"doubly" poems - Hello Poetry

"doubly" poems

Foreigners are people somewhere else, Natives are people at home; If the place you’re at Is your habitat, You’re a foreigner, say in Rome. But the scales of Justice balance true, And *** leads into tat, So the man who’s at home When he stays in Rome Is abroad when he’s where you’re at. When we leave the limits of the land in which Our birth certificates sat us, It does not mean Just a change of scene, But also a change of status. The Frenchman with his fetching beard, The Scot with his kilt and sporran, One moment he May a native be, And the next may find him foreign. There’s many a difference quickly found Between the different races, But the only essential Differential Is living different places. Yet such is the pride of prideful man, From Austrians to Australians, That wherever he is, He regards as his, And the natives there, as aliens. Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends, The foreigner tells the native, And we’ll work together for our common ends Like a preposition and a dative. If our common ends seem mostly mine, Why not, you ignorant foreigner? And the native replies Contrariwise; And hence, my dears, the coroner. So mind your manners when a native, please, And doubly when you visit And between us all A rapport may fall Ecstatically exquisite. One simple thought, if you have it pat, Will eliminate the coroner: You may be a native in your habitat, But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.

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Goody for Our Side and Your Side Too

Foreigners are people somewhere else, Natives are people at home; If the place you’re at Is your habitat, You’re a foreigner, say in Rome. But the scales of Justice balance true, And *** leads into tat, So the man who’s at home When he stays in Rome Is abroad when he’s where you’re at. When we leave the limits of the land in which Our birth certificates sat us, It does not mean Just a change of scene, But also a change of status. The Frenchman with his fetching beard, The Scot with his kilt and sporran, One moment he May a native be, And the next may find him foreign. There’s many a difference quickly found Between the different races, But the only essential Differential Is living different places. Yet such is the pride of prideful man, From Austrians to Australians, That wherever he is, He regards as his, And the natives there, as aliens. Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends, The foreigner tells the native, And we’ll work together for our common ends Like a preposition and a dative. If our common ends seem mostly mine, Why not, you ignorant foreigner? And the native replies Contrariwise; And hence, my dears, the coroner. So mind your manners when a native, please, And doubly when you visit And between us all A rapport may fall Ecstatically exquisite. One simple thought, if you have it pat, Will eliminate the coroner: You may be a native in your habitat, But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.

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The Milk-and-Water School Alas! she would not hear my prayer! Yet it were rash to tear my hair; Disfigured, I should be less fair. She was unwise, I may say blind; Once she was lovingly inclined; Some circumstance has changed her mind. The Strong-Minded or Matter-of-Fact School Well! so my offer was no go! She might do worse, I told her so; She was a fool to answer "No". However, things are as they stood; Nor would I have her if I could, For there are plenty more as good. The Spasmodic or German School Firebrands and Daggers! hope hath fled! To atoms dash the doubly dead! My brain is fire--my heart is lead! Her soul is flint, and what am I? Scorch'd by her fierce, relentless eye, Nothingness is my destiny!

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5.4k

Photography Extraordinary

The Milk-and-Water School Alas! she would not hear my prayer! Yet it were rash to tear my hair; Disfigured, I should be less fair. She was unwise, I may say blind; Once she was lovingly inclined; Some circumstance has changed her mind. The Strong-Minded or Matter-of-Fact School Well! so my offer was no go! She might do worse, I told her so; She was a fool to answer "No". However, things are as they stood; Nor would I have her if I could, For there are plenty more as good. The Spasmodic or German School Firebrands and Daggers! hope hath fled! To atoms dash the doubly dead! My brain is fire--my heart is lead! Her soul is flint, and what am I? Scorch'd by her fierce, relentless eye, Nothingness is my destiny!

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*she just shakes her head she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance, in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night, I greet her with words semi-adventurous - “come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company” to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some kids appear, a surprise omen as they come trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer in his native Bangla she asks “what’s that he’s saying?” “Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune” she just shakes her head, from side to side emerging from the store, walking home in the now doubly ***** darkly dusk, a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me “you’re home late and have a great weekend,” she asks, “who is that?” “why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’ she says: “he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall, yet knows your name, your face, where you buy your lottery tickets, your coming and going hours, how came that to be” but waits not for an answer she just shakes her head, from side to side I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house, the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment a secret elevator which is under the direction of Bimal from Nepal, who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor) I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging, she just shakes her head, from side to side later she says: “let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise, some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue, known for its aphrodisiacal powers afterwards, you must tell me each dishes name, in its tongue’s nativity, but much, much later,” and as she speaks, grinning, she sticks out her tongue, while she just shakes her head, but this time, up and down

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Nov 18, 2017

Nov 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC

she just shakes her head

*she just shakes her head she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance, in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night, I greet her with words semi-adventurous - “come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company” to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some kids appear, a surprise omen as they come trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer in his native Bangla she asks “what’s that he’s saying?” “Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune” she just shakes her head, from side to side emerging from the store, walking home in the now doubly ***** darkly dusk, a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me “you’re home late and have a great weekend,” she asks, “who is that?” “why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’ she says: “he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall, yet knows your name, your face, where you buy your lottery tickets, your coming and going hours, how came that to be” but waits not for an answer she just shakes her head, from side to side I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house, the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment a secret elevator which is under the direction of Bimal from Nepal, who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor) I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging, she just shakes her head, from side to side later she says: “let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise, some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue, known for its aphrodisiacal powers afterwards, you must tell me each dishes name, in its tongue’s nativity, but much, much later,” and as she speaks, grinning, she sticks out her tongue, while she just shakes her head, but this time, up and down

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Welcome, Samhain, the Festival Of The Dead The year draws to a close and we look to the New Year ahead With the veil at its thinnest, spirits freely roam Its time once more to welcome your Ancestors home Listen to their messages and take note of their advice For they know things we cannot, except at a price Raise a glass in their honour, then bid them farewell Though they never really leave us, and this we know well Tomorrow brings a new day, though the Dark Lord slumbers on The New Year has begun, let your voice raise in song Set out your hopes and desires, for it’s a time to look ahead Ask the Blessings of the Ancients as on your path you tread May the coming year be fruitful, may you prosper and grow For you’re a walker of the Old Ways and this is what we know We are children of the Ancients and so we are doubly blessed For we are the chosen ones, each on our own Sacred Quest. Blessed Be. Samhain 2012 Nerwydd Dragonborne

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Oct 28, 2012

Oct 28, 2012 at 7:56 AM UTC

nerwydd-dragonborne

Welcome, Samhain, the Festival Of The Dead The year draws to a close and we look to the New Year ahead With the veil at its thinnest, spirits freely roam Its time once more to welcome your Ancestors home Listen to their messages and take note of their advice For they know things we cannot, except at a price Raise a glass in their honour, then bid them farewell Though they never really leave us, and this we know well Tomorrow brings a new day, though the Dark Lord slumbers on The New Year has begun, let your voice raise in song Set out your hopes and desires, for it’s a time to look ahead Ask the Blessings of the Ancients as on your path you tread May the coming year be fruitful, may you prosper and grow For you’re a walker of the Old Ways and this is what we know We are children of the Ancients and so we are doubly blessed For we are the chosen ones, each on our own Sacred Quest. Blessed Be. Samhain 2012 Nerwydd Dragonborne

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My Mamma cried When she'd heard what I'd done My Daddy went back inside And he grabbed his gun I'd met a girl on the other side of town Of course I am white and of course she is brown I don't rightly care cause we're both in love And I ain't gonna let her suffer none We's from Birmingham Down South Birmingham Alabama you see If'n you must know the year I'd say a shameful 1963 There was unrest amongst the people Which was bad enough But it was doubly troublesome On our taboo love Deep segregation kept our worlds apart Something the youth of the day couldn't see Outside color don't matter, it's what's in the heart That's the hold she has over me Not really sure things have changed all that much Though it's our nature to want to pretend I'm not much into caring what others might think Sometimes you gotta stand up like a man I'm telling this tale from my front porch swing As I listen to my Grandchildren's playful screams While holding hands rocking back and forth My lovely brown skinned beauty and me

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Apr 19, 2013

Apr 19, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC

My Mamma cried When she'd heard what I'd done My Daddy went back inside And he grabbed his gun I'd met a girl on the other side of town Of course I am white and of course she is brown I don't rightly care cause we're both in love And I ain't gonna let her suffer none We's from Birmingham Down South Birmingham Alabama you see If'n you must know the year I'd say a shameful 1963 There was unrest amongst the people Which was bad enough But it was doubly troublesome On our taboo love Deep segregation kept our worlds apart Something the youth of the day couldn't see Outside color don't matter, it's what's in the heart That's the hold she has over me Not really sure things have changed all that much Though it's our nature to want to pretend I'm not much into caring what others might think Sometimes you gotta stand up like a man I'm telling this tale from my front porch swing As I listen to my Grandchildren's playful screams While holding hands rocking back and forth My lovely brown skinned beauty and me

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953 A Door just opened on a street— I—lost—was passing by— An instant’s Width of Warmth disclosed— And Wealth—and Company. The Door as instant shut—And I— I—lost—was passing by— Lost doubly—but by contrast—most— Informing—misery—

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Emily Dickinson

A Door just opened on a street

953 A Door just opened on a street— I—lost—was passing by— An instant’s Width of Warmth disclosed— And Wealth—and Company. The Door as instant shut—And I— I—lost—was passing by— Lost doubly—but by contrast—most— Informing—misery—

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Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river. And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young. “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?” Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days! Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”

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Edgar Allan Poe

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river. And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young. “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?” Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days! Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”

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Ducks wrestle doubly Wet from rain and river flow; As above…qua-a-ack…so below.

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May 22, 2022

May 22, 2022 at 4:15 AM UTC

Ducks wrestle doubly Wet from rain and river flow; As above…qua-a-ack…so below.

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it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts. a shortened critique of pure reason - a) based on phenomena (things most likely talked about) and b) based of noumenna (things least likely talked about).... i.e. a) and the ego implant, and b) the god implant - likewise the zealots on either side, bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims... i forgot to mention that Kant forgot to mention the trigonometric foundations as justifying owning a villa or whatnot, the same foundations of having the implant ego secured and willed are the same parameters of the implant god secured and thought the point being dynamic parallelism, mid-way between cosine and sine rigid fluctuation tangents occur, the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.; you're basically born with ego or you're born with god - there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between - ring-a-ding-ding-surprise? there's no side-winding to create cinema - being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced with monetary affairs; being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced with murderers, lastly - no psychological theory will box-me-in given the lost tribalism and the usage of the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing - with money came slang - and all thorough evils, with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab., Arizona in the ******* Amazon - i'm basically saying what Kant said: god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget, it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it by argument, and we certainly can't accept it by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either for worth of understanding tornadoes; because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me, filming Twister.

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Jun 24, 2016

Jun 24, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

a shortened critique of pure reason / adjacent-adjective compound

it's inherent ontology, it's not even necessary to process inherited ontology; inherited ontology can be riddled and lost to abstraction like the invention of crosswords as antidote to the drilling-in of the Bible... but inherent ontology? inherent is a tautological invitation to italicise the word ontology - tautology anti synonym - the doubly stressed, point origin secured, but from two adjacent / adjective angles - well, might as well be a compound, the adjacent-adjective, when language meets math and math meets.... d'uh... or simply arithmetic, because that's how it's easily translated, arithmetic is grey people and math the rich... language the poets and grammar the farts. a shortened critique of pure reason - a) based on phenomena (things most likely talked about) and b) based of noumenna (things least likely talked about).... i.e. a) and the ego implant, and b) the god implant - likewise the zealots on either side, bleep bleep beep r r e r s.... and muslims... i forgot to mention that Kant forgot to mention the trigonometric foundations as justifying owning a villa or whatnot, the same foundations of having the implant ego secured and willed are the same parameters of the implant god secured and thought the point being dynamic parallelism, mid-way between cosine and sine rigid fluctuation tangents occur, the ridiculous abbreviations, the p.s., and ibis.; you're basically born with ego or you're born with god - there's no woof woof Pavlov chime chime in between - ring-a-ding-ding-surprise? there's no side-winding to create cinema - being born with ego is explained clearly, coerced with monetary affairs; being born with god is explained "clearly", coerced with murderers, lastly - no psychological theory will box-me-in given the lost tribalism and the usage of the trans-valuation of the synonym of thing - with money came slang - and all thorough evils, with slang, synonyms, antonyms, critique of vocab., Arizona in the ******* Amazon - i'm basically saying what Kant said: god isn't uncool or whatever atheism tends to forget, it's an implant of functioning, we can't rid it by argument, and we certainly can't accept it by prayer - unless we're dumb enough to do either for worth of understanding tornadoes; because that's were Seymour Hoffman started for me, filming Twister.

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.university was such a bad idea... i'm starting to think... isn't university the place where only women and rapists are admission worthy?! forget the men... you're on your own! gorgeous lisp... Fionna from Fraserburgh... worked in a nightclub to pay for a mandolin, and play her maggie may... outside her window... her sweetness imbue of honey and the letter G stumbling into a "stutter".... and? one detail... she loved queen's innuendo... the ooh ooh bit and the otherwise Spanish rodrigo in-between composer... i left Edinburgh... because my heart was not into it... my eyes were... but in my heart... i was not standing on an island, but an iceberg... too many English private school educatde kids... too much interconnected meritocracy bargains... said via grandfather earned ditto position through the connectivity of his, father's father... no... i won't have that ******** hanging before me like a carrot, while i play the donkey... sorry... no... shouldn't have lied about your mother being your sister, and your grandmother being your mother... then?! Leningrad would have made sense! thankfully? it still doesn't! and doubly thankful for it that i am, in saying: it, never, will!

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Aug 19, 2018

Aug 19, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

about a girl: a reply to an ex-girlfriend's question

.university was such a bad idea... i'm starting to think... isn't university the place where only women and rapists are admission worthy?! forget the men... you're on your own! gorgeous lisp... Fionna from Fraserburgh... worked in a nightclub to pay for a mandolin, and play her maggie may... outside her window... her sweetness imbue of honey and the letter G stumbling into a "stutter".... and? one detail... she loved queen's innuendo... the ooh ooh bit and the otherwise Spanish rodrigo in-between composer... i left Edinburgh... because my heart was not into it... my eyes were... but in my heart... i was not standing on an island, but an iceberg... too many English private school educatde kids... too much interconnected meritocracy bargains... said via grandfather earned ditto position through the connectivity of his, father's father... no... i won't have that ******** hanging before me like a carrot, while i play the donkey... sorry... no... shouldn't have lied about your mother being your sister, and your grandmother being your mother... then?! Leningrad would have made sense! thankfully? it still doesn't! and doubly thankful for it that i am, in saying: it, never, will!

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the marriage between two hotdogs and two buns some say it is a bliss - the union of two hotdogs: two pieces of elongated meat lying side by side bound by grease, tenderized by heat. some say they're sumptuous,twice as filling, twice as fun; though you can only consume them one by one. two hotdogs can quite be a scene, may it be dinner or an afternoon delight. some may like it, some may not. but who can deny them, that for them is delight. the same goes for the bonds of two buns. two hearts twained, bound by filling. twice as refreshing, doubly fulfilling. food for the gods, truly life-giving. for the marriage of two buns can be mouth watering. the matrimony of two hotdogs and that of two buns, may be fun for anybody, but not for everyone. as most could still be sated by a sandwich; grilled meat and toast. as the marriage between a hotdog and a bun is still preferred by most.

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Sep 6, 2016

Sep 6, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC

the marriage between two hotdogs and two buns

the marriage between two hotdogs and two buns some say it is a bliss - the union of two hotdogs: two pieces of elongated meat lying side by side bound by grease, tenderized by heat. some say they're sumptuous,twice as filling, twice as fun; though you can only consume them one by one. two hotdogs can quite be a scene, may it be dinner or an afternoon delight. some may like it, some may not. but who can deny them, that for them is delight. the same goes for the bonds of two buns. two hearts twained, bound by filling. twice as refreshing, doubly fulfilling. food for the gods, truly life-giving. for the marriage of two buns can be mouth watering. the matrimony of two hotdogs and that of two buns, may be fun for anybody, but not for everyone. as most could still be sated by a sandwich; grilled meat and toast. as the marriage between a hotdog and a bun is still preferred by most.

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Mingle with the genial bowl The Rose, the ‘flow’ret’ of the Soul, The Rose and Grape together quaff’d, How doubly sweet will be the draught! With Roses crown our jovial brows, While every cheek with Laughter glows; While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite, To wing our moments with Delight. Rose by far the fairest birth, Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth— Rose whose sweetest perfume given, Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven. Rose whom the Deities above, From Jove to **** dearly love, When Cytherea’s blooming Boy, Flies lightly through the dance of Joy, With him the Graces then combine, And rosy wreaths their locks entwine. Then will I sing divinely crown’d, With dusky leaves my temples bound— Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure, I’ll wake a wildly thrilling measure. There will my gentle Girl and I, Along the mazes sportive fly, Will bend before thy potent throne— Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.

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Translation From Anacreon: Ode

Mingle with the genial bowl The Rose, the ‘flow’ret’ of the Soul, The Rose and Grape together quaff’d, How doubly sweet will be the draught! With Roses crown our jovial brows, While every cheek with Laughter glows; While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite, To wing our moments with Delight. Rose by far the fairest birth, Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth— Rose whose sweetest perfume given, Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven. Rose whom the Deities above, From Jove to **** dearly love, When Cytherea’s blooming Boy, Flies lightly through the dance of Joy, With him the Graces then combine, And rosy wreaths their locks entwine. Then will I sing divinely crown’d, With dusky leaves my temples bound— Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure, I’ll wake a wildly thrilling measure. There will my gentle Girl and I, Along the mazes sportive fly, Will bend before thy potent throne— Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.

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Alone now in a strange country, feeling myself a stranger, On this bright festival day I doubly pine for my kinsfolk. Far away, I know my brothers will be climbing the heights With dogwood sprays in their jackets, and one man missing!

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Thinking of My Brothers in Shantung on the Ninth Day of the Ninth Month

Alone now in a strange country, feeling myself a stranger, On this bright festival day I doubly pine for my kinsfolk. Far away, I know my brothers will be climbing the heights With dogwood sprays in their jackets, and one man missing!

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Some throw themselves to fire Some to a raging wave We throw ourselves at words Doubly as dangerous…but brave We string along a sentence We bleed line by line Scraping along defences We grind the grit and rhyme Defying the babblers battle Waging war with a world where words have no meaning or power when they’re hurled We’ll never decay or go rotten We’ll be writing till we’re read They may shut us till we’re forgotten But they’ll quote us when we’re dead

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May 4, 2023

May 4, 2023 at 10:17 PM UTC

Some throw themselves to fire Some to a raging wave We throw ourselves at words Doubly as dangerous…but brave We string along a sentence We bleed line by line Scraping along defences We grind the grit and rhyme Defying the babblers battle Waging war with a world where words have no meaning or power when they’re hurled We’ll never decay or go rotten We’ll be writing till we’re read They may shut us till we’re forgotten But they’ll quote us when we’re dead

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. what's the difference between thieves, and magicians? not much... both have quick hands... and an awake, yet asleep public communal presence... the thief has a public of the victim, and the c.c.t.v. "stage"... the magician? has a public of the crowd, and the "dajjal" stage of a camera replenishing a concept of: not enough public... thieves and magicians are bedfellows... you allow one to flourish... the antithesis will come along, and in an indiscriminate fashion... allow the "magic" / "thieving" to take place... what is a magician, a public figure... compared... to a thief? i can't see the difference... the audience was fooled by the magician... the individual was fooled by the thief... are they... so much unlike each other? magicians can own a theater stage... thieves, sometimes... just sometimes... own the, basic... pointlessness of english c.c.t.v. mechanics, to make police officers make: a follow-up investigation... oh, but i have genius interrogation practices... no one wants to listen to... like 10 hours straights of listening to stefan molyneux... or 48 hours, sleep deprived... listening to BBC 24 hour news reels... that **** could crack anyone... what the americans did to the Iraqis? last time i heard... they blasted the slayer oeuvre down headphones into their ears... Americans... feeding conquered Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre? BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE! and didn't the encore come? ******* retards... crows feeding seagull chicks with sinew and regurgitated scavenger meat! if only they played them some Bach... i'm pretty sure... the Iraqis would still be left... disorientated... but the American army "interrogators"... ha ha! played them the slayer oeuvre! WEE-TARDS! anyone... and i mean anyone: will relieve themselves as being "tortured": doubly charged up, and ready to ingest hyper-coffee in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic of ingesting amphetamines (pervitin) - night-raids... the londoonoirnischt blitz, sloth krieg... ya ya yawn... urgh... burp... and always... those poncy - english, gay, aristocratic men... and their... psychotropic women... so what's the difference between a common thief... and a spectacle magician? one "owns" cctv footage, the other owns a stage... yet both share a: quicksilver take on, what cannot be interpreted in either handwriting or stenography... hmm... can't be sure whether both could be considered legal.

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Jul 31, 2018

Jul 31, 2018 at 12:16 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

thieves & magicians

. what's the difference between thieves, and magicians? not much... both have quick hands... and an awake, yet asleep public communal presence... the thief has a public of the victim, and the c.c.t.v. "stage"... the magician? has a public of the crowd, and the "dajjal" stage of a camera replenishing a concept of: not enough public... thieves and magicians are bedfellows... you allow one to flourish... the antithesis will come along, and in an indiscriminate fashion... allow the "magic" / "thieving" to take place... what is a magician, a public figure... compared... to a thief? i can't see the difference... the audience was fooled by the magician... the individual was fooled by the thief... are they... so much unlike each other? magicians can own a theater stage... thieves, sometimes... just sometimes... own the, basic... pointlessness of english c.c.t.v. mechanics, to make police officers make: a follow-up investigation... oh, but i have genius interrogation practices... no one wants to listen to... like 10 hours straights of listening to stefan molyneux... or 48 hours, sleep deprived... listening to BBC 24 hour news reels... that **** could crack anyone... what the americans did to the Iraqis? last time i heard... they blasted the slayer oeuvre down headphones into their ears... Americans... feeding conquered Iraqis with a slayer oeuvre? BRAVO! BRAVO! ENCORE! and didn't the encore come? ******* retards... crows feeding seagull chicks with sinew and regurgitated scavenger meat! if only they played them some Bach... i'm pretty sure... the Iraqis would still be left... disorientated... but the American army "interrogators"... ha ha! played them the slayer oeuvre! WEE-TARDS! anyone... and i mean anyone: will relieve themselves as being "tortured": doubly charged up, and ready to ingest hyper-coffee in the form of the Luftwaffe tactic of ingesting amphetamines (pervitin) - night-raids... the londoonoirnischt blitz, sloth krieg... ya ya yawn... urgh... burp... and always... those poncy - english, gay, aristocratic men... and their... psychotropic women... so what's the difference between a common thief... and a spectacle magician? one "owns" cctv footage, the other owns a stage... yet both share a: quicksilver take on, what cannot be interpreted in either handwriting or stenography... hmm... can't be sure whether both could be considered legal.

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Antagonism burgeons back bad blood. Compatriots, courtesy can cool contentions: doubly, disrespect demands decisive execution. Early efforts evolved fatuously, force facilitated farcical fighting. Gambling gents gleefully gored hedonistic harlots. Harassing ignorantly, igniting jealously, killings listlessly- liars lament momentarily. Meanwhile, monetary nuances of opulence obscure prime problems. Quarries quake running red. Remembering solitarily- stoic steeds stand silent, sending thoughts, unbidden, unbeknownst. Violence: we were xanthic, yellow years yaw… Zymotic.

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Jun 22, 2013

Jun 22, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC

Antagonism burgeons back bad blood. Compatriots, courtesy can cool contentions: doubly, disrespect demands decisive execution. Early efforts evolved fatuously, force facilitated farcical fighting. Gambling gents gleefully gored hedonistic harlots. Harassing ignorantly, igniting jealously, killings listlessly- liars lament momentarily. Meanwhile, monetary nuances of opulence obscure prime problems. Quarries quake running red. Remembering solitarily- stoic steeds stand silent, sending thoughts, unbidden, unbeknownst. Violence: we were xanthic, yellow years yaw… Zymotic.

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And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so— I would not give that ***** pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine: And for a while my sorrows cease, To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessèd be that tear— It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft as thine; But Beauty’s self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so— I would not give that ***** pain.

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And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?

And wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so— I would not give that ***** pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine: And for a while my sorrows cease, To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessèd be that tear— It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft as thine; But Beauty’s self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so— I would not give that ***** pain.

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What is a fear of death beyond ones fear of whence they came? You are not alive, if you were not dead prior. Our confusion and misconceptions are signs of something unsightly within society; an idea of cause and effect. There is no cause, and there is no effect, at least not beyond the ***** conclusions of the human mind, which is, in effect, all delusion. We're neither fools or saints, and it doesn't matter what you wear, where you're from, of what you believe in. We are all one in substance and one with the true and natural matter of the universe, when we're **** Also, trust me. Being **** is only rude because our crude minds have altered the context of *** and what's beautiful. Disgust or attraction from ones naked body is a sign of our losing touch with reality. Do you prefer the looks of one tree to another? If not, should you care if whose **** is your girlfriend, your mom, or your brother? This doesn't mean you should be sexually attracted to the latter, and not to the former... but one must understand the difference between nudeness and ***** because *** is beautiful, at least when it's normal, and raw. *** is no sin, and nudeness no vice; sexists don't win, and nudists don't fight. So pass me your bullets, artificial like clothing; put down your guns, a production of loathing. Insecurity flourishes in Converse and cars, in defining whats right to Prime Ministers and Tsars, So lift up your fists and break all of your fingers; allow all the pain inside your hands to linger, Make doubly sure your trigger finger can't fire, otherwise that same finger may make a peace lover a liar. Are we all higher than the primal sweat we perspire? Yes; when we find it in our hearts to inspire, and not expire the souls of ourselves and of others; To realize we are all but sisters and brothers, Living as lovers, In love.

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Jun 7, 2011

Jun 7, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC

In Love with the Nothing that is Everything

What is a fear of death beyond ones fear of whence they came? You are not alive, if you were not dead prior. Our confusion and misconceptions are signs of something unsightly within society; an idea of cause and effect. There is no cause, and there is no effect, at least not beyond the ***** conclusions of the human mind, which is, in effect, all delusion. We're neither fools or saints, and it doesn't matter what you wear, where you're from, of what you believe in. We are all one in substance and one with the true and natural matter of the universe, when we're **** Also, trust me. Being **** is only rude because our crude minds have altered the context of *** and what's beautiful. Disgust or attraction from ones naked body is a sign of our losing touch with reality. Do you prefer the looks of one tree to another? If not, should you care if whose **** is your girlfriend, your mom, or your brother? This doesn't mean you should be sexually attracted to the latter, and not to the former... but one must understand the difference between nudeness and ***** because *** is beautiful, at least when it's normal, and raw. *** is no sin, and nudeness no vice; sexists don't win, and nudists don't fight. So pass me your bullets, artificial like clothing; put down your guns, a production of loathing. Insecurity flourishes in Converse and cars, in defining whats right to Prime Ministers and Tsars, So lift up your fists and break all of your fingers; allow all the pain inside your hands to linger, Make doubly sure your trigger finger can't fire, otherwise that same finger may make a peace lover a liar. Are we all higher than the primal sweat we perspire? Yes; when we find it in our hearts to inspire, and not expire the souls of ourselves and of others; To realize we are all but sisters and brothers, Living as lovers, In love.

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after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour. why is poetry such a ***** of coding daily activity... who needs poetry if the everyday is intact? atheism didn’t **** god... it merely killed the logic of myth.... atheism is far worse than mythology... it just regurgitates facts to make you submit to them without the necessary philosophical awe of finding them interesting... poetry isn’t dead... it’s a ***** which is worse than death where i come from... there’s ezra with his fountain comparison: ‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it - you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think that’s called cubism in france.’ did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis for the bomb sarcasm? cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented after sarcasam... i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal - there are too many stages in the differences of women, i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going... it’s like this thing that’s happening right now... christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel... and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk, not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham... one party censors words for excess ***** saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling, we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’ sounds about right... the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words, that’s doubly censoring, censor ***** words get more dirt out of it... we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for the knobs!’ problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling / punctuation / arithmetic - that’s what i don’t get, the ratio of the two languages... all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation... but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE is so much more... is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out? in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc. but in linguistics you have this permament reminder: SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG. well... ****** me timbers... i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.

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Nov 24, 2015

Nov 24, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket

after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour. why is poetry such a ***** of coding daily activity... who needs poetry if the everyday is intact? atheism didn’t **** god... it merely killed the logic of myth.... atheism is far worse than mythology... it just regurgitates facts to make you submit to them without the necessary philosophical awe of finding them interesting... poetry isn’t dead... it’s a ***** which is worse than death where i come from... there’s ezra with his fountain comparison: ‘i ****** in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it - you **** in it... streaks of blue... i think that’s called cubism in france.’ did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis for the bomb sarcasm? cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented after sarcasam... i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal - there are too many stages in the differences of women, i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going... it’s like this thing that’s happening right now... christian nations censor words... like **** cultish **** of the brothel... and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk, not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham... one party censors words for excess ***** saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling, we like dyslexia and **** teen **** graphic...’ sounds about right... the other party says: ‘we hate censoring ***** words, that’s doubly censoring, censor ***** words get more dirt out of it... we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for the knobs!’ problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling / punctuation / arithmetic - that’s what i don’t get, the ratio of the two languages... all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation... but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE is so much more... is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out? in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc. but in linguistics you have this permament reminder: SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG. well... ****** me timbers... i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.

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It's always incredibly sad when you say goodbye to a loved one. Doubly so when its the one that convinced you that "loved" ones could still exist in your life beyond family and people you've known forever. You would think at 46 it would be different somehow, different to the way it was when you were 16. But it isn't Not really The big hole in your chest is still there, the tightness, still there You still put on a brave face to everyone around you lest they know the pain you're in And it still doesn't make any ******* sense at all ... .. . So you just choke everything down as best you can, move on, lick your wounds, and try not to let this moment of your past dictate your future the way theirs did. And therein lies the tragedy of it all I guess. You can go forward assuming everyone's the same, put up walls, let nobody in for fear you'll feel this way again and in some bizarre ********** of the word feel "safe" or you lay low for a while and go out there again forgive and forget really and truly try and forget let the future be anything it wants to be without looking in every nook and cranny, every gesture, every subtext every moment...... for signs that its going to happen again, that he or she is just like "they" were. Whoever said insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result has clearly never been in love.

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Sep 29, 2015

Sep 29, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC

a-thomas-hawkins

It's always incredibly sad when you say goodbye to a loved one. Doubly so when its the one that convinced you that "loved" ones could still exist in your life beyond family and people you've known forever. You would think at 46 it would be different somehow, different to the way it was when you were 16. But it isn't Not really The big hole in your chest is still there, the tightness, still there You still put on a brave face to everyone around you lest they know the pain you're in And it still doesn't make any ******* sense at all ... .. . So you just choke everything down as best you can, move on, lick your wounds, and try not to let this moment of your past dictate your future the way theirs did. And therein lies the tragedy of it all I guess. You can go forward assuming everyone's the same, put up walls, let nobody in for fear you'll feel this way again and in some bizarre ********** of the word feel "safe" or you lay low for a while and go out there again forgive and forget really and truly try and forget let the future be anything it wants to be without looking in every nook and cranny, every gesture, every subtext every moment...... for signs that its going to happen again, that he or she is just like "they" were. Whoever said insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result has clearly never been in love.

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1083 We learn it in Retreating How vast an one Was recently among us— A Perished Sun Endear in the departure How doubly more Than all the Golden presence It was—before—

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Emily Dickinson

We learn it in Retreating

1083 We learn it in Retreating How vast an one Was recently among us— A Perished Sun Endear in the departure How doubly more Than all the Golden presence It was—before—

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oh dear one lost across the sea so unknown to me, how fair thy little mind thinketh and playeth thy harp! no man shall raise a hand to thee! least ye scorn him, banishing him and his brazen knuckles to the brazen edge of the whole brazen universe. shy be he not! lameth shall he be forever. but two shovels should be found and used for to dig unto the ground, a new grave: doubly wide and doubly deep for two of the fairest of them all: the maidens lost to the wilderness, left to her own devices and thus self-deprecating her selves into planetary alignment with that new planet they just found that's like 1,000 times bigger than Saturn and with millions of icy rings. forever cold shall she be! forever unknown to me! bear witness to thy handiwork: my shoulders, lips, and toenails are all mine; for a moment they were thine and in breaking my peace i thus aireth my whine. and i'm fine. really, i'm fine. taketh no liberties with me! giveth no light, shareth no warmth! beseech me no inquiries! for i have not an answer that makes sense, nor a limb that works perfectly, and not a day goes by that i don't ponder you. yet the moon pondereth the sun forever and ever and ever but never the two shall meet. wandereth, fair maiden, and i shall wander, too. but should you face about my eyes will surely see you.

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Feb 5, 2015

Feb 5, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC

a poet, i am not. [i'm a pro football player]

oh dear one lost across the sea so unknown to me, how fair thy little mind thinketh and playeth thy harp! no man shall raise a hand to thee! least ye scorn him, banishing him and his brazen knuckles to the brazen edge of the whole brazen universe. shy be he not! lameth shall he be forever. but two shovels should be found and used for to dig unto the ground, a new grave: doubly wide and doubly deep for two of the fairest of them all: the maidens lost to the wilderness, left to her own devices and thus self-deprecating her selves into planetary alignment with that new planet they just found that's like 1,000 times bigger than Saturn and with millions of icy rings. forever cold shall she be! forever unknown to me! bear witness to thy handiwork: my shoulders, lips, and toenails are all mine; for a moment they were thine and in breaking my peace i thus aireth my whine. and i'm fine. really, i'm fine. taketh no liberties with me! giveth no light, shareth no warmth! beseech me no inquiries! for i have not an answer that makes sense, nor a limb that works perfectly, and not a day goes by that i don't ponder you. yet the moon pondereth the sun forever and ever and ever but never the two shall meet. wandereth, fair maiden, and i shall wander, too. but should you face about my eyes will surely see you.

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After fifty years I slipped into the school. Madame Bela was visibly pleased *The classroom was too empty Now I've one to do maths with* No less happy was Auntie Aloka My favorite student is back She lifted me up and said with a kiss *So vacant felt my class of English Without a boy from olden times Sweetly singing nursery rhymes* My eyes searched her and before long Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue *I'm so glad to see his face Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness* And there he was the only Sir Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher *Isn't this the boy never won my trust For always being in every race last* Fifty years haven't changed a bit Either their age or their spirit And surely the fun was doubly more When I stood before the school mirror.

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Apr 25, 2016

Apr 25, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Back to the Class

After fifty years I slipped into the school. Madame Bela was visibly pleased *The classroom was too empty Now I've one to do maths with* No less happy was Auntie Aloka My favorite student is back She lifted me up and said with a kiss *So vacant felt my class of English Without a boy from olden times Sweetly singing nursery rhymes* My eyes searched her and before long Miss Jaya spoke in her softest tongue *I'm so glad to see his face Sans him Bengali class was all emptiness* And there he was the only Sir Amiyo Baboo the sports teacher *Isn't this the boy never won my trust For always being in every race last* Fifty years haven't changed a bit Either their age or their spirit And surely the fun was doubly more When I stood before the school mirror.

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