, this life, for what, a thousand dry
holes drilled, wildcatting, a win-loss record,
that didn’t approach, come close, to breakeven,
not even an asterisk in the records kept

man says, this body, its rate of desolations
increasing, the goal line distance secretions,
decreasing, this broken runner, tackled from behind
by the past, as his future caught up with him

man says, goals, deadlines, hamstring him,
due dates, an invitation to a criminal activity,
rub, nobody wants to take it down, his record,
left behind, when they shut Rikers Island

man says, always poor at maths, a loser of words,
his parents, his children, all time despairing of him,
called the AAA to come, tow him away, but,
all the junkyards refused him entry

man says, what separates ought and nought,
a little letter, just an n, that screaming thought,
a little letter, insufficient to bridge a poem too far,
man digresses, the past is ever present, in every word

writ and forgot.
Careena Apr 2018
Trapped in a screen
You set the scene
Se-er of constellations
Dreamer of dreams

Midnight confessions
Starstruck impressions
You tell the tale
You make your digressions

Roads turn to fork
Thumbtack on cork
I fear that you'll only
Live in your work
myrrh Jan 2019
Sinking moods, forever stuck in interlude
Staring at grey skies like it's a reflection of the mind
Bearing no fruits of labour; a slave to life's servitude
Constant excessive sighs & an inability to unwind

Only light in one's eyes, is a reflection off one's phone
No life in one's voice, only a overcast monotone
Vessel's surrounded, but one's soul is alone
Drained from weeping & can't even groan

Liquor & ******; distractions from the consciousness
To put the anguish at ease, digressions is a necessity
Shut the door on itself & swallow the keys
Endlessly stuck in a state of cecity
Mike Hulstrom Sep 2017
See three dimensions, the vision is blending, not to mention
Never prepared for funerals he pretends he’s attending

Scatter thought; chatterbox, planning mad hatter plots
Like neighborhood ballers posting up on the block,
Flood the hot-spot and set up a rock shop,
Got gems and minerals with more in stock
The lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, can’t be stopped
Because three more always grow where the last head chopped

In his lair, tearing through the rarest of known tomes
Bloodied, preparing, bearing home-grown pheromones
While atoned-postponed rambo reloads ranged ammo
This ****** Stallone, left alone, changes the channel
He’s amorphous on his own
His thesaurus is his zone
Choruses to juxtapose
It’s just gorgeous when he glows
Like a broke back mat smacking crack to the dome
The knick-knack paddy-wack gives this dog a bone

One of zero ***** given.
Proposition; my vision
Mass transmission
Free the minds imprisoned.
Send them off christened,
Eyes bright, glistened
Blood thickened, muscles;
tightly stiffened
Sick with bliss, concisely conditioned
Well provisioned, and on a mission
Kids’ just wishin’
Fishin’ for dishin’s
Switchin’ positions like politicians

With destination anticipation
An explanations is all they’re craving
Get what’s deserved for misbehaving
Even adulated need saving
Jolly Rodger’s what’s left waving
Until the tomb needs engraving
El Dorado:
Yellow brick road, gold pavement

Just let your will blend from birth to urn
Cause I have to spend some worth to earn
Just like the
Sun comes round the bend come burst and burn
Me and the Earth, we’re both cursed to turn

Mind in a mutter, from the throat-cutter utter
Off cluttered, from sputtering up soft butter

Projectile vomitin’
Simple sad homonyms
Bent ones that haunted him
**** ones that taunted him

Crash, fell bumping a paladin’s ballad
Yelling from the cell, a hell that’s padded
Plain scabbard belt fastened
Brain splattered, well contrasted
Gotta face it, it’s just a facet
Haphazard basic *******

Dazed, he laid lazy in a field of daisies, crazy
still failing life in spite of praises, does not phase me

Never fully try, never fully fail, never succeed
He smokes **** ‘til his failure’s guaranteed

Somebody makes the calls; Atlas shrugged ‘neath it all
Pedestal built too tall; perhaps the world will fall

Out in the desert Kashmir looms like a mirage
Or am I breathing exhaust fumes in the garage

What good is my happiness, my reason, justice, or pity?
I don’t know why you’d ask me this, but I guess it’s all ******

Fight my battles rolling downhill,
Sit back while my verbs and nouns spill
Words not meant to astound, but still

I’m palm stroking broke minds
With ****** soaked rhymes

I can occur just like a canna crop trafficker
I infer with calipers; as amateurs get massacred
Like melon to Gallagher
A gallon of palaver
What else can you do but take the beat and ravage her

Precision thumbs commissioned this slurred-dumb, late ***
With blood, sweat and tears smeared on the surgeon's apron

Brazen, boring, shameless; facetious
What a ****** thesis to teach us, I mean, Jesus

Witness the riots;
Sit back in silence,
Eyeless; In a crisis
Righteous, feeling timeless

I’m a weak witted weapon without suppressants
At my peak, spit blessings that best luminescence
Testing, expressing questions;
a primordial presence
Learning lessons of the essence,
Leaning in ******* obsessions
Now back to the digressions,

Enchant the mic and pass her
a wish to go follow gets a focal fracture
By the aficionado postal slasher
My vocals compact like a dope oil extractor
Spoke, spat, and risen from the earth like the rapture
Lyrics locked in; like ‘final answer’
Do a vinyl transfer
Sample and enhance her

Burn sweetest flowers hourly
The meanest greenest sour D
Take a bouquet the day he take a dowry

Fine divine entwined nugs
Unwind with the kind bud
And when it comes to this composition;
Just try it; succumb
Peel open a dub, recline, combine lovely drugs and paper.
loses loose shrubs, keeps his grip: shrugs and taper
Lick with the spit on the tip of the tongue, and savor
Chip off the old lungs, word to pops, mums and neighbors
Long lasting, juicy like a fruity gum flavor
Meet your maker, brute ****! Astute *** behavior

Faulty wiring in our brains
Exalt me as I complain
Are we just Abel's and Kane's, soon to be slain?
Perhaps maybe just a tune to be played?
Who keeps the balance of pleasures between pains
Who breaks silence for treasures? Who’s blood stains?

As I think it through, inhale and breathe fumes
I fail to read moods, but still I’ll seek tunes
As the green room’s groove looms
And the smoke plumes perfume
He unleashes leeches,
the deed is; eat his wounds
Glenn Currier Apr 2019
The big story of this day is Jesus’ Resurrection from death.
It will be celebrated in homes and churches throughout the world.
But I think Jesus is more interested in us than us celebrating him.
He wants us to recognize
and celebrate the way we rise
from our darkness, and digressions
failures, weakness, sadness and depression.

When Jesus was on Earth he was honest.  He was himself.
That’s what got him in trouble.
He teaches me to subdue the anger and every hint of violence inside
to be true to the unique creature his Father has crafted
not special or above the rest of ordinary men
just different and true to my own voice.

Unlike Jesus, I am not that courageous and mighty with the power of love.
I still fantasize doing damage to those whom I deem evil
still I care too much about what others think
about how I look or sound in public.

I am unlike Jesus in too many ways,
but I am like him in my rising from darkness and doom
from my own self-made tomb.
My resurrections might be tiny
but large is the Spirit in me
and the ability to see
the light
to see the right
and pursue it wherever it leads
into meadows and into the weeds
away from tradition and my roots
beyond my past moorings
toward truth
and its small soarings
telling my little stories
from death to glory.
Senses numbed
Dumbing down the concerns of the hours
By bringing irrelevant history to the forefront
Poems boiling
Inside vast cauldrons
Of space and time
Tethered to forms
And feelings
We are getting ready
For our healing
Hands are bound
To supple bodies
Loud as laughter
It echos above
And beyond
The night sky
We are triumphant mountains
Pounding tirelessly
On our stomping grounds
And telling stories
Of our ancestors
Birthing fiery dragons
Are we merely
Semi-articulate monkeys
Desperately climbing
Towards the tender treetops
Of imperceptible self-realization
Patiently awaiting
These situations
To change
For the better some day
Its eventually inevitable
What a lesson
These impressive
And diversions
Distracting me unequivocally
Still I apologize
For all these unnecessary formalities
We are abstract beings
Often too quick to eradicate anomalies
And aliens were bad for business
So long ago we decided
To swim in our visions instead
Witnessing children
Being punished
For abruptly speaking
Truthful wisdom
We are innocent
And sedated
Medicated with hesitation
And frustrated desires
We are shirtless statues
Manifesting virtuous actions
Yet still saddled with guilt
And vituperative resilience
Tears and laughter fill the skies
Mindful of our highest desire
We share these sheets
Of Egyptian paper
Within the fiery chambers
You chase angels
And make shadows dance
Until there is no more
Room for roman candles
To burn lonely and triumphant
Upon the Colosseum
Of our bedroom floor
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i too have my white dove, circling the cul de sac in my myopic vicinity (although i mean that as a metaphor) - oh, no, the white dove is real, for some strange reason it suddenly appeared to visit me from time to time, marrying the city with the countryside, and those woodland pigeons (much larger than the urban ones, and so much cleaner) - who decided to poker the "rat race" of existential re re re (again again again), by building a nest in a tree in my garden, knowing, full well, that there are two cats roaming the earth beneath the nest.

why did i grow a beard? there is nothing lumberjack
fashionista about, not plated, pleaded,
what do you call those chequered shirts?
   no, nothing to "look" the "part" while reading
a philosophy book (come on, i did three
years at university, specialising in organic chemistry),
i just became bored of shaving -
although, mind you, once you grow a beard,
you start to itch (not from the hair) -
but for a desire to shave...
      and that feel of sandpaper stubble -
          which is probably the reverse sentiment
for women who shave their genital hairs...
miss the ol' mr. fluffy i imagine -
don't worry, you can have mr. fluffy on my face,
the hairs are pretty much the same consistency
of roughness - nor the sort of silky hairs on
your head.
  that being said, i have no idea why i'm still
reading heidegger's ponderings ii - vi...
oh right, they're in maxim form, which means
i get to do a lot of thinking in between
every interaction with that **** text...
which is great, i note down the little detail -
or as i like to call them: the bunce digressions;
bunce? yeah, scottish english teacher from
my high school, the most adored teacher
in the school, his teaching style as riddled with
digression, well, more like anecdotes -
i guess that's how you really teach a language:
throw out the grammatical junk,
and just talk about life...
i couldn't stop internally laughing when he
got promoted to the position of *head of year

for class 11 (16 year olds) - and had to sharpen
up, become a serious person, i.e. don a suit
and tie, far removed from his usual linen open
shirts and jeans...
       but the coolio mc-glassy-woz-e died a mighty
death, at the feet of mr. grey and the pink
floyd mantra brigade antithesis, thesis-ses - sez?
and that question is over, with a german: ß -
**** it, put the two together, someone will
say size, someone else will say sigh zzz,
or the opposite zise - rice? ****, there's a c in that
   oh wait, and a k two... no! too too!
see, that's the thing with english -
  why would you even erode your beautiful memory
bank with the alphabet?
why? as long as you can remember the 26
horsemen of the apocalypse, does remembering
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u w x y z
even matter? they're still going to be minced
meat in words, juxtaposed - having a notting hill
carnival anyway... so? 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 -
now that, is what you need to know -
but as long as you can remember all of the 26 -
as an english teacher: i wouldn't bother
laming yourself with the "correct" sequence -
*******, learn gymnastics, proper.
oh right, philosophy, beards, "slow" reading -
perched on a windowsill having a cigarette -
you know what i find?
    after reading a philosophy book - any for
that matter - certain genres of literature become
more: entertaining - or at least more fluid -
you certainly learn to read faster -
          i'm still knackered by the enforced intensity
of non-narrative anti-greek idea of poetry -
this haiku vogue of: so what,
these 15 16 19 syllables are supposed to give
be a ******* heart attack's worth of emotion
and dead weight, that sinking emotion of
seeing a ****** bride sink, to the common
of an ocean?
              i see david attenborough fiddling with
a sloth and i become my worst enemy:
a drunkard who turns out, is also a sentimentalist,
odd combination, nonetheless:
       better than the fiend wife beater,
so, m'eh;
         but i just picked up on this, well, honed
in on it - philosophy is filled with cul de sacs -
oh yeah, riddled with them,
   and circles, every single question in philosophy
is a circle, i.e. every ? = O.
    the cul de sacs? more like a pair of *******
crutches -
    ad infinitum, ad nauseam,
                  noumenon, phenomenon,
  per se, there are so many others -
           they're like maxim endings within new
and "advanced" maxims -
     crutches -
           shorthand -
         like most of university mathematics is -
can't exactly tell why mathematicians are
terrible arithmetic squanderers -
          always riddling with their ****** abstracts -
so A U V = S T D - or some other ******* -
then you ask 'em: count me my chickens!
i already know how many i have,
   and the ******* come up with:
  the square root of √-i: i? yes, i.
what's i? an imaginary number?
an imaginary number? (an eddie izzard moment) -
an imaginary number? what's an
imaginary number?
  oh, it's complex.
complex as in an S is a serpent,
  a Z is a cubism's take on a serpent and
almost every tree (apart from the pines)
  looks like a Y, and subsequently a serpents
tongue, how every B, looks like... ahem...
every pair of binoculars?!
      fair enough... nuff, nuff...
                       i'm just going to be over there,
finishing my drink, and then walking
out the door, and getting some more, mmm'kay?
Mr Shankley Aug 2019
Corrupted circles surround your eyes
Spinning recklessly methodical,
Black bags, grey cheeks,
a dead mouth don’t speak,
It only eats away at blood bitten lips,
And if the mirrors weren’t so steamed up,
I probably would have cleaned up
My ****.

Just keep stuffing all the digressions
into the breach of this sinking ship.

It’s the best we have,
It’s all we’ve got,
Olivia May 2018
Here I Am


With An MLA Header

Trained And Taught

                             Titled Well

     It is spaced out and perfectly

punctuated with fine penmanship,

“correctly cited” (S. 1). The paper is

professional-looking in spite of a number

of digressions from the main topic. Many

assert that it is an entertaining read, albeit

containing a few contradictions. It was

most certainly finished within the allotted

time. The peer edits done to it add little,

as some suggestions were taken, but

later ignored. Most revisions that were

made have since been deleted. But it is a

paper, and an acceptable one at that. Quite

on par and up-to-*****. Essentially:


     So here I am. Double-spaced, with an

MLA header. Trained and taught. Titled

well. Adequate. That is all. I am wonderful

on paper. I am just a paper. I am made of

I’m aware that my sentence fragments have no place in an English class and would frankly get me kicked out the second they reared their ugly and syntactically-lacking heads. I took some liberties, though. Apologies to those who are champions of grammar- alas, I am not among your ranks. Additionally, please accept my condolences for the personal pronouns. I could not think of a way to exclude those, because I rather like them.
poetryaccident Apr 2018
What's been lost cannot be found
though it may lurk in plain sight
when the tumble down the hill
results in grace torn to shreds
we're all human in the end
these digressions are the norm
seeking wounds will only end
with a fall to deepest pits

it's the freak that stands above
without the skeletons duly hid
those slips of will in anger's course
or lust embraced instead of trust
pity their soul until the time
their turn is taken to devolve
because the low road calls to all
the quick drop from Heaven's peak

it's all fair in love and war
we tell ourselves as bullets fly
indiscretion met with same
indignation through carnal strife
mix the two with sure knowledge
there are no saints in the end
only wounded of pained degrees
seeking payback none shall have

sympathy will cut both ways
when the mud covers all
there are no winners in the end
even the Devil pities men
it's no wonder there are few
with white wings of angel kin
standing on hills above the rest
the high ground few will retain.
The poem “The Devil Pities Men” is about taking the lower road in pursuit of revenge and hate.

— The End —