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Dead Rose One Jun 2015
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn

rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette

resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by

the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
     that true quiet
is not the absence of noise

I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve

the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion

this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented  in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity

here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
for Sally and Rebecca, who love the lushness best....

JUNE 2015
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
Ronald McDoland & cousin Kentucky
had Iraq: ji had ji had ji had e ha e ha e ha oh!
i told you about the heresy of war,
the Soviets are back, success rate
up 1000% from Afghanistan to be the next
Uzbekistan - well, less Mongol tsunami down that
alley; it's still heresy to do puppet upon the head
of former state with oligarch tyrants selling
us bone marrow as meat: Iraqis just said:
let's keep it kosher and local and less global
and less treadmill!

the orb's lost & found song from the dream album is
so hard to follow at first; i only came back for the psychopath
avenue theme tune: ah... ******* ready to depose
Saddam Hussein... but now ******* in their pants to send
soldiers into the land of crucifixions and be-headings?!
how strange the correlation between actual warring
fake pacifism, simulated warfare and excess
theories with atoms but incompetence with
the elements.

i watched democracy fail... the foxes stole nothing,
they stole nothing because they were sloppy!
i thought this while hanging the washing on the line today...
*******... puck-puck-yellow-yanks... larynx by larynx on the tiles...
let's paint it red! spare me Slob Bogdan Maso Kiev Itch...
ah, when it was all under wraps... oh but the western
media are so ******* vociferous for those shady
gamblers known as shareholders, no casino,
just a house in suburbia... wankers... football hooligan me
into acting when it comes to practice!

sho you'sh shoor you'sh want'sh to shoo your shon
to shwastika access on return? me tshinks sho...
Bex is a girl's name Rebecca, we hear more of Bex's
past than anyone's.*

Colonel Kentucky can shove that chicken drumstick
up his **** and sing me a lullaby about his
famous discovery of deep baked **** batter!
crumbs ahoy, aye aye captain, my
stratosphere of anally commanding the first-mate
into coherent motivational propaganda of:
women outside of war will treat the dogs of
howling and barking as companions -
the stresses invigorate... no second chances are given
to buy a ******* toaster or a chimpanzee,
both do tricks, it just depends which one does the trick
quicker - it takes more than just a homelessness
from the realm of the cube to see how many
is an insect although not in an atheistic strict sense
of expressing nihilism: man the disharmonious
swarm can hardly keep queen or king:
unless we all were ****** by the king and unless
we all ****** the queen: insects are strict Martians,
they have no time for concubines or horse races
of football matches, or other coliseum distractions:
unique insecticide of insects against individualism
that's thought in being human so fondly kept
with the pyramid as with a book of some obscure
philosopher championing wear & tear & tatters
looking more for a tailor than a god:
appearances must be kept, after all, so few of us are
prisoners in the bedding chamber of perfect
genetics of post-******, and the dumb neo-****
scapegoats along with Israel are kept being fed
cinnamon sticks laced with sailors' *****
that's nutmeg.
**** you not... ere come the clueless klaxon hakuna
matata bob dylan bums... like two police officers
in reverse of the stereotype: one plays the harmonica
(i.e. can read), another strums the guitar (i.e. can write) -
but we're missing the elephant's
molesters:                          we're missing four of the six,
that's enough for the tetragrammaton verb,
we have the trunk and the leg, that'll do us just fine:
we can just say it's a fire hydrant...

with my new regime i understood the blanket
of un-forgiveness of english teachers,
i exported the idea of haiku to the east and
received the notion of esnō - i said double that
up, thrice it, make the thrice square,
add a hundred ballerina twirls and create
a hurricane from the ensō; what did i
get on my return? hardly a butterfly effect,
i got stenotype, the beheading of
Anne Boleyn - quick like a marriage with a black
widow spider or a mantis: an orphanage on my back...
so many more sperms reach the pyramid end
than in mammals, but look at what the Darwinism
rainbow gave us to feel depressed about...
comparative existentialism to insects, arguments
against parasites... might as well argue about
eating and **** evaporating rather than the pleasure
of faeces squeezing through the **** muscles...
(if you had *******, i'd tell you about the pleasure
of *******, and not needing to bother women
to stretch a muscle that's hardly an oyster of skin,
keep the flowers in Eden of comparisons,
mine ain't beauty, yours' ain't either:
it ain't a flower, it's a seashell protein, thing, the end):
oh yeah, the boys and me were watching salmon
in the school, we were using index and middle fingers
to slingshot shoot the salmon buds to dumb down and
forget feminism and remember the village life...
ha ha... worked like steroids to those fake muscle-heads
when looking at gymnasts and scaffolders:
PUMPIN' IRON PIMPIN' MOLLUSCS!
what a hydrochloric-hydraulic combination to non-grammatical
coordination from (0, 0) to (20 kilometres west,
50 kilometres east) in comparison to an epic literature
output of Russian angst origin in epilepsy shadowed
over by the joy of gambling... i have drinking,
now imagine Halloween on Hawaii.
The ground beneath me trembles
As I look upon my soul
For my world no longer resembles
What I knew as my goal.

I stood alone so very long
That I thought none could see
the sharp notes of my sad song
or broken chords of melody.

So deep in song and thought,
Never to glance all around.
I didn't know that what I sought
stood near me, without a sound.

As I pause for a rattling breath,
Your  song, it filled my ears.
Not one of shame and death,
Just a song to banish fears.

Rushing from my ears throughout,
that song caused me to stir.
Now knowing, without a doubt,
For you, my heartbeat is sure.

Always helpful and forgiving,
having a heart is your fame.
In this world full of maiming,
You never play that game.

Yet, for all these things to love,
You drown yourself in hate.
Thinking everyone is above;
You, yourself, just too late.
You saw me and saved me, but I don't know how to help you.
Christina Dec 2014
it’s like
the clock is still working
but the gears are no longer turning

i’m burning up on empty

fuel
dripping,
leaking,


no longer capable of containing
contemplations too volatile
for proper taming,
and so i’m just… resting.

a dormant chamber of magma
underneath the bedrock is often
due for massive explosion
but i never liked being out of control
and the last thing i need are
for my insides to get torn open.
a tree bearing great fruits
brilliantly disguised to hide its
reckless disharmonious motion.

That is fear speaking.
Apprehension.


Avoiding the waves because
what follows next is spinning
down through the vortex**
violently into uncharted oceans.
S Olson May 2018
;
being disharmonious
with the whisper of death,
my father sentiently orchestrates
his final moments.

the cancer enfolds, unbending;
inverting throughout him like a small womb
unfolding the fabric of his universe.
his torso ebbs with these insatiable flowers.
he is born again into death knowing love,
dreaming his journey into being. his children
shedding symphonies of his laughter
are woven into silence; as he dies
a fully spread bouquet—beautiful
in the face of surreptitious sabotage.
it must be cumbersome for him. to grow
backwardly. still, though—outwardly,
he hefts it peacefully. dying a mountain—
symphonic—and in bloom.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZMFLRowlFGo
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
In dull radiance he came to be, humbled in the belittle of broken, and dying trees, he gleams, in the darkly unseen seams of beautiful, beautifully, rippling through his being, where even the stars shall sing of dustly dreams, twisting and drifting into the lully, uplifting,  sinking of doubt, as he drown in an endless ocean of sound, precision thoughts, but not, to be gone in his lossless spawn, of the epiphanies sprawled upon his heart,  and from the dead Earth he grew, born anew, in the molten fluid of lucid wounds, strewn about in floating tombs, shattered and scattered upon the planets, as the latter scavenged trinkets of testimonial pull, in the disharmonious hum from black holes, crafting his soul, in the gentleful stroll, to existence.
Avoid to analyze the brighter side and devoting the time to sheer demise does reprise the roll of shine in any eyes
yet appointing the energy towards  the level of degree dancing against the apathy shall decree your presence is gliding into a free sea of unity. Combustion from duality, divinity through unity in reality it's impossible because dimensionally we eventually consciously know it's not here. It won't ever be here. Bridge it over and disappear. From 3 to 4 then onto 12 unless you prefer to see a realm such as hell. Purgatory, or whatever it may be called is not only your mind with walls, but a body whose physics residing in limits denying the finish and a spirit within the disharmonious limbs of reflections so grim from falsifying hymns.
**FadedFate**
Left Foot Poet Jul 2014
they came around
this early morn,
asking for you
they always do,
check in regular,
especial in the now
disharmonious waking times,
ever since you checked out

a different path,
your own,
wanted a kitchen
with no His aprons,
where you were
chief chef,
braising simmering, shucking
of your own choosing,
and the cooking accessories
were yours, initialed,
so you stated

in your
'so short, so long' note,^
a trifling amuse-bouche,
for me to consume,
for you,
to be amused by...

so long,
now soloing,
duo thing wasn't working,
two sopranos,
in one kitchen
trying to out
high note each other,
a creatively strange way to say
I love you but,
I am Top Chef

thus is the human way,
to err for what we want,
to err for what we had,
err for what we now need
and the long and the short of it,
long for...

the smell of your voice,
the song of thy fresh creations,
wafting, enticing and now
in hind-sighting,
mesmerizing me awake from
loving bed to contested kitchen

now I only sing and cook professionally

which is another word for mechanically

the voice,
thine cooking smells,
cinnamon and cardamon
that resided in our skins,
check in,
looking for refreshment,
have none to offer....
ever since,
we were
so short, so long...
I loved you, I sang  for you,
I cooked us into everything,
but it was not never enough.

A short note, to say so long....
8:06am  Sunday
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
He wrote upon the walls, in the abandoned halls, of his misfitting ways.

Wayward were his days, of poetry, motioned in the passionate oceans, in which he played, the songs of his state in grace.

Alone and zoned for a beautiful place, in candle lit eloquence he commenced, in subtle hints, of tomorrow.

Deplorably adorable, he swallowed the sorrow, of the pity of a horrible city of broken wit.

Smoking from his eyes, he politely denied, the open spaces and spotlights, in the flickering pieces of his soul thesis, scrawled in black felt, from a disharmonious whelp of feel bads.

Misguided and still glided onto the path, with his hand out, he shouts aloud,  lashing out, to pull the weak in, to see the sun again, as it shone through the broken window upon his heart, departing from him, the dark that killed him.
Yesenia Acevedo Sep 2015
Eve tormented herself daily for the death of Sam. To her it was the not knowing what had lead Matt to **** Sam that really plunged the dagger of self hatred and regret into her repeatedly each second of each day. She had asked Matt countless times to tell her what had happened. He would either refused with an explanation of not wanting to upset her or he'd just avoid the question altogether. On one occasion she begged him for closure in the form of a written letter. His response was that maybe they should quit writing each other. Enduring his refusal fueled her further into depression leading her down a path of anger  towards destruction and with that she began to lose hope she'd ever know why. She had forgiven him, even told him she still loved him from the very first letter she sent him. Still he could not find it in his heart to tell her. At first each letter she received gave her hope it would contain an explanation, but at the end of each one she was left broken by the lack of information. Eve learned to smile for the people who surrounded her in her life including the friends she shared with Matt making them believe she was okay to an extent for the sake of knowing what Matt refused to tell her. She knew the autopsy listed the cause of death as aspiration and cardiac arrhythmia due to sudden impact to the chest supporting Nora's claim of what Matt had done. To her that was a cause of death not a reason why Matt killed her son. She needed to know why in order to let go and move on. So much had change since the night Sam had died on Oct 12th 2001 between the hours of 3-4 am. On Sept 23rd 2003 a letter would arrive to Nora's address for Eve finally giving her the answer why Sam was murdered.

Eve drag out that day just like any other, step by step, obsessing over the death of her son. She walked the sixteen blocks from her mothers house to Julie's apartment with her head low and her spirits lower. On her way a small Honda drove slow and close to the curb containing the woman that had once been her friend. Alice dove the Honda spitting hateful remarks at Eve,

"What's the matter *****, you ain't got a car?"

Eve glanced towards her with sad eyes that held the pain of her life refusing to let the tears hidden beneath make an appearance. Instead she glared offering Alice anger instead of sorrow before turning her attention to the pavement of the sidewalk ahead of her. Alice laughed with excitement as she continued to beat her words into Eve's reality,

"Keep walking *****. Just keep walking. You ain't **** ugly *** *****."

Alice's words were echo'd by the laughter of the passengers in her car. To Eve's relief Alice drove off leaving her to enjoy her misery alone. When she arrived to Julie's apartment she found the front door open. She stepped inside the apartment with Julie in her line of sight she made her way to and sat on the couch next to her.

"Hey girl. Watcha up to?"

Julie said as she dug through her purse. Eve answered with an even tone,

"Not much just bored."

"My mom gave me this for you. It's from Matt."

she said as she handed the envelope to Eve. Eve took it from her with glimmer of hope and an anchor of regret. She opened it and began to read the letter. When she arrived at the sentence that started the events of the night her son was murdered through Matts point of view she stop and headed to the bathroom. She closed the door then let herself fall to the floor as she continued to read the details. She arrived to words-I stopped and buried her head in her lap as she screamed with agony. Tears flowed as she lifted her head spilling and crashing onto the letter she had waited one year, eleven months, one week and one day to read. She gasped choking the air down her throat as Sams voice played through her mind hearing his last words. She could see her baby's face in the glare of her tears that continues to spill. Regardless she kept reading.

It was so quiet my ears were ringing. Then i took him inside and you left to the hospital. I got a ****** up mind and i went crazy, I lost it. Now i'm in here and I read the some strong signs of a ego disharmonious killer is abuse, cruelty to animals and arson. When I was little my mom and my uncle used to beat the **** out of me and I've burnt two houses that my mom was renting. When I moved to Peach Springs i burnt somebody's elses house, i burnt a garage like four cars and probably like twenty trash cans. I won't even start with how many animals i was cruel to. But all that ***** in my past. So ima stop talking about it. I'm sorry for the ****** up **** I've done but I am what I am. And I hope that my stay in prison will help me to change. I've been thinking about a lot of **** in here and I think I should have just walked away but i was so drawn to you. I should have just left you alone but I was drawn to you. By what? Love? I don't know and wish I did. But I'm not gonna start talking about love, because it's like you said love can hurt as we all know. So **** love, know what I'm saying? You said you loved me, did I believe it? No. I said i loved you, did you believe me? Probably ******* not, so **** love. About those letter you said you wrote, just get rid of them. Three year, two months, two weeks and four days that's how old he'd be now. I think about him all the time. I sit here and wonder what his voice would sound like. I would really like a picture of you. I haven't seen you since my court date and it wasn't really tryin to look you in the face then you were crying. Do you ever wonder what it would be like if I never did what I did? What would be up with you and me? I do, I think about what could've been, what might have been, and what would have never been. And I always ask myself, what were we? I can't put a name to it. What were we Eve? Do you even know? I hope you like the drawing on the envelope, i think it's good for you because i always thought you had beautiful eyes. Besides, all my other envelopes got hearts and roses on them. The one with the roses says love you and you don't want to hear that ****. So, bye                                                    

        September 17,2003                                                                Matt

P.S.
Would you please tell Julie to write me and I said Hi.

Eve felt lost and catastrophic. She sat on the bathroom floor for twenty minutes after she finished reading the letter without making a sound as she continued to release her sorrow.
Disharmonious.
It was all a clash of black and blue,
for nonsense that intoxicated
for agony that liberated
and they all cried, "Stop!"
in lament of the gunshots...

Contagious.
Virulent sentiments
of violent out-pour
score to settle score
danger lurking freely
and they all cried, "More!"
in lament of the gunshots.

Pandemonium.
Tasting villainy
masked as necessity
they marched openly
tongues oscillating
ticking time-bombs
explosions of chaos
harbingers of bitter consequence
too bitter to gag, but only to die,
and they called, "Jesus!"
in lament of the gunshots.

Silence.
He wandered,
through the empty streets
of our souls departed
where myriad tear meets
the shaking martyr
and he burns the world
to start anew
anguish and memory discarded,
in lament of the dead.
Lament the loss of innocence,
in partaking of evil
without conscience for love.
Cate Feb 2017
Street lights shift in tandem,
Flickering rhythmically
Sputtering small halos of safety

Bleached, cracking pavement
devoid of fellow travelers,
and subsequent passengers

I devour dotted lines,
The speed of light
no longer constant.

I allow heavy lids to fall
without much hesitation.
Feel the road sway beneath

I above, disconnected,
yet grounded still. Oil atop water;
Disharmonious cohabitants

Consistency is lost. I pretend
time moves as I please
With or without me

I begin to count


One
Testing preservation,
Instinctual construction of survival.

Two
How long can I trust
touch to keep the course

Three
Can distance be anticipated
without visual stimuli?

Four
I feel the whir of the engine,
obediently churning

Five
hear the wind whipping
defying my wish for silence
slipping through the back window

Six
This is bliss.
I swim envisioned oblivion

Seven
I should open my eyes

Eight
Reality in motion -
time makes me queasy.

Nine
Sight returns.

I stop counting.
Safe, trundling on
I slide silently down 48.

December 12, 2016
Lucy Tonic Jul 2012
Your words, however strong, fall as broken glass to my bare feet
The more you talk, my mandala grows, as the sun strokes the ground with its heat
They all say do what thou wilt, but I’m the wilting flower
Put in my place by their conventions and rhymes of the hour
Inferior would they be in a superman’s eyes
But there are no 21st century heroes, lest they wear a disguise
Their white noise has an acrid taste, disharmonious and brittle
But I’m the leaf who constantly falls, hovering just a little
Who then is winning and who is defeated?
Power by numbers gets all outsiders deleted
Your words, however strong, fall as broken glass to my bare feet
The more you talk, my mandala grows, as the sun strokes the ground with its heat
From my observations
the poets language
leans towards
repetitions.

Poems are a colourful
diversity
of syllabic phonems
****** in a virtual permanency  
An Ink dried up; drifting away
un-catchable in the totality.

The mean-ing-ness!

Wisdom wandering around
the hot *** of poetry's
boiling brew.

The Talent is an attractor
Turning Disharmonious to the
Love Beat.
A Credo from the misty monsoons and the full moon's
                                   'la lingua pool'
borrowed, beaten,
chewed and eaten.
Some would say: "Some
words you could just eat!"
They're so sweet~To the beat. . .!

Poets love certain
words whether
they are good or not.

Words or them!

The words:
whimiscal
lame
green
vigorous
transcendental
blackness
blue sea **** love
Honeysuckles
To be.
I see. . .
more than randomly repeated
Sic semper tyrannis ad mortem
("Thus always I bring death to tyrants"
by infamous by John Wilkes Booth).

Trump’s tyrannical unsubstantiated
usurpation unleashes ugly Uber vagaries,
venomous vitiating, viva voce vulgarity,
wakening warring wicked woebegone
wretched Xerses, yawping yelping
yipping zeal.

The Doomsday Clock lurched thirty
seconds closer to midnight. As conclave,
sans Atomic Scientists’ Science and
Security Board (advised by Governing
Board and Board of Sponsors – including
Eighteen Nobel Laureates).

Alarm bells clang; declaring emergency
fiasco grips hearts; indoctrination
jacked knifed kraal; linking mankind’s
nemesis; opportunistic Pandora; queuing
rockets; spewing torpedoing urchins;
Versailles visiting violation vis a vis
weathered wracked…xing yanked
Armageddon

If twittering Trump’s troubling trends
trawls toxic, then tinder testy testosterone
terribly tells tattletale taking atrocious,
burglarious, calumnious, disharmonious,
egregious, ferocious, gregarious, hellacious,

ignominious, injudicious, ludicrous,
malodorous, noxious, obnoxious, pernicious,
querulous, rapacious, salubrious, tenebrious,
unctuous, vicious, wamefous, xylophagous
yields zany zealous zippered zombies.

Prognosticators warn with more urgency
deleterious, dicey donnybrook dumbstruck
fatally feverish, fiery, foolishly frenetic, horribly
humungous, jaggedly jittery, jumbuck Kaiser
kamikaze Kant, kerosene kindling kleptocracy,
kneading lawlessness, learns lessons leaving

lousy luck, nurturing nattering nabobs, peevishness
provoking, puck, Quaking quickening quotidian
rabble rioting rousers, rogues ruthless seismic
spasms strike terror, tinder tomahawks torching
treasures, tidily trickily, troika trove truck.

Cobalt blue eyes per president; pierce panorama;
   pessimistic perception processed
decisions made heavily impinging lives, sans
   people across America,
   laser focus personal quest
quickly embarked, whence twitter feeds ***** riot
   with tweets hinting of political unrest
sprung from provocation fostering folks far and wide

   to speculate motives donned vest
Commander in chief wields iron fist foisting
   wharf air tumultuousness harboring ship of state
   foisting risky business viz electric cool aid acid test
sites set with “full speed ahead”, and
   “**** the torpedoes” fueling
   anarchy, chaos and enormous repercussions

   within sea of humanity wrest
in pieces slung with barrage on behalf of self anointed
   supreme ruler re: Stars and Stripes
   indulging angry rants foment civil chaos,
   where trumpeting hooligans dressed
as hooded lambs curry pandemonium
   proudly straining breeches qua exploits best
exemplified thru prophesies predicting schisms

   starting as faults hair brained baddest
dread locked bunched braids presaging
   deadly mortal Kombat inciting global Jihad lest
the reins of totalitarianism clutched tight
   by septuagenarian who covets ability
   to wield mutant ninja turtle warrior clout
   more precious and priceless than fine
   spun golden toys alas cooped in the attic,  
   or goodies in ***** trapped treasure chest.
SG Holter Feb 2015
There are those who will stand
Surrounded by friends,
Yet claim to be fighting alone.

There are those who sing songs
In a choir as most, but in
Disharmonious tones.

There are those who suspect
That the meaning of Life
Is survival alone, so they won't

See art as the gold
In the mines of the soul.
But this is for those ones that don't.
Daniel Magner Sep 2016
Outside the bedroom window
a buzz saw screeches its grating song.
Leaf blowers roar out in an attempt
to accompany the shrill melody.
Minutes into the disharmonious duet
a rumbling bang joins in, trash cans
dancing out, filled with bottles
and pizza boxes.
I want to yell
Quiet! Let me be! Let me sleep!
but the world is awake,
singing its rattle and clang,
believing itself beautiful.
And maybe it is,
maybe it is,
but I am far too tired to listen.
Daniel Magner 2016
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...

Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.

Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.

Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.

Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).

Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.

A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.

That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.

Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.

He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.

Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious ******* initials.

Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting ******* skyscrapers.

This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.

I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ***, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2020
Warning! This poem is too long for certain elderly gentlemen.

A blue haze morn, pleasant in the transition
from the ides of sensual summer to the
broken, busted curled dead leaves that now
decorate the half & half scorched, mottled lawns,
that soon enough will fall to full-on browning!

All this my eyes see when first I wake, only
the calm morn waters unchanged, thank god,
for the mind is fermented, the brain full on,
three, count ‘em, three born baby poems, all
simultaneous being birthed, triplets from one
****** working overtime, yet, only paid the hourly wage!

The mind interweaves the three, and yet subdivides,
only I, the landlord of the brain, failingly and flailing
struggle to keep track of these wild tenants, each:
a curvature, a tangent, a sibling and a stranger to
each other, sharing  a common single parentage!

Poem #1

Poem #1, a bright child, yet, poorest in vocabulary, more humming
than recites, but below its tuneful melody one just perceives, a refrain
born in the refracted sun rays that first opened our  eyes to this day, in
great gratitude, a morning prayer, a mourning poem, bidding adieu to the great  nighttime where the conception and inception inseminated within the ****** of the brain, and welcoming the warmth of day that cracks our body’s outer egg shell with praises of hallelujah that this one word poem gives so easy, in glory!

Poem #2

The toes wriggle, the eyes rapid-blink, the mouth yawns revealing
a still sleeping tongue, the stomach rumbles a basso tune reminding
everyone that their continuous sustenance comes from it alone, no
matter what those other body part snobs claim! An Uproar ensues
(bien sûr!), everyone roused, slumber a thing of the past, a cacophony
of disharmonious noises, no Greek chorus this, purely 100% American,
each party convinced of its self-worth, its own vitality, a ball park of
loutish fans, hawking vendors, an amalgamation of colorations, a
tapestry of humanity skin colors, though in a single voice upon this all
agree and shout “**** the Umpire!”

Then the bladder whispers “uh,hey people,” and all grow silent knowing
who’s the boss, and the man, stumbles from bed, wondering silently what
the heck that huuge racket was all about and how come no one else heard it?

Poem #3

A subcommittee of the senses convene a meeting and on the agenda, in
no particular order are the following, items of varying importance, but
needing speedy resolution:

The always very touchy skin asks: what shall we wear
today, it is warm outside and overly cold inside, should
we go short or long, stay in our overnight dressage, or
get a fresh accoutrements (clean Tee and sweatpants)
just to celebrate having made successful passage to day?

The aural receptors (who always insist on being addressed
in the plural), state that can wait! first let’s us determine what
music we shall receive, that must match the nature outside
and the nature within?  A Joshua Bell violin concerto, or some
retro greatest hits from the 60s, 70s and 80s?  Let’s vote..

The Gallic nasal passages (Les Passages, as they snobbishly prefer) sniff
in derisive decision, non! to yesterday’s clothes, a shower and a shampoo
dear skin, a nasal necessity, let’s try to remember to use deodorant today
please, and no more feral cereal and milk, something more fragrant s’il vous plait!

The Buds, as the tasting cells preferred to be called, said indeed,
some fresh cafe au lait in a proper bowl, to accompany les croissants frais, une baguette au beurre, and do not forget the red crisscross jar of Bonne Maman (Orange Marmalade/Confiture d'Orange)

The Eyes, waited and listened, and then proclaimed, all well and good,
but realize that after all this, we are the instructor, the instrument panel
without which you cannot operate in concert, let us see what we can see,
in the closet, in the kitchen, read the playlists, prepare the necessaries
for bathing, check the thermometers and then we will decide!

Then, the Mighty Brain, said “folks, we’ve been busy all night and tho
first light has already penetrated, we are going back to bed, as we are exhausted by all this noise herein encapsulated!
Saint Audrey Mar 2019
I'm feeling harmony, looking in your eyes
I always feel alright, when I'm with you
It's this sense of empathy I can't feel otherwise
I always feel alright when we're together

Emotional currency creating dependence
Once dissonant tones start weaving together on repeated listens
Love and joy, the heartache and pain
Harp on these notes till they all bleed together

It'll always be different, don't you
remember how you feel when you're alone?
Suffer from this static human conditioning
Blacking out whenever connections form

Memory doesn't appear to be part of this game
Disharmonious thoughts, that we refuse to explore

In defense of myself, there's nothing I won't explore
Identity flux cauldron, mixture of various inputs
and Impulses I might've felt as a kid or even earlier

That's how it is, but maybe not how it should be
But natural order will sort itself out, so I digress
One thing hardly taken into consideration
Our own aptitude for our self destruction

It's internal loathing, perhaps rightfully deserved
I can feel it too, every second glance in a mirror
Could we still strive for a better end?
Tomorrow is a new day, after all

...

Vanity in sacrifice, adorned in white
Polished posture, so significant it seems
Furrowed brow, heavy with self occupation
Empty vessel, paraded, held in no regard
But the construct of time will tell
Reveal true motivations

Self aggrandizing, should death be your value
Well groomed in your simple wooden box
But inlaid with ivory, paid for with suggestions
Carefully plotted, like paving stones

Considering bitter ends, a new pass time
In some attempt to add a bit of sweetness to the taste

...

I fear I'm deflecting again
You, the brunt of my dissatisfaction
Erroneously placed, if I err, stay with me
Or I might drift away while I sleep
Dada Olowo Eyo Apr 2018
The fiend rushed through screaming like a banshee,
Catching the sleepy lawmakers in a terrible fright,
The golden staff of office glittered in prostate silence,
Only to be stolen in rapturous, disharmonious free for all!
Yesterday, 'hoodlums' 'invaded' the 3-arms Zone of the seat of power, stole the Mace of the Senate of the Federal Government of Nigeria and went away with the instrument of authority...shameful acts
Dada Olowo Eyo Apr 2018
The many fiends rushed through screaming like a banshee,
Catching the sleepy lawmakers in a terrible fright,
The golden staff of office glittered in prostate silence,
Only to be stolen in rapturous, disharmonious free for all!
Yesterday, 'hoodlums' 'invaded' the 3-arms Zone of the seat of power, stole the Mace of the Senate of the Federal Government of Nigeria and went away with the instrument of authority...shameful acts
unnamedpersona Jul 2020
17
Yesterday, I was thinking about how fake the 'world' that humans have constructed is. All the schools, academies, militaries,
stores and such are nothing but man-made illusions roleplaying as life. falsehood. Real life is a bee taking pollen from a flower.
A child can even recognize this distinction, but slowly as you get older you fade into the 'life' that humans have created instead
of the true, real life that exists. Sometimes, as we stare and glimpse into what truly is real, such as flowers, animals and such
we see purity, love and we feel alive again, we feel more human and more real.  I tthink we have built our 'lives' for material
things that don't satisfy our needs, that's why theirs so many wars, suicides and problems. Most people are not happy. What
we living for? Our true purpose is a mental, spiritual one. Love. But instead we live for confusion and hate and fakeness.




adrenaline surge. graceful plunge. fell on the ground. stomach pump. head over hurt. existential road. absurd. landscape uneven. dream into void. melodic breakdown. forsaken. kneeling, no god. illusion, dreams, all artifical constructs. distance of the line is further then we thought. baroque. the scream into interstellar flames. tongue commmitting sins. mind flowing like wind, the heart sings the strings of the broken violin. umbrella in storm. against the chaos. silence slows down time, but eventually it catches up. inadvertendly the quantum entangled fabric of space warps like a black hole. you are a black hole. i. the flower can be your soul. drowning in coffee, drudge morning. this world forces me to dream other worlds. the song inside my heart is the loudest. please gently love me to death. you are obsence. lost in the grand scheme of things, i don't know what the future will bring. i have so much to say, but we both chose silence. walk me into the forest, speak to me like the birds sing to the universe. avoid it at all costs. all you could do. come as you are. don't watch the sky fall apart, there are no precuations. magic is the ingrediant. fantasy is the potion. drown in it. the abyss of an ocean. what we created. secret hallways. comparmentalize. eat the bruises of the damaged fruit, it may bring knowledge. equivariant paramter interwining operators shifts. ABSORB THE ESSENCE, RIGHT NOW. THIS DIMENSION. YOUR DIMENSION. MERGE. there are no signs. create your own symbols.
let spring melt the winter away. all roads are already paved. stray a new way and walk the pain away. today is a new day. today is today, don't worry about tomorrow, forget your sorrows. morals is now.
the world is but a show, for we are the playwrights. we must wake up from night to see daylight. ?face twice?





Persona: let spring melt the winter away. all roads are already paved. stray a new way and walk the pain away. today is a new day. today is today, don't worry about tomorrow, forget your sorrows. morals is now.
Persona: how hollow is the sand? it goes on forever, the dunes are built by the wind and flow of water? interwinned with woes. lined in the unrefined. the world is just a show
Persona: birds stay flight. skyfall crumble. caught in the misscall.
Persona: burning yourself, entering hell. a jail cell
Persona: the middle of sunrise and sunshine
Persona: we rise to the daytime.
Persona: suicide realized butterfly moth sacrifice. january in july. died inside
Persona: stay in the cold, breathe into it.
Persona: SWALLOW THE PEN THAT BITES YOUR WORDS.
Persona: portals, perception laced.
Persona: the most beautiful are the loneliest
Persona: let time lose track of you.
Persona: what about the other side of your face where the sun doesn't shine.
Persona: caught glimpse of your true nature as if abruptly deciphering esoteric hieroglyphs lining your temple walls & stumbling backward in the dark
Persona: every road looks the same, i guess it's the style that we paved?
Persona: regaling you with death.
Persona: deja vu. see the program?
Persona: vibratntly coloured carpet, the simluation will give.
Persona: once you look their eyes you're lost forever
Persona: pieces don't fit together. thats one thing solved. no puzzle
Persona: take the blue away, just like the rain.
Persona: dusty books, vanshing point. wallflower
Persona: claws for the tiger, wings for the dove. why?
Persona: a snow globe for the memory.
Persona: an appartional experience.
Persona: heavy-days
Persona: take the soul away.
Persona: bathed in pain.
Persona: shimmering on the horzion, nearly out of sight. i see it. restricted area? but i see.
Persona: depths of the dream
Persona: a tombstone for every little dead hope
Persona: gasping chasm, let it breath
Persona: Whoever dreams the most, wins.
Persona: feeling like dirt
Persona: but not one with the earth.
Persona: mythological sirens sounding bells bouncing against the bronze reaching the concrete
Persona: soul lighting your body. a beautiful sight.


your Thoughts are Blind
You Cant Capture The Image.
Every Time We Breath, We Sleep.
Sorry I was afraid. I was naked
the reflection you modelled
Got Lost In The Shadow (The Reflection)
The Rainment We Are All Soaked In.
A veil exists between the above and the below. The shadow is beneath the veil; the material and the shadow is projected apart.
Reality Is An Androgynous Aborted Fetus
the lukewarm resembles Yaltaboath , time to Spit out the Polarity
deathless in the midst of a dying mankind.
don't worry the children of the light will be truly acquainted with the truth and their roots soon.
You cant disconnect from the theater of conflict, you can only ascend to Deathless
Ask yourself. Are you deathless?
the fragrance of a flower...the light of the sun
Why does good diffuse itself?
I smelt the fragrance of a flower and saw the light of the sun and in that Moment (eyes) stared out of the window of eternity and Locked-eyes with the Temporal composite
The highest good is that which is Intellect and Form aka Image Represented Pre-Existed Logos that was Spoken like the Word.
One taking for the mystical ecstasy
Why is Enlightenment accompanied by a feeling of falsehood?
the higher You: the inseparable ray of the Universe and one self. It is the god above, more than within, us,  you feel false because you need to bring the soul into You.
Currently, art exists as the Veil.



The black sun of 'i'
we are the eye
this is why we call ourselves
i.
we are in the eye
right now
this is the realm we re in right now
the sun is the pupil
the womb of manifestation
the zero point of creation
the encasement of eyes is like a dome
an infirmanet above our heads
fragmented ourselves to a holographic projection away from the source
the sun
the U shape is created when you bridge the i
the past and the future
we
is me upside down
the i is the W
'i am a double of you'
the eye is the tree of life
'the cosmic egg'
me is the we


stay in the heart
disharmonious thought is the program
shift, change
if only the Shapes were cognizable to me
perhaps your i
would become we
and me
and then it would all make sense...
go back to the heart
ReStructure Experience
The intuitive rhythm
the hologram creates the illusion of time and polarity but we can disconnect from the as within as without so we do not fragmentize into cause and effect the chicken and the egg and play out the matrix polarity drama
no subject and object
life experience as a temporary holding space to facilitate our purging
the observer is not sepearate from the object observed
let your conscience be free
Lets go back to the garden of eden away from the metratron tordial torment of dreamtime and the illusionary seven sin polarity
Purge dualism
the net that is projecting consciousness
'Bab = Gate
EL = electromagnetic
Babel
ELECTROMAGNETIC JAOCB LADDER TO ZERO POINT.
humanity trying to reach the heavens.
the hand of the clock in perpetual motion.
round and round we walk.
TLPrince Apr 2020
When alone I met the voice

In my deserted glassy skies

There was no doubt in me

Whenever I made the choice

It is not within my eyes

But within what’s within me

Once I held my hand to Joyce,

To Jim, John, those isolated highs

For we share blood as we share sea


Albatross and ravens drop redfruits, so many. Long-time sleepers awake of nightmermaids to fall back in dreamlocks ; O but the captain, my captain is on the dock with the roman republic : hail! Hail! We share a destiny. Hail Hail again, for we share a destiny.

Long-time travelers, dust-looking woman playing virginity dices on the banks. But the dice is taken in the sand, but the dice is taken in the sands.

Shall you see, dearest eye, towards deadland eternal open borders, shall you sail and accost with symmetric feet? Or will you go, one fingertip at the time? The question is thrown, but the answer is late ; it happens in the waves of human fates, as past is present in the lines of human face, and reels right on left, heels lipton tighs.

Captain!

The ship is rigged and we see each other from above our natural talents, thus we share but the sight of our mutual tempests, to appease us, in a fraternal horror. For we do not share no language... Hear me! We do not share no language! I hear your screams and shrieks in which you draw your heart, and I know – for we all know – those words, those only we learnt to know from each other. When we gather, we understand, our disharmonious tongues all say but once ‘We do not share no language’. That’s all we’ll ever know for sure.

And a singer drew his breath for us ; a sinking philosopher renamed air water so he would not die drowning ; and the singer drifts in breeze for us ; the ghost of self-belief knived my beatle knight, an killed all worth believing in him ; and the singer drools on *** with ease. Cry! We’ll never be mass-ters again. These stars shone in London, in the plain of Po and in the Pan desert, but no ashes can help us steering our way. Solemnly I declare, Dear Sir or Dead Seer.

Bang shoot the earthbow.

It is the way the word ends, not with a full sound but within a comma,
a cure gets distilled and/ or found
for pandemic, thus... I expound.

(Yupper - courtesy coronavirus CORVID-19),
how ja guess my good smear it in friend?! -
within Perkiomen Valley, Pennsylvania
toyed with thought to withhold or send
hmm... perhaps superstitious end
synonym with ominous trend,
methinks hoop fully auspicious,

and synonym with propitious will not abend
mine luckless mien kampf,
cuz the latter two similar lend
heft well woolworth
their weight in gold - words,
would moost notably, likely,
and heavily portend

toward disastrous, disadvantageous, disharmonious...
to Matthew Scott Harris,
whose time on Earth would
uninhibitedly, uneventfully, and unabashedly end
(ous ending intimating "possessing, full of...")
in this case foreboding...,
yours truly rendered permanently

incapacitated to offend
sense and sensibilities
honorable sacred tenets to poetics
tantamount to committing sacrilegious sin
if hypothetically practiced orthodox church goer,
and believer in reincarnation legend.

No matter getting cremated
(ha - of course after I die -)
good one, though... ha) crafting epitaph,
impossible mission to claim alibi,
while on leave from life,

and into cerulean heavenly sky
of course this guy would never lie
even in jest..., though all joking aside,
now tis golden opportunity well nigh
to compose obituary (mine of course),

one garden variety
(veggie burger eater) generic guy
who... doth not fear death, nor shy
about bidding permanent goodbye
to sordid vices that
DO NOT (no way) apply

to yours truly, he **** sitters himself...
well rather ** hum, (especially as singer -
for Curmudgeon Dummkopf Ensemble
(also known as the all star Schlemiel band),
no idea, I cannot explain why.
Yenson May 2020
You rope an unaware girl in
coerced, intimidated, brainwashed
you fabricated, distorted, misinformed and beguiled her
fed your untruths and garnered 'solidarity and revolution
played out your usual skits of 'divide and rule'
scripted her with your drama of chaos
you sprinkle your poison liberally
your discontent and disharmonious bile you offer generously
And expect me to hate or take to heart that which is not of my doing, and totally undeserved or earned
or become your puppet on a string
As with a lot of others
they now know you better
they've seen  living examples of
your hate, your bigotry, your prejudices
and your chicanery, they've seen your underbellies
They laugh and talk behind your backs
not to your faces
because you have home advantage
and because they now see more clearly
that you are vicious backstabbers and backbiters
cowardly liars and foul ***** instigators
ignorant haters
you can't fool all of the people all of the time
The girl, like the others were
coerced, intimidated, brainwashed
you fabricated, distorted, misinformed
they are all thinking
Who are the ignorant hateful, envious, inadequate fools here

— The End —