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Kiernan Norman Jul 2014
We didn’t bloom together the way we should have. We never eyed each other across neat soil; both self-conscious and self-righteous as we sipped the sun and, in quiet bursts, raced to touch the sky.  

We weren't planted by gentle hands in soft plots with room to stretch our limbs and shield our eyes, nor to bud in peace and thrive and find identity in both our own bold blossoms and as a pulsing piece of the whole lavish garden.

We didn't bloom because we erupted.
We running-start-swan-dived into stale dirt and were too close from the very beginning.
We didn’t sprout up straight; we snaked and lurked and left no bit of earth untouched by our vibrant, stencil **** fingers declaring ourselves alive.

By harvest we were tangled beyond repair.
By harvest I didn't know me from you and I liked it.

To be so entwined is lovely but depends on a balance
we could only begin to grasp.
To expand but not uproot requires perfect synchronicity maybe not beyond our years but certainly beyond our maturity. We spread out our emotions like tarot cards on a towel in the grass and reflected in your sunglasses I met the silent pieces of me.
In colorful, grim drawings those quiet, ugly bits floated up veins and settled under ribs.
They stayed silent. Until they began to scream.

And you and I- we didn't have the words;
not our own words that we earned and burned while stumbling across months and plains,
tripping over potholes and finding our feet quicker each time.
We had place-holders words we sang back and forth and splashed around and bathed in.
The words we spoke were profound and cardboard.
We were just reading lines, sharing identical scripts and an ache to be seen
so deep and desperate it was sinful.

We maybe shared the humid cling of regret; which hung heavy in stuck-air auditoriums,
it beaded sweat echoed, rolling down spines and turning blood to sticky wax as we whispered in the corner about the things we could say aloud while our minds never left the things we wouldn't dare.

We were mostly ill-equipped.
We joked about hurricanes
We didn't survive the first storm.

I want you to know you really hurt my feelings.
I want you to know you're the first guy I've given my feelings to hurt.
I want you to know I was terrible towards the end.
And I know that. But you gave up on me

You gave up on me at the exact moment I was giving up on myself.
Even as my tongue stung metallic and veins pulsed so hot and loud
through my eardrum that I felt I would explode- it was clean.
It was all remarkably clean.
and sterile.
There were no explosions.
No shattered plates, ****** knuckles or blown out voices
that scratched and rose in time with the sun.

Just a quick slash of rope-
an anchor cut loose and left to sink;
our secrets were set free to
rust over and collect algae.
We were suddenly off the hook
for any vulnerability we might have spilled
on each other in our fits of laughter
and hours of sleep.
A deep sigh of relief.
A deeper sigh of desolation.

The moment exists in sad yellow lighting that must have been added in restrospect.
I tweaked the floor of my memory too:
at that moment I was not wearing flipflops on linoleum- but sinking, slowly and barefoot, into chilly riverbed mud as it turned to ice.

I opened the door and there you stood.
You knew I had been crying and I didn’t try to hide it
it was too exhausting- running on fumes.

And I did expect something from you,
anything from you, that might dull the singed-dagger plunging
stab to my chest with each breath I gulped and spat .
I wanted anything that might reel me in from the cliffs edge
where my thoughts had carried me on horseback.

But you had nothing.
I watched your eyes swallow my swollen lips and pinched, glassy eyes
like a quick, sharp shot of warm whiskey.
Careful to avoid eye contact you slipped ‘**** this,’
under your breath and started to reach for my hand.

You started to, but then after a second suspended
you let your arm fall back to your body.
Head lowered, jaw clenched and you turned and fled with a new heaviness pushing down on your posture.
It looked painful and adult.
It looked like you finally felt the weight of our season.
And watching you go I shrank in lighter and thicker because I felt it too.

We are not going to get a happy ending-
not with each other and not right now.
Maybe not ever.
And that will have to do.
(Though I will miss your hand in mine.
I hope one day you'll remember being tangled with me and it will make you laugh before you cringe because I didn't like to be alone.)

If I wanted to be alone I would just go home.
Hasan Maruf Apr 2017
The last kiss from you
Lasted like a huddle in
The snow blitz
Rocking my anatomy
In the frosty glitz

The last words from you
That barged in my eardrum
You were in a hurry
To smell a new leaf
Draped in a diamond dew

The last gifts from you
Was an instrument
Which still I use
To recognize people
Or to refuse!

The last time
You said I love you
I remember I was laughing
Hysterically as if I was watching
Jared Leto’s jaded mimicry of Joker in YouTube

Intriguingly, when the last time I saw you ****
It felt like pretty Ivanka’s embarrassment
Noticing her dad is a lewd

The last time I was chatting
With you on Facebook
I was wondering why
I shouldn't hack your account?
To check your inbox

Yea, it was filled with the message of *******
F- Bombs, **** shaming and tagging you as harlot
All they were asking was your service of escort
Either in full discount or in hefty cash drops!

The last time I wrote
A letter of love to you
I discovered my Keyboard
Began to blurt out
No more, No more, No more…

The last time I had a chit-chat
With you in the Burger King or Pizza Hut
I listened to your hissing clack-clack
That someone else has become your puppy cat…

The last time I became sick
When I was with you
I heard you threw a party
Where you were whispering
To your besties, how
I become your double whammy!

The last time I was
With you in the bed
I felt like I was indentured
To **** a dummy toy
Sans spirit and flesh!

Loving you was like
Santa Claus gifted me
With a Pandora’s Box
As soon as I opened it
You decided to release
Our *** tape of your having ******
In pornhub’s forum of interracial!

The last time I heard of you
Is that you were giving an interview
To The Cosmopolitan’s board of review

Facing the barrage of inquisitions
You calmly joked, the series
Of latest uproar about you
In the social media or Internet
Is because certain people always
Love to rave about Women’s body
Shoving in and out of their pigeonhole
With their one night stand queen trophy
To flavor your form in their fantasmic mouth

You also smirked in a raspy voice
Defiantly declaring “we (women)
Have been locked indoors
With no air, no food, no water”
My last boyfriend is also no exception
He certainly thinks I came this far
Through ******* and deception
Slightly anti feminist but a poem representing contemporaneity in our life in a balanced manner of looking into male female relationship.
Edna Sweetlove Feb 2015
Wee Angus McSporran, the world's most accurate marksman, is deployed  to Afghanistan and Iraq as a ****** in the Royal Scots Guards. In spite of his diminutive stature (4ft 8in), we see him skilfully shooting men, women and children by the score, convinced they are terrorists and a threat to our freedoms in the West. He becomes emotionally involved with the gigantic ginger-haired Pipe Sergeant-Major **** McKnob, the loudest piper in the British Army and a famous poofter. We see Angus and **** in some of the most explicit ******* love scenes ever shown in a mainstream movie (tastefully filmed in soft focus and sponsored by KY-Jelly).

When **** is blown to smithereens by a roadside bomb planted by American freelancers in order to implicate the Taliban, Wee Angus goes into deep depression and becomes obsessed with his skill as a ******, often shooting "allied" soldiers in so-called "blue on blue" friendly fire. After each shooting we see the image of the ghostly dead Sergeant-Major appear as in a dream, his kilt a-swirl and his pipes wailing a tragic dirge in scenes reminiscent of Braveheart.

When Wee Angus triumphantly notches up his 500th **** (including over 75 US military personnel and several important Afghan politicians), the British government decide it is time to withdraw him from active service. In order to gain patriotic press coverage in the run-up to a General Election in Britain, it is agreed that Wee Angus shall be awarded the Victoria Cross by HM the Queen.

We see Wee Angus, in full regimental uniform, marching up the Mall to Buckingham Palace to receive his medal, his telescopic-sighted ******'s rifle looming heavily on his childlike shoulder, being cheered on by crowds of thousands of wellwishers. Tragically, when he is crossing the road in front of the Palace, he does not hear a new environmentally friendly eco-diesel double-decker London Transport bus approaching (his hearing has been seriously impaired by the noise of battle) and he is mown down, his scream being amplified to eardrum-splitting levels of horror. The camera lingers lovingly on his crushed body and we see scenes of unimaginable grief in the crowds who have taken Wee Angus to their hearts. His lover, the strapping Pipe Sergeant-Major **** McKnob, appears as an angel and weeps by Wee Angus's squashed corpse.

In the final scene, reminiscent of the closing minutes of Slumdog Millionaire, the massed marching pipe bands of the Assembled Scots, Irish and Welsh Guards appear as if by magic and the entire crowd cast all inhibitions to the wind and indulge in a life-enhancing Highland Dance and Ceili around the Victoria Memorial facing Buckingham Palace. The film ends with a heart-breaking shot of the Queen coming out on the balcony in front of the Palace and having a fatal heart attack with the shock of what she sees before her. Prince Charles is seen gleefully rubbing his hands together in the background: at long last, he is King! *(end titles shown over a shot of him groping Camilla's naked sagging ****)
This is the first in my new series of Film Scripts for the 21st Century.
Dorothy A Sep 2010
Vision
is a molded masterpiece
from the Almighty Maker,
an optical order
from the Divine Creator,
becoming sight for we who do not see
Sent to each visionary
to believe
in the simple truth
we possess

Vision
is to glimpse God,
the artistic nature
that His mighty hand has left
Obvious details about us,
even if focus is found
through failing sight
With a heavenly pair of lenses,
looking at what we cannot behold,
we can imagine eternity

Vision
is a tuning device,
a fine violin
rupturing the eardrum
of mediocrity
An untapped well
in refreshing water
designed to leak and splash
and spring into potential
upon the souls and minds
of mankind

Vision,
a prerequisite to each breath,
a telescope to uninhabited skies,
a stethoscope to the desires of the heart,
is Godly intent,
the gut of greatness,
as we mortals
any purposeful plan
conspire
creation
originally done on February 1997
Vernarth sequence

Prophecy I -  “Eighth month of sailing in systemic plenitude”

“Since they will not hunt us down in all our Itheoi cycles…
nor in other lapses from where the fine eye could have sewn the buttonholes of the shroud, where there will be life and if there will be a short time without life...
dragged by you for a long time where the sun is melted over the word, staying stored and locked in your pocket to collect it blushing,
tomorrow's jump without a yesterday declining..., without a tomorrow in the heat of a bonfire...
lamb in bait handled being the portal of those who have been slapped inside their cheeks… who will not shorten the cycle that transcends all the oblong sepulchral vaults or who abound in the nonsense of sanitizing nights of ***** despot life having to measure themselves in your flourishing duel by Aiónius of the cleanest dew of its solid stroke and announced delineation of the new one that has been retraced again being more than a brief syllable created again fertile, in the biosphere mouth so as not to see you omnipresent mist, meditating not having you and that dares to meditate on your future that will have to be reserved for yourself by professing it when you are cold in front of you and insinuating if in living followed by letters to be flooded pondering like a paralyzed sleeping part that wants not to be covered with feigned warmth and that does not fit in all the parts of me being who wants to be consul of some shelter with all those who sleep also half dreaming in the company of the lost afternoon that never ends serving Saint John in Katapausis here, perhaps Aiónius del Ibico 1 as a magnificent and net unit that sees the luminous truth when we all come out of a prophecy alive even if it's dark ".

"What a reckless job of losing value,
I am already in Katapausis in the eighth month...,
I entered as the light opened with my hand turned into the light...
being already a katapausis meaning in Sabbatarianism.
Quasi-unit method exhibiting cohesion to the rest motif
With levers in my hands and intra-sabbatism in his dissertation...
of an exegetical and theological nature that has transpired soft insomniac light, We are a people who do not have to fear or air to deposit for a future warehouse above the Sycamore or birds that guard all the Gold above my hands on the Sycamore…”

"Stay in my house, if I don't come back it will be yours
stay at home, it will belong to everyone even in the apocalypse...
that more reckless will be silent as a work of losing value,
Katapausis is the threshold where my life enters and leaves at once,
stay at my house, if I don't come back it will be yours...
Open windows by meekly closing them to that confronted obverse to you...

He comes from a den relativized on reliefs in weathered beads...
they will be soluble mineral beings convened moving away from the most distant and closest to the least distant…, from waters of underground siphons… there we will all be floating… like vertebrate invertebrate animals”

Vernarth, after not entering the grotto not having found Saint John, goes outside where he goes on a campaign for three months before he can be received by God's law. Here he meets with Reader and his pelican, as well as Eurydice.


Prophecy II -  “Seventh, Inter-synergy energy”

“Three months I have waited in the middle of this mountain,
symmetrically arranging the steps to be taken, not going backward
prana of life walking in oceans of life walking…
us and them… how much must separate us to reach us?
what I have not tried to separate…, what I have not been able to achieve…

I think I died early in the worlds that haven't risen yet,
I think I was reborn late among dense curves that overwhelm us with straight lines
soul, principle, matter, and material distinctive ontology
Ghost god of parallelisms beings and activities in affinity...
starvation body of low energy ceasing creatures in embryo
incessant firstborn to infuse other confining souls
trails demons slip where my ashes hands are sore
wounded doctrines to engender and doctrines to ulcerate...

As the prophecy uses the sea carrying messages resolved from shore to shore
close to a Virtual why in the twilight your Faith that must be glandular… matter of soul and body exposed to predisposing theological and chemical, in pursuit of the corruptible whole in vice versa if he does not burst with atheistic impatience.”

Eurydice takes a zither and sings tempting stormy actions to Vernarth, Raeder and Petrobus put their souls in line in the first linear principle, Together with the matter of corporeal fire proceeding to the definition where all the parts are confirmed without distinction dancing next to them creating the greatest bond of faith in body and soul, thus spending the three months in a few words of light of the sated fire.

"In the eighth-month katapausis, eight times your permanent peace must rest in
cited state; once it is translated into Sabbathisms and it will be the same state… When everyone finishes their dance in the cave and enters believing they have the courage to enter eight times in connection with rest…, plus eight times in connection without rest.
In some verses, the urgency of the entrance will be accentuated. The main issue “is that history will be repeating itself exactly where the Israelites were at Kadesh-Barnea. A related term either synonymous with Kadesh or referring to one of two sites, is Kadesh (or Qadesh) Barnea. Various etymologies for Barnea have been proposed, including 'wilderness of travel' but none have produced a broad consensus. What is the consensus? will we stop believing or lean on the shores of a preacher rain of Jehovah or lean on the shores of a preacher sinful waterfall or lean on the shores of a preacher confessing rain or lean on the shores of a preacher wet wind inquisitor...? where ever the aromas of its faithful winds served will go sacred to everything named before and many before the confessing rainy…, waterfalls in favor of the temperamental inquisitor wind”.

Astheneiais”, in Greek is and will be a weakness, in Hebrews a moral connotation and will mean not only physical weakness but a conscious weakness and trembling in temptation. Our Lord also understands us in this weakness because he was tempted in every way as we are. Since he himself was tempted he knows from experience what it means for us to be tempted. He was not tempted in all the particulars of our life, for example, He was not tempted as a husband or father, owner or employer or soldier, because he was none of these things. But he was tempted in all three areas of human susceptibility: body, soul, and spirit.

Prophecy III -  “Sixth, Resilience…”

“They were on the perimeter trying to keep me together at his command,
I go every day for its pantry, food, groceries, bookstore supplies and ink, oils, and other essences for the environment in continuous handwritten obedience, I have to leave for Skalá where some residents are waiting for me who have ordered to bring materials from Gricos and Psili Ammos to project your home,
If this has been written like this, it is because my pleasure in walking has written it, in the company of the one, he has written for the one who walks next to me the god Ibicus!

They always asked me why to mention why I have to do this for them… I will tell you that I used to serve leaders who consolidate the Hellenic geography,
without them, everything would have been invaded by unled foreign hands… in that rest, I have to attend to the verse that precedes it...
which says that we have already entered where I already intend to argue the following…

Resilience and exhortation that from the beginning I have taken since it began... now I will abide by and present your messages in a very predominant note, I was Hoplite Commander of the Falange and Hetairoi, now a Christian who does not dispute living a life of obedience to those who are not and are not without his martyrs...
like those people to whom God swore they will not enter my rest
whose amen will be preached in the passive voice verse!

Remain as the verb indicates with the real facts, the word
independent of the present, independent of who and when…
Saint Gabriel my Abrahamic angel will give me white strength and frolicking lilies like baskets of hermaphroditic lilies procreating only-begotten forests at the altar.

Stand tall over the Abrahamic fire without knuckles or shields,
rethink your beloved woman and take a sudden step to heal your wounds there is so much grass to cut and so much poetry to chew...
up the mountain towards Skalá at night after drinking wine
Epitrapezios Inos setting fire with innocuous saffron atmosphere
lips of fire and bread, for a good offensive fight.
Greek fire naphtha, cinnabar, and anthracite.

Wake up united with the deep disorder
Grant the color that deserves to have your day as a constellation
with the image that rests on your angular and calloused hands.
stopping spaces of loss more than all the centuries that waited for the minimum incense to a good warrior, sweet wine for open bleeding wound not his… the thunder that hides baptisms in all hearts empty of blood...

“While Vernarth was praying in the oracle he felt a thunderous supra sound As if the gates of hell had opened...
As if millions of seconds of angels were to be dispersed from the sky
To reduce more seconds of silence to the thinnest pleading eardrum

A few days ago I saw a ghost that was chopping wood...
I couldn't realize that he was really Him...,
I also saw him cutting thousands of volumes from a library...
Also, not realizing it, I saw several, like more than eighty manuscripts..., of breaths that still did not prosper in the hands of San Marcos...

A gigantic door slam is felt again...!
again it was the angels that came
at the wrong time in his return..., but now in his repatriation
they climbed through and into the Garden of Eden.”

Vernarth, evicted from the habit of the unknown, was apprehended by his craftsmanship of him, he was still attentive to be received by San Juan. The longer he waited to be arranged for an audience, he did not postpone what his memory pointed out to be more than an experience plotting capacities in the face of his own limitations. From that moment on, a gigantic gate slam is felt again! the angels who went back one after another with their polished golden-white cloaks relapsed..., but now making the Garden of Eden their own,... being theirs in what was theirs, that they would be in the house of a wise gardener of Eden perhaps being the same Katapausis manger at once!

Raeder says: hugging him profusely! time has to fly like little angels, having them by your side as companions of the time that is leftover on their wings, giving it all to your enjoyment of living and feeling it lost in you without finding it. ! khaire mi Vernarth!, I have some karidopitas with nuts and yogurt accompanied by baklava with nuts in delicious syrup from Kalymnos. Petrobus jumped for joy and fluttered like a hummingbird to steal a few pieces! Eurydice and Vernarth did the same. That night they told militia stories while they ate the morsels, so they fell asleep as if it had been the first time they had fought such a great menu. Euridice assists in the same with his fresh clean face, creating an atmosphere of conciliation to renew the dream of a day that will dawn close to his waking up far from the criminals. Vernarth takes the staff from him from then on and divides books and manuscripts into two portions so that he has time to take steps to really feel that he can walk close to Saint John.

Prophecy IV -  "Fifth, Nature, Manuscripts and Jophiel"

“Zeus wakes up trembling, full of headaches saturated with Herbs for headaches Jophiel speaking this time with the Kabbalistic language of the Torah...with golden commoner super zone of the Organikon Sorousliston Papadikon….age-old music that supplies Zeus with protein albumin, to make him more human…Zeus accepts Jophiel by placing his head about the house of Jophiel; a divine island to throw cards…brings the second ray to the Sahasrara at the crown of your head, pacifying love that is the suspicious and risky loser of everything risk in the head especially when a feeling is born!

Zeus turns his head and Jophiel twists it to the opposite side
about the ruined zeros that he did not count from the plasma of his dependency, Zeus feared having albumin at risk of human transmutation... happy to be able to cry he imagines slipping into the middle of a lake and he sees that he falls on Hera's poultry harming none, Zeus pours brimstone from his mouth and milks inelegant prose from the scythe…

Trina flame whose son bears glorious her bearer,
thousands of lives being clumsy for the wisest destitute
being what in the present you were more than past trine
when you harbor from Hanael's Blue Sodalite quarry
the imperfect perfects when you listen to your
body how it beats, how it breathes... you realize that it is perfect
as is Jophiel and discerns repairing the wisdom in the decisive punt
where gum rosin myrrh and multi urban frankincense go
towards the soul plane architecture of the human plane.
Hardened Zeus overflows glazed sallow emulsion of war
coagulated exhausting guarantor of everything is well,
books of the silent world of nails that do not sound sheets,
Hanael in massive books divides sounding with her iris gel-colored nails encrypted library manuscript of a thousand years, the voluptuous organism of a thousand years…
flapping unpredictable millennia and wiry hands,
colossal capstans…, annihilated with a thousand years…
a silly propeller that spins like a sickle rolling over a certain holistic tabernacle of the small portion of the next day when Zeus awoke to the diaphanous threatening light with sunless cloud waistband…
His face is seen with frowns and he looks at his face as well
without seeing folds…but in front of the Aiónius.

The geranium appears in the representation of the natural whole kicking the Sickle, much more here lost of our spiritual being
Zeus Jophiel's hardened shoulder heats up only to lean on Him...
light on his shoulders fires on both of them…
how long it takes to save us perhaps twenty times what supports us even tired and much more unwrapped than the treachery of him alone and without being followed without knowing
nothing more than a thousand-year-old shell through which he would drain…perhaps a tortoise-like millennial angel walked up to the omega! joy preparing to give you live hopeful,
that if it would be timely to give you more life...
Here is Aiónius reordering the world together with Zefian…
He shares everything eternal of all your life that floats in the sea,
miserable mix space where capo dastro separates the end
where all the wheres cannonade the hoarse fire...
cement that joins brick wall and plenary adobes
love without nature that castrates your beautiful woman
that hides her face without mascara looking for it...
let's go outside says Vernarth..., we still have a few seconds in his solvent... sensible, full, and arc well-being...
as if you were floating in the air floating more
also needed me to teach you before your limits limit you,
and make you angry from the miserable sense,... Don't listen to me anymore...!!”

Vernarth puts his first three fingers on the capo dastro roosters crow with his skin vibrating beyond the sleep of Raeder and Petrobus. Reader wakes up and says…; My Vernarth I will make fire and heat water. Petrobus runs with his wings to look for sacred wood. Eurydice comments…, I will prepare the praiseworthy sacred breakfast.

When they were preparing to do all this, Jophiel and Hanael appeared to him, joining in the breakfast that would feed all the days and millennia of the world. Unleavened fruit, honey, and milk multiply above all, satiating hunger with satiated satisfaction.

Prophecy V – Fourth, Limbus Necropolis

“From so far away…, so far away that I listen to your sacrosanct cries…!
from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi…, rocking my elbows and hurting myself
moving in rare pleasant crypt upon crypts disconsolate stones
not so far away..., keys held in the eighth cemetery...
Who is to open the heavy door now...?
I come from Messolonghi 555 km in linear figures to Patmos...,
narrowing concave… doubtful in extension, passion princess cloud
He must welcome me benevolently in the night nymph consort...
Limbus N cloud, Cloud Cemetery lofty lofty hypogeum
soul of Limbo, before seeing the nut that girds the face in the graceful Grim Reaper resurrecting restless…, sinning… grail sacrament without Being or being…?
Necropolis Cloud, expectant mortuary technology...
amaze me if there is a byte for me...
narrow conscience, unseemly to amaze me?

Here the lost mist of the Nothofagus God phoneme-photon vanishes with divine mass light to build the Áullos Kósmos. The Sacrament of Limbus will provide spaces and assemblages of meters for thousands of areas of infamous wandering the Ouranos, approaching the Áullos Kósmos to host him and rescue the children of the meter that was missing in the numeral rule of the Megaron acroteria before going up to the Necropolis Cloud. Vernarth, mere body formalizing principle...
extinct delicate evocation of the shadow of Elpenor;
Achaean warrior of Ulysses grandiloquent who even has otitis
and verse where flu spreads influenza
heartbreak from far away reverberating in the elite of lexicons…
arriving equidistant ... the last one arrives threatening with his Kantabroi staying neither divided nor captured, taking refuge in outright failure twilight of megahertz, farce propaganda surrendered fear will not fall even after …

Vernarth falls from the Koumeterium Mesolonghi in the Necropolis cloud privileging his status, he falls from this gloomy digital platform with a high alcoholic degree! from the high heaven after drinking hours he came in the carriage that was from Zilos, with the passion of heaven depriving his understanding stunned on some branches of will of Ziziphus…, stunned on branches of mercy….

Vernarth in a contrite accident with Elpenor, his psyche flies to the realm of the dead, Hades was remaining prisoner in that world taking the form of a Homeric icon or shadow. Vernarth was asleep after his binge, and Elpenor asks him if he wanted to join him with some concoctions. He was with blurred vision, a headache, and still lying down. But in the passionate horror of his drunkenness, he gets up quickly, saying to Elpenor: For me, it was one less pain to drink after having fallen from such a distance without being able to request and have had the grace of my mother's lullaby. For this reason, I hug you! They went together to the Cloud Necropolis to continue in the Limbus trying to alternate their physical body to gaseous liquid. At that moment Eurídice hits her with a piece of wood on her legs so that she wakes up from the bite of that nightmare that overwhelmed her to finally be able to wake up. Raeder had gone with Petrobus to Skalá to seek inputs of gnosis and his own inspiration for accents before the welcome in Katapausis to come in the blink of an eye of San Juan, necessary redaction for licenses and to be admitted to his library.

Prophecy VI - “Third, Rethymnon City and State”

“Vernarth heard the sound of a bouzouki, spoke of a 40-day fast that Greece celebrates before Easter, at the Rethymnon carnival they come from all over Greece to attend as a family during the week with animations, evenings and concerts, dances…theatre, floats with Venetian art in the picturesque old town and modern city, in this ancient city …

Rethymnon Political Ellipsis

“Like territorial extension, past-future organized infamous scene…Vernarth imagines being with Etréstles in immediate predictions
with years and thousands…, clan hobbies, Rethymnon manuscript…
while he thus deliberated…, thus rejoicing in the immaculate extramural grotto thus being as if it were comparable to a Neolithic village; being together lost with eagerness to appear from political power... palaces, kings, pro-organized religions..., rancorous superlative temple, priestly-eucharistic, nationalized sovereign citizen... commanding Parliament of the Hellenic politai people
the competent anti-value entity of the substratum political state…
sedentary-agricultural or nomadic-livestock culture…, vertical Hoplite culture!”

In Thessaloniki street, he would meet his brother head-on...Imagining how he would be...? Well-dressed-shiny, he would be in a passing tavern usually naming himself tradition and terms of questionable validity rather than those of a retro-linguistic family, in the remarkable urban-city dialogue called seditious inns with networks of political territorial extension, reaching the colossal size of multinational ideals of a complex stratification, social meeting place, future ministries to whom to delegate?. They would arrive at the tavern in Rethymnon in Crete, they order coffee, biscuits, and Mosaikó chocolates. In an unexpected moment, he suddenly wakes up from this deep, hallucinating, and futuristic imagination! His brother appears immediately, not in Rethymnon but in Katapausis with the goddess Lepidoptera!

End Ellipsis Rethymnon

“At the moment his imagination breaks just when they were preparing to toast… Etréstles in this same interval appear in Katapausis Reader and Petrobus coming in a singular pilgrimage from Skalá…this is how the syllabic song of the arcane ***** is heard emitting from the grotto…, yellow lights and saffron…. Saint John and the Gospel celebrating the Eucharist…Vernarth would believe for the first time that the hermit would come, but No…!
his brother was to be in the intervening yellow-white light
in front of him nothing more than Etréstles visiting him”

Likewise, they would no longer be in Rethymnon,
but the carnival would already begin in the region of Patmos...
eating delicacies, and the Sousta towards the circle of the Sun in the hands…They have been two months with the sweetened Moon and the Sun posing its mass of light in her… soft palm next to her waiting for him in the proximity of a Hebrew silence

Estretles says Khaire Vernarth! from Piacenza who did not see your joyous lux! I can see now to the sound of yourself the stoic zither...
countenance light, the orbit of your eyes, pale asthenia without photon without light, expectorant suppuration of your sacred Lynothorax, Absent in front of the long and fatal transverse lapse!
Raeder makes a speech to Zeus Photon Child Lux
Fulminant spends time where it remains greater than the minimum...
Patmos is the time of the Messiah…, retrograde years…
polis Helennic city-states.

Culture-state… state time chorus in tune
Philosophical poetic-epic Olympian Aiónius global leader
Homeric poems..., Raeder I am..., a naughty Politai...
you Vernarth are Politai Hetairoi militia
candy wasted by me Raeder… sweetened in my memory
polytheistic, cultured and declined…
theocratic referendum or democratic right,
Exciting porridge of my Kourabiedes cookies
butter, icing sugar, flour, eggs from the icy cliff
vanilla or Mastica resin, ***, Ouzo, mastica liquor…
or other alcoholic beverages…, which bubble on the underside of Aiónius soaked in my mouth with water from petal buds
coated for you with sugar on the tip of my tongue…
reflective cops in a wonderful dialogue of a tasty recipe...
It's time for everyone else to snack too!!

In that second Raerder was choking on a Kourabiede biscuit,
but there was the guardian of the Petrobus who piloted the
throwing hieratic water on the inside of his mouth,
forcing him to take heart from the buttress of his speech
shooing thick crumbs from his skinny dialogue spitted...
Gerakis, ray, tabletop oak bull, scepter for those who rule with him and not...My Zeus friend I invite you to play marbles,
I invite you to tell us that we are friends...
we're both fine… only Space-separated us…?

Raeder runs towards Zeus' thunderbolt from his right hand.
he jumps up and takes it from her, in exchange for this she gives him his marbles...The entire earth tilts over the Aegean..., the earth's axis tilts eight degrees, altering the cerebrospinal fluid of the Hellenic geopolitical conception..., with Zeus poly infarcted over descending magnitudes of inter-politics, millennia and headless governments...

“Apokalypsis lightning restarted, emerged from a New World”
Prophecy VII -. “Second, Alikanto Aion, Quantum”
"Kalymnos, golden tetra steed Alikanto was grazing under the metallic moon...
transiting its quantum physics…, golden legs…, four golden domes
the super host being in Apoika Andros next to the villagers,
commemorating troupe and advent…, Heraklion next period
celebrant anniversary, progeny bearer of Kanti Cretense,
close cycles of the sacred fire, domestic environment, and private zeal...
funerary hidden cult… streets in the hieratic family dwelling
fertile women… totalized and lustful ****…
productive longevity and harvests…, family Apoika
next successor belligerence…, funerary plexus…
culty predecessor…, treatise and imprecation of law, theme and legible religion domestic scene, family civic servant ceremony

Goddess Hestia austere, head with eight sacred candles dressed
Olympus lacking without gods…, only Goddesses embargo!
Feminine Hestia Domestic Goddess, an emanation of the female oval to ovulating…Pritaneo, the central decree of the political harvests… foreign exchange grains to be minted monetary stock exchange of Athens… Pritaneo ford on the rise, ford on increase Aion... hesitant dart swoop into eternity,
Alikanto Perpetual Aion…Speaks with both hands
synchronized and tilted tongue…
stutters and swallows, in six paranasal sinuses
saturated with fiery saliva..., and an Internal voice saying say...
what makes sense to feel and what does not turn off...
sleeping waves in the poison of love igniting
intra-Vernarth love…, billing infected holy blood
methodical coupled time…, Gaugamela the bronze extremity,
of a lost leader…, won leader!

If I had to run to rewrite retro Adhoc poems and chosen trova,
With a shy Trojan verse, I would dare today if I kissed her in front of me… she!
she would jump from the hyperesthetic-Ouranos…, inhuman to the Aion world
aurora celestina, bleeds big and defiant today in your star
In herself Ella…, pestiferous condemnation sweetness and aura between her…she just be, she herself be supported be…, Oh… Goddess Hestia on your opposite leg unbraced arm, meadow and vein braid… assaulted by lost and thirsty love written everything if she tempts…, everything wields darkly if it took you to our Olympus… at night loving you whole..., emptying everything with no inappropriate hand singing don vine fissure and intimate company, may it be exterminated... passion outside with nailed stake..., iron embedding..., nails wounding...exhausted supra lips supra yours…, mid sand writing full to her…
tip of my Xiphos… blood made written with written maiden mythology,
letter sword Spatha…, cyclamen balm made whole if I had you!

“To the loves of the world I say…, cover your ears fungus of boredom, your torn ears squander ignoring more than sordid saying...my blood kills, my blood revives! I **** my blood and I **** everyone, with your blood scattered, ***** blood scattered…!
do not leave me alone until nightfall… I only ask for holy water,
emptied from your mouth goddess Hestia who flies tons over me...
I only ask for a spatha romantic blood sharp, ******, and scattered...
to write to the love wars that I have lost...
to the wars of love that I have won, slicing the jugular of the
treacherous and wicked emperor"

“… Alikantus, he remembered the Hoplite commander in Gaugamela, he remembered when he dodged arrows with his head so that they would not hit his body or his pectoral. From such a present moment falling by surrendering to the evocation of him. He goes down to a stream and confines himself to the vanity quagmire, continues on his path reaching a suspicious lagoon, drinks sacred water, drinking again manages to perceive the effigy of Vernarth in the mirror of Aion's Hydor... calling him from Patmos! Law reminded his master how he died for everyone in the world just as the world would not let him bring more than agonizing for him because there was no more space said Aionius ... "

Alikantus then clenched his jaws too hard, falling out all his molars, he asked the Gods in front of Hestia to restore them fifteen days before arriving at the Ekadashi in Patmos where his master, thus loving all the lives of the world, as well as the hidden cries behind the Dypilons hiding the power of God… or laugh at gagged iris flashes and mummified sighs with lives that subsist!

Vernarth from Patmos called to him so that his eyes looked invigorated like the swarms of green and gray vanadium fire, of mood in the predictive table and close prediction. AlIkantus bids farewell to Kalymnos spraying sorrel and hyper-odoriferous flowers of the Apoika in Kalymnos loving from above, very close, flying, loving everything so much that he forgot to fly. He sometimes fell hard but recovered retried as a baby steed in the womb of a mother new species to be born again in Apoika!


Prophecy VIII -  "First of Aionius, "Eleusis Prophecy of Hamor"
“Aiónius received news of Hamor's prophecy; cosmic orgiastic order
tyrannical snake victim throwing herself into her abyss and purpose..., banishment as an objective void to be decreed, even so ending the world from another world,
discontinuous terse march, slurred arpeggio, speech by Aiónius
there is no world left but if extermination…, undone threshold…, provoke in delicate chaos…!

As a child, I ran to the supreme world herding lions... I called them and they ran to me..., they came alone, some didn't...! Being young, one day Aionius went to the farm and counted the lions... Some came others No... Aionius..., in such a hamorio he was locking an earring from his ears, he hung them again, which happened the next day relaxed..., he saw a maiden who laughed hypnotized…, he sighed when she turned around saying with her poor gestures… Destroy it! The afflicted turned away not knowing what was coming… destroying the desolate world vilifying silky physiognomies, chipped and dandruff face slipping from yours being captive and arid…, tempts to flow libertarian imprint in foreign praxis, origin, and end,
me from the slime being born in my eighth life in nothingness ataxia…

The beloved Victim surrounded by snakes moved the stump of her arms
eaten away by the serpent that took refuge in thorns of forged steel...
she kept walking…, Aiónius pointed at her and kissed her gestures escaping frightened towards the valley in farewells... not fitting itself in valleys that were never anything she paraded with the current of her last word, the beloved again moved her arms following her in front of her the beast was on her, Aiónius buried from fleeing and coming… with fiery phenotype, abrupt vocabulary, says: “Strapping and interludes, after beings of impiety, the world of impiety, Hamor of the first wit… towards other refuges I will depart about a Yes devouring bare ring on it…”
escape curve that cuts the pelvis of my beloved
destructive be your curved world that before had to destroy me...
ultra pre-hellenic nymph Harpé passion spread on me…
Hailed libertarian praise, aristocratic vermilion accent, minority ruling? Overwhelming rigor expended, prophetic Hamor, prophetic expansive arsenal! It must come from all the supreme worlds with strokes and silhouettes conquering...true dream, confused hypothetical oscillate sweeping imploring and contracting popular decision, management and space of my Sickle…, sometimes uncontained… worse avenues in its radius and dark mourning badly wounded shadow! The vertex that finally launches opens the dawn and his Hamada flees... Leaving with the untidy serpent, about touching and causing rangers in the stuck earth.

Demeter and Persephone; based on Eleusis in ancient Greece
mystery myth of the abduction of Persephone daughter of Demeter…
by the king of the underworld of Hades, Abrahamanica's offspring
cabal, life in the descent, the search and the ascent…
Ascent of Indra lightning Vahana and lightning from her right eye,
Persephone to the reunion with her beloved daughter ascending.

Zodiac and mysteries involved, visions and sleight of hand
that of an afterlife, rain of seven trunks, long-lived Airavata
elephant, Eleusis jump psychedelic mystery, incision, and coherent rites, ceremonies and experiences of cold winters and life on earth
plants in gestation under the gift of Elitíaen and beings that
they are about to germinate and be born, beings in a chain of genes...
vegetable running on the earth, vegetable in March in its glory
September in the jaws of the purified phrase and inaccurate acropolis I…

Sacred obscenities, deadly tributes with the death penalty...,
wandering nights without clothes with obese and badly fragrant meats point and taco dances praising the harvest in honor of a dead Thracian bull, libating priestly vessels and bullfighting heads in a deliberately defined and improper triweekly ritual, revealed in Demeter and Persephone.

Only Hamor in his venerable pyx lies locked up knowing he is unable to open inside this lustful bewitching sparkles, the mystery of emancipated disenchantment that awakens from his slow consciousness without knowing how to go on passing in the sum of all happenings of Aiónius. ”

This is how he defined himself from the syncretism of Indra and the mystery of Eleusis, from Demeter and his daughter Persephone from the vile kidnapped underworld. Of the divine Goddess Elitia and the annual records of children born within a year in the germinating seed of the mystery of love that would begin with this prophecy with the initial "H" of the underworld exclaimed Hades and Greek heritage in this event. Vernarth and his companions listened to this prophecy, almost falling asleep, it seemed to them sweet pallor-bitter, love-heartbreak in the previous day before diagnosing having a presence in the hermitage of San Juan Apóstol for the superior company of a later day that was approaching as the greatest daring of all up in the mountains while disposing of Vernarth's Apologist obverse of Aiónius's.

Epilogue Prophecies - “Eleusis, Isadora Duncan to the Parthenon”

“Vernarth and Eurydice indulged in the jargon of agitated diasporas
of inhabitants fleeing the Rite of Eleusis, crossed hands and feet
They dueled on olive trunks with Theban thunder, vague Insurrection of the ancient world, and consonants of barbarian Pleiades,
acclaiming predilection of the Eremita San Juan to appear...
in a breath of peace resurfacing... but seeing that Vernarth was accompanied of Eurydice hid in front of them leaving only her aura near from the stream of a chrysalis!
In the dizzying succession of myths, good news reaches her sacred ears, waking up her trend and her high quarterly price outside the walls... being later received in the grotto of the hermitage in growing expectation and a link of longing that weaves to remind him of being a crusade piece.

The kidnapping of his reverie feared and timid frivolous crushing blizzard, he was walking surrounded by Falangists on horseback pointing at him and threatening him, scrutinizing in the distance loneliness of his past lives,
his regressive life, concerning key to origins of his illustrative Existence, stranded at this moment..., Vernarth makes a pact with himself to detach himself..., of his spirit, detach from their lives under a hypnotic and compelling law..., like a suspended index in the Sistine Chapel, homologous ship Ave Maria Messiah!

From Eleusis Vernarth vanished in aerial horse-dreaming,
he crossed through the pavilions with himself persevering some wake
riding his Alikantus ******* and standing with him to pillage the Empyrium niche Persephone's trace of herself and her ******* ******* them...
with devoted passion, milky way, and milky syrup chin howling...
Vanishing dancer, Athenian acropolis, Dionysian sanctuary of the acropolis… Stepdaughter-patron in the dance of Zeus and Themis lopsided frame of the season's wildness of all creation and defiance of Eleusis looking for her daughter and her children, priestesses safely taking off their corset and their pictures…
raging chastity, oligo blood, Itheoi music, outraged dance complaining, Possessed expressing being seductive but also a native *******... the underworld in darkness, free daughter, and iconoclastic Greek mythologist
inconvenient Victorian mania, a courtesan from Olympus, courtesan undressed! Isadora, Demeter, and Persephone… flooded with Aphrodite foam!

She “prayed songs with plexus and feet, plotting gardens around the world… full of baseboard feet where everything created in brief Apokálypsis was dying! By desolate Parthenons dancing in Muscovite ruins, maenades sweaty enclave and also throwing back his head as if possessed by ecstasy in her Bugatti and Leonidas…, enchanted by Aiónius! intoxicated and exorbitant with beautiful rosy placebo eyes... Hair with headbands vine petioles, her Nebris tight skin was wearing... in her hand's bunches of barberries to Dionysus with torches and live snakes a chaste crook naming Thirsus; rod topped with Kashmar branches wrapped in borders, vines and ivy, allusive link…, morbid ecosystem! covering her crotch in the Temple of her Kopanos dancing from the eternal fire cremated and in a romantic dimension remembering Byron's meritorious…
Hellenic passionate, and of Hölderlin poeticizing together with Aiónius.

Rudiment wound … ruinous on value exciting in those
of the imagined and creative in her perdition, Sicalipsis e impudicias
torn fire in the Metelmi and her ***** we are twisted,
epic worthy of greek tragedy dancing like waves of fire
in the forge in terrifying death of her children Deirdre and Patrick,
submerged and injured in the Seine in Paris in 1913, falling into the
water in the car that was traveling with her wet nurse… before…!
saying goodbye to them in urgent social commitments,
I Aiónius take you to the Empyrium.

What a dire tribulation in the prevailing misfortunes by not postponing it, retain the fate of whose children is quite a story with the kidnapping of theirs and merits of fulfilling commitments committed to solicitous artists... support, crestfallen inside a dresser or Bolshoi dancing statue, dancing empty with bare feet, frigid anemone, frigid Sea…

Arriving at the dawn of her last prophecy, Isadora Duncan accompanies her in full life beyond all limiting borders with the borders of her dance, the flat field of Eleusis receives her presumptuously associating in around for the dressings...
And left-handed dalliance self-indulging…, advanced barefoot to the Parthenon…!naked towards the world and the orb dug out of her before her undressed.

Reader and Petrobus jumped on this steep stone, emulating the meteorites that shone in the sky of Patmos such a party of nocturnal lights, such emery detached from a fleeting planet in the largest Hellenic scene saying: "Well-being to the Hellenic World all calm, dance and immunity to the firmament where Isidora rests in the Kantabroi of Aionius”
Prophecies of Aiónius
C S Cizek Jul 2014
Everything she said hit his eardrum
like a rimshot. Maybe he was losing
his hearing or she was just losing
his attention. Dinner conversations
across a two foot table flew past
him like houseflies. With her soft,
blonde hair blanketing his collarbone,
her mouth seemed to pantomime
more the closer he leaned in.
Hearing loss.
JR Falk Jun 2016
I was sitting beside my best friend,
catching up with friends I hadn't seen since they graduated
when you sat down,
uninvited.
It didn't take a genius to tell
my throat was already closing
at the sight of you.
It had been over a year and a half since
I had last seen your face,
yet here I sat,
less than three feet from my ******.
I received two texts immediately.
one:
"I'm sorry."
From my best friend, who knew everything.
two:
"Are you okay?"
From my other best friend, who knew nothing,
but felt like something was wrong.
Wrong.
Suddenly, everything about that night felt wrong.
I choked on every sentence as it forced its way out of my suddenly tightening throat,
pretending that you were not there.
You see, I've spent so much time
pretending you were not there
that I had begun to wonder if maybe,
you were just a nightmare.
Yet here I sat staring my old friends in the eyes,
more focused than anticipated.
They could tell.
You see, it's a small town,
I didn't need to tell everyone what you did for them to find out.
I thought I was doing well until you spoke to me.
The first words you had directly spoken to me in almost
two and a half years.
"I knew I'd see you here."
I blocked out the rest.
I'd like to block you out, too,
but it seems recurring dreams,
nightmares,
are supposed to teach you something.
I'd like this to make sense,
but the only things I ever learned from you
was to never let my guard down again.
To not love that deeply,
deeply enough that I feel forced to do anything
to prove my love.
I learned I should never have to prove my love.
I should never have loved you.

When you sat across from me and spoke my way,
I couldn't help but think I'd never thought I was going to see you again.
I couldn't help but remember every sleepless night,
such as right now,
where I can't help lie awake in fear you somehow know
just what I am doing,
when I have had you blocked on facebook for three years.
But it's a small town.
Word travels, secrets are never truly safe.
Hushed confessions hop eardrum to eardrum
until they're nothing more than a subtle gasp.

When I finally pulled away from the restaurant,
I drove in so many circles that I got lost--
there are only five roads downtown.
When you finally pull away,
maybe I'll sleep for once--
there is only one of you,
and I wish there were
none.
Ugh
*******
**** everything you've ever odne to me
*******
*******.
****.
6/20/2016
3:40am
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
there's much gesture in thinking out the nonsensical,
the un-thinkable - the un-pardonable - with sheer gusto
you tend to think out the unsolvable -
the nonsense people are afraid to
think about - the impractical -
and that's for one reason alone -
                  it doesn't create real problems...
you do not engage with real struggles
people encounter - because by doing
all the above stated... you are not the one
who says to a person: you can't do this,
and you can't to that.
                 which is why i don't understand
the English aversion toward philosophy:
say the word, and the English immediately
succumb to the notion of pedantry and
snobbism - when in fact: it's hardly that -
          perpetually philosophers entertain
themselves with invoking awe, as with ageing,
and seeing the many pitfalls of romance
and comedy and tragedy... awe becomes
very hard to find... it's simulated ignorance
in a way... for example Heidegger championing
Aristotle is a gesture intended in this direction -
and his concept of dasein is another
way to stage a coup against the world...
              it's an antithesis to what would otherwise
be regarded as activism... or more piquantly:
hedonistic activism, which primarily encompasses
staging a higher moral authority -
but never reaching for the fist making a signature
for the cause... that phrase: just empty words...
and humble pie. well... if you're a bachelor,
have this instilled aversion toward having a private
relationship with women: suitor - Kierkegaard -
well... you are bound to create pointless problems...
because... to be honest... you'd rather throw
"imaginary" problems into the metaphysical arena
than sit there... as a competent English gentleman
and speak of philosophy with about two or
three terms... reality... god... monkey...
                  or at a chessboard with a desire to provoke
a telekinetic pandemonium.. x-men apocalypse and
all that ****** imagery...
                             it's odd... but it's just so...
the English had an idyllic life,
                                      as any island dwellers might...
which is why they don't like impractical problems...
because they blabber about practical solutions,
to practical problems... that never get solved,
i.e. engrossed in more politics than anything:
the English have no ear for philosophy -
the mere word frightens them should anyone admit
to being the stated adherent: for god's sake,
the Scots are perceived as barbarians with the
deep-friend Mars bars (and pizzas) - but Hume
rang the eardrum in Kant's ear... and wallah!
a new chapter... Locke? only Darwinism,
popularised with images, as they say:
best leave these skeletons in the closet.
                             what am i working up toward?
well... it's a bit specific...
                                     first... the easiest proof
of solipsism... a crowded train... someone farts...
     guess what... the person who farted is
the only person on the train who appreciates the stink...
            hence: the theory - you like your own -
hence the abstract of the self, competing for a theory,
the self - as an optical itinerary: from head to foot,
from hand to toe - a long list of self-serving
          accomplishments in detailing all acquired
difference...                    but it's not about that...
          for all the reasons that life can become perfect...
at precisely that moment people began to
philosophise -                       and that condemnation
of reading a book on the topic in youth
rather than old age?        well... the glory of old age
is kinda slipping away...    if not now? when?
obviously you might jump the wagon too eagerly...
but at least you'll soon realise how
    a philosophy book (excluding Plato) can actually
help you in forming a dialogue -
                       i think that's what they teach primarily,
the art of dialogue... not the art of persuasive speaking
(rhetoric) - but the art of dialogue... after all...
   Plato... right? all dialogue...
                                  and they do: it only takes one book
in this literary region, i became convinced of it
after only being introduced to the subject area quiet late
in life (21)...        prior to that? fiction and poetry...
   and science... nothing else...
                              like a fish to water...
the necessary 21 years of strain having avoided the subject
(not on purpose, mind you).
                  yes, a glorification, why not?
     it's because these nonsensical problems arrive
as a reflection of a defence mechanism...
     the English don't like "too many words" or
the continental verbiage they coin as the psychiatric
phrase word salad - precisely because, sometimes,
language is not about entertaining someone with
tragic choke-jokes and songs...
          great singers, great comedians,
   great engineers... but in this field? obnoxious *****.
  the English are the first instigators of
     enshrining a quicksand pit of a person's
esteem in his ability to use and comprehend language,
primarily because they can't comprehend
the complexity of language being thus expressed
they immediately conscript against him
    this... odd... quack-wacky need to teach
the person in question refer himself to the Jane Austen
clinic of correct language parameters -
            nothing beyond! nothing foreign and
original! we need novelists who only travel in
straight lines (preferably on a Benelux plateau)
        and never dazzle with a tarantula bite of
disorientation (akin to the cut-up method)...
        and you will find that the English are primarily
concerned with making people suspicious of
   their sanity... strange... i once had a work-horse
work ethic and that became undermined,
                       then my use of language became undermined
because, as already stated: the English don't
do impractical things with their thought:
                it has to be practical...
like the Germans and time... everything has to be
efficient... or the Japanese and space (*******
cardboard sized hotel rooms)...
                             which brings me to the point of my
original intention:
                 deleuze's and guattari's searching ambition -
the anti-oedipus, or: body-without-organs...
             in turn the dark ages of Cartesian thinking (in England)
or how            mental health is somehow a lesser
   health to physical health -
                 sweat... and exocrine glands v. endocrine glands...
    <yes, telegram mode, precursor to a detailed
        explanation>
                                i'm just proposing what i dare believe
to be a thought-object, or more precisely a
             thought-***** -
                    no point looking for a shortcut with this,
      it's either the sort of verbiage compound you'll
reason with... or you'll treat it as *******...
                     as ever, whether that's investing in
a gym membership and a suitable diet...
         you won't get the ****** six-pack on your torso...
  this concept is reserved for what i find problematic
in mental ailments - which, in turn... somehow,
"miraculously" translate into physical ailments -
           but of course, amputees get the priority seats
in the eyes of every Jack and Dolly... because it's easier
that way...
                        my back-reading in psychiatry? well,
it's not exactly limited... on the plus side -
a theory is nothing more than a placebo trial -
                   you're not thinking about it being effective,
that's the default point of applying thinking where
pharmacology cures are pretty crap and its side-effects
catastrophic... and talking therapy ends up being
a monologue with a table filled by notes with single
words on them and being asked: to identify their meaning...
anyone who has experienced these practices
can also say: i'm actually conscious you're making me
feel like a ******* ******... you've just insulted my
intelligence... and i'm back to square one at kindergarten...
   have you ever watched you-tube frustrations?
well... a thought-***** has nothing to do with
    that map of the brain...
                                feeling goes here,
  seeing goes here...             a mash-up and a mess akin
   to the map of the European union...
          because some rich boy scumbag drew it
in crayon at the beginning of the 20th century means
it has to be right...
                                  but if i treat thinking as a thought-*****,
i know how the ***** works...
            a heart is a muscular pump...
  the stomach is a digestive acid swamp...
                        the esophagus is stretch-armstrong...
should i feel guilty writing about this?
          should i? touchy subject? well... you won't
find any pills around here... well, apart from the sleeping
pills... they're sacred (to me, at least, as if the bourbon,
but that's my private affair... you walk down this
route: it heals me... not necessarily you) -
  this is to simply end the whole pseudo-Cartesian dichotomy
of philosophy popularised by psychology and
psychiatry - for these two areas are bound to simply
popularise philosophy... and given that most people
don't read a book in that area... it's easier to manipulate
people in therapy with the knowledge passed down
from on high.
                                       and it's there...
the dichotomy parallelism is primarily due to the fact that
most people think of the brain with two categories:
a. when physical pain strikes it (a headache)
and b. when physical pain is absent (with what ease
    they think)...
  the problem lies in the perception of b.,
most people can conceptualise that there's something
deeper than the raw physicality of things...
i do remember times when i encountered that
ease of thinking...
                                        i experienced it...
it was there... ****, i lost it... but that provided me with
an un-inhibitory trance of a writing capacity...
   the question is... how can merely thinking be painful?
most mental health problems never ask this:
thinking is painful...
                                      isn't that what most melancholics
state, but with a more emotional language of
feelings and emotions?                  
             if the thought-***** is damaged...
then all thinking coming from this compartment of the brain
will be painful...
                               so what sort of paracetamol
do you take? it's not as easy as being prescribed
high-blood pressure pills...
                                      popping pills like that
you're only escaping a conscious moment of what
an automated ***** feels
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Shain Brown Dec 2020
I saw it
A figure the size of me
filled with the empty black
injecting a pricing screech
that pushed me further in my bed
I can't move
as it is looking at me, and through me

the sounds are getting louder
tickling my eardrum
I close my eyes
and open to see it climb the walls
I close my eyes again
and wake.
Sleep paralysis affects millions of people each day. This was one of my experiences.
LC Jul 2021
at first, the thunder cracks my eardrum.
the rain punches the soft ground after
being held back by the clouds for so long,
and I cannot see past the blanket of darkness.
as the storm rages on, the thunder roars,
but my body knows best like it always does.
my hands carefully craft a cup of strong tea,
and my body rests in front of the fireplace,
and the obnoxious thunder lowers its voice,
and the violent rain's touch becomes softer,
and I finally see the light peeking through.
Jasmyn 'Ladi J' Jul 2013
How do I tell someone something that I don't wanna say...
I mean I could but then I will put myself out there
Vulnerable
Open to be hurt
Uncertainties about what the other person may say or feel
Oh my goodness my heart is racing cuz even when I think about them I smile
It's like riding along the Nile w/ a nice cool breeze
Simple full and free
A wonderful cadence of your voice moves my eardrum
Seeing your face gives me unspeakable happiness
I mean some may think I'm a *******
Nah I may jus have a special place for this person in my heart
But all these untold vulnerabilities keep creeping up on me
I don't wanna be seen as a ******
But u tho
R a beautiful melody to a perfect song
And maybe I'm wrong
But all these untold vulnerabilities may creep out into the light
Maybe with a fight
Maybe with a struggle
Maybe even with a muzzle
But I will put the pieces to the puzzle together
And maybe it will all come out w/ me being w/ you
Foot in the right size shoe
Cuz they say if the shoe fits wear it
But I don't know if you think you can bear the strength of my love
So we both lay w/ some untold vulnerabilities
Mark Rubilla Aug 2013
Flee, as the desire go towards bad reputation
Change course as if end is calling
Still counting but the dirt isnt moving
Feet and effort comes together
Like nothing happens in days
Picture framed a portrait
Selfie as they say it bluntly
Peace as if peaceful in that place
Every tick of the time
Dots are dancing in the floor
No orchestrated music at all
Free, as they whispered it to one another
With the blaming tongues and teeth
They mailed it to their eardrum
Lie, no hope yet there is still
Truth, Egypt is the mountain
Bigger as the trust settled in
Watch them fall to their knees
For I say repeatedly in this case
There is still hope, there is still
Just trace the ace for better is the Sky
Than any developers of this land
They may come armored in gold and silver
With the finest stones and strong words
CH Gorrie Jul 2014
1.
Late-spring's dilemma
Is unabridged and sweet;
Beardtongues and fuchsias peer through grass blades:
Blotches on the bristly canvas.

Camellias? Still in April.

2.
Slices of rye shift on my plate;
Miramar’s war machines whip overhead;
My mouth opens into the Gulf of Kuwait;

The toast becomes
Moldering lips of Pendleton.

3.
There’s a single-story house on a hill
That to helicopters
Looks like an easel.

Great canyons open
To the south and west; the street clings to time—

A pianist’s metronome
Waltzes crosswise on an eardrum.

4.
The eucalyptus bends the deafening breeze.

Are you still dredging Coronado's cradle?
(The tide
Disintegrates the illimitable skyline.)

5.
An unlit Anza-Borrego beats about my ears,
Stars piggybacking the horizon.

The cacti shrivel:
Glitter in a hurricane.

6.
End-of-spring guesses
Prey upon a betrayer’s conscience.
Stilted, they flash ephemerally.
Charlie Prince Jul 2012
I am wading out knee deep into the evening's drinks.
I let my eyeballs take a dip as my wallet plays the breaker.
You'd think the woman had tourettes the way she tries to wink.
She flirts no better than the sisters who oft walk god's acre.

Maestro, another!

A black suit hammers ritzy tusks somewhere across the bar.
The waves upon the wires lap across my eardrum's shore.
My lonely, daydream doll is finally called off from afar.
I'm far too low and far too blitzed to enjoy another bore.

Maestro, another!

When I recall how we met, I transubstantiate my veins
with hopes to find a fertile mound to plough to rude degrees.
Too many furrows to recall, but still your name remains.
So, still I hunt for lonely moths who dance beneath marquees.

Maestro, another!

Why does every truth align with all the stars at night
only to scatter just as broken glass when morning breaks?
Every wholesome oath I swear to cherish all my life
melts with every dewdrop my lawn's unkept blades shake.
refresh mesh May 2015
the dark, dark, paralyzed shark
pincushioned a hole in the wall
and said, "remind me. why do we do it all?"
grief is a shiny stairway to ******
showering in syrupy Butalin
i'm so angry at these bad dreams
where did all the good ones go?
i'll never be near the moon, it seems.
i'll always be in my mind, trapped below
that **** who hides
in my teeth and in my skin
lurking trickily where the deepest sin collides
ordering me, ruthlessly: give in

i carry a ghost in my pocket
i can open it up like a deadly locket
revealing it as a helpless demon
ready for the routine depository
of its *****
does it need a piggyback ride
to our castle of ice and pine?
does it want to make its home
in my belly, my nails, my womb?

Someone call an EMT
who will scrape out the rut for me
a few good cleanings,
that's what I need
to finally put away
that black poppy seed
for long enough to try
using my voice at least once
before i get to die.

it will cackle with joy
if my heart suddenly fails.
i will omit all cholesterol
if that's what its punishment entails.
there's such a thin line between inspiration
and replication.
maybe life is meant to be tired
and this shape is all these continents will ever be.

i'm learning to fly
i come and go.
i float and grow.
beating my wings to a rhythm that I breathe in and out-
it sounds exactly like
a quick heartbeat
preying on rabbits and resting in trees
instead of running
becoming dead meat

i'm very good at hiding
i keep it up until I'm as hollow
as lightweight opaque
translucent paper
knowing it can't wait me out forever.
if i could plague it with apprehension
i'd follow him everywhere
and lie about my intentions
until he casually cheats life and leaves me
Here

i imagine there to be a sound of these wooden flutes
fluttering
white flakes by my eardrum
spiriting my shaking fingers
giving me an excuse for the palpitations
rising at the thought of my aggressor
placed inside my flower drawer.

maybe it is my undulating fright
maybe it is cardiovascular might
maybe it is a measurable blight
because i feel stuck in a daydream that steals my hair
and, with a wrenching force, my underwear
using the two to gag me with pressure.

then i wake up
in time, completely alone.
a window is glued under my eyelids
of a time
when I could part my lips on my own
finding forgiveness takes forever
Danielle Rose Feb 2013
A silent seducing moment
Carved out of struggle
*** can't tame her desires
She's hungry for something else from her lover
Hidden away in her chest of pain she plots
A happily ever after
Knowing full well that he would never deliver
She let go and plunged the blade into his eardrum
and asked so sweetly
Can you hear me now?
Country Girl Mar 2015
3 year old,
Skinny,
Thin,
Small.

Life Changing,
Done in seconds.
Girl’s life
Never the same.

Suppose to be
Asleep,
No one knew until
Too late.

Rushed to hospital,
Then to Boston.
Doctors worried
Immediate surgery.

Loving family & friends
Together forever.
Worried for
Granddaughter,
Daughter,
Sister,
Friend,
ME.


Thoughts of
Losing me
Go through the room.
Find out I am
SAFE.

Never knew one thing would
Change my life.
Not feeling,
just leaking clear liquid.

3 years old,
Punctured eardrum,
30% hearing left,
Challenged for life.

Hope for best,
Never be same again.
Growing stronger,
Overcoming challenges.

Want to give up, but keep going…
Life is hard.
Asphyxiophilia Jun 2013
Ever since she was young,
She heard stories about what happens after death.
She heard stories about heaven and hell, and everywhere in between.
She heard stories about forgiveness and salvation and redemption.
So when she decided to greet death as a friend one lonely night
On her bathroom floor, she thought she knew what to expect.
As her head leaned against the porcelain of her bathtub, she
Waited for the warm feeling to overtake the chill that came
From watching her blood pour onto the linoleum. But death
Didn't greet her like an old friend, or even like a relative
That she saw once a year at the annual Christmas party.
In fact, death didn't greet her at all.
If anything, it seemed as though she became death.
From her vantage point, slumped against the back
Wall of her bathroom, she could see her razor blade
On the far side of the sink, and the cut running
Vertically down her right arm, open and exposed.
She tried to move her head, then her arm, then any body
Part, but her brain seemed to no longer be in command.
She waited, and waited, and waited.
She watched the sun creep down the tiles on the wall,
And then back up again, and then back down,
Until she heard a sound at the door.
A distant knocking ricocheted off the
Walls of the bathroom and a soft voice followed.
She tried to speak, to scream, but she remained silent.
She heard footsteps growing louder throughout the house
Until finally they went silent, and a hand pushed on the door.
A scream, a shrill blood-curdling scream followed.
And then talking, and more knocking, and more voices,
And more screaming, and more footsteps, and more voices.
Until finally, men in white uniforms entered the bathroom,
Lifting her from her position against the wall. She tried
To speak, again, but nothing came out. They
Laid her on her back and suddenly her world went black.
She couldn't calculate the time spent in that bag because before
They zipped it up, they shut her half-opened eyes.
She heard more footsteps, and then cars, and then doors,
And then metal on metal, and then voices, and then doors.
Eventually, everything went still. No more footsteps,
No more voices, no more doors, no more screaming,
No more talking, no more knocking, no more screaming.
Everything remained still for a long time.
Longer than she could even care to remember.
She imagined this was death, the absolute end,
The kind of silence that wrapped around her like a coat.
But then everything wasn't silent.
If she was able, she would have sat straight
Up in a cold sweat, looking around frantically.
But she remained still and quiet as the soft noise
Made it's way around her eardrum like a vine.
She felt something touching her face, something
Soft and thin and pointed.
She focused on the object.
And then realized, it was a root.
The roots of the grass and the roots of the flowers
That were growing above her had finally come to
Reclaim their rightful space in the cold earth.
She wanted to scream out apologies to the roots,
And beg them to just let her go back to where she came from.
She begged the earth to spit her out like a rotten piece of fruit,
Back into the bathroom she so desperately wanted to escape.
But the earth was set on taking back what was rightfully theirs,
And that included her.
Slowly, over an excruciatingly long period of time, the roots
and branches and dirt found their way onto every surface
Of her once pale skin. It wrapped around her neck, nestled
Into her crevices, and poked at her soft spots, until there
Wasn't an inch that wasn't graced with nature's touch.
So she stopped begging the earth to leave her, and
Started welcoming the earth to embrace her,
Until finally, it claimed her again.
Descovia Jul 2022
The light in me is alive!
Nothing will stop me.
Earthquake-erupting-eardrum shattering explosions
Brightening and exciting
Transforming the hues of the skies.
Rage with heat
silent as fire
No element can conquer or counter me
                                    
                                                                                                        
My hatred is unmatched
   
My love is stronger compared
to any living external force

Spirit or in flesh.
Prepare for the worse and arm
yourself with your best!
My frustration in combination with faith of heart
beautifully spreads chaotic balance.
Summoned by the user who exceeds the power of fire users.
Terrifyingly destructive if misused, peacefully and devastatingly
enhances life in all I love.
I can be at peace, with all I have to face.
It will provide blessings to my joys.
Magic is a source to not play with as a toy.

Kerry Moses Feb 2013
He is only visible to me.
Projecting himself through
my eyes, a stain on my retina,
he is forever here.

Conjured up by a child’s mind,
native, inescapable fears,
he has grown with me.
Bigger, taller, stronger.
Hidden in the deepest shadows,
eyes bright, haunting me.
Chilly arms engulf me,
crushing my lungs and I can’t
breathe and my heart
races and I can’t
do a thing.

Egging me on,
You can do it, you need to do it.
He knows I will.
He knows I must, but
I don’t want to.
I pull back, clawing
at his hands
Let me go!

The tips of his fingers burn into my back,
perfect little circles swirling
with lines that lead me down
towards the place I
dread most.

I see the looming door.
Simple, wooden, warped with age,
swinging, squealing on its hinges.
I wonder how many secrets
it has witnessed and heard over the years.
Passed from one eardrum to another.
Making hearts thud at the anticipation.

The door to my demise.
All else falls away.
What can I do now but take
another step forward?
Some women will scribble your name in schoolbooks
but never spit it out loud.
Some women float away like dandelions.
Some women bubble so much they spill
over the side of your cup of coffee.
Some women will leave a minty taste
under your tongue.
Some women say they hate you but they don’t.
Some women are constructed out of paper.
Some women copy others to make themselves feel good.
Some women are as a juicy as a pineapple
everybody wants the very next drop.
Some women will call you and say wrong number sorry.
Some women win without as much as a line of sweat
on their skulls.
Some women carry names inside their jean pockets.
Some women want diamonds.
Some women loathe other women but never explain why.
Some women will tear you open like it’s Christmas.
Some women live as if on the edge of a cliff.
Some women want thin.
Some women like big.
Some women won’t care if you don’t party hard.
Some women dance so well you will fall
underneath the flashing disco lights.
Some women have you as their favourite headache.
Some women teach better than any professor.
Some women hate the size of their *******.
Some women swipe husbands and keep a tally
below the floorboards where no-one has to know.
Some women have been singed
you could set them alight.
Some women won’t do what you want them to.
Some women count stars until they lose count.
Some women click their heels and make a wish or ten.
Some women can see their futures glistening
in the corners of their eyes.
Some women **** men with their lipstick.
Some women know with just one look.
Some women squeal as though
a toaster has been tossed in the bathtub.
Some women want three words three syllables
to swirl manically through their veins.
Some women would prefer it if you split the bill.
Some women choose click-flicks over ***.
Some women cheat when playing Monopoly.
Some women are left-handed and until
they write the wedding invitations you won’t even know.
Some women are fake outside but real inside.
Some women judge books by their covers.
Some women bleed red if they’re feeling blue.
Some women prefer Pepsi over Coke.
Some women drive wildly because they can.
Some women turn bad when they get drunk
they won’t remember but you’ll never forget.
Some women dread the moment
anyone sees them with no clothes on.
Some women are like morphine.
Some women will watch you crawl away and laugh
the sound smacking your eardrum again and again.
Some women will treat you like their next cigarette.
Some women will offer you their Vimto hearts
beg you to keep them beating.
Written: August 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time without a great deal of thought. Not to be taken seriously. Inspired by 'The Matter' by Kim Addonizio. 'Vimto' is a carbonated fruit-flavoured drink from England. All feedback welcome. Please see my home page on here for a link to my Facebook writing page.
NOTE: Many of my older poems will be removed from HP in the coming months.
Conor Letham Jun 2014
Putting the receiver
to the cupped side
of my leaning face,
I'll listen to an old,
dead phone, a husk
with a sound echoing
inside like a seashell:

I tune into the static
as if they were waves
sweeping in and out
of my eardrum, hear
the whisper of voices
asking the operator
to pass on last sighs.
I thought of the word 'husk' and wanted to use it somehow. I might not be done with this piece, so be warned that I may edit it!
The music shot into her eardrum like a trance-inducing drug, each bang of the drum, each rhythmic flow, each string of the guitar would slowly take her under. Under hypnosis.
The power of the beat was so intense, that it lifted her chin and shoved her into the floor of dance. There, was where she found herself in a state of uncontrolled and vigorous rhythmic movement. The music had somewhat possessed  her limbs as though they had a mind of their own. Her routine was calculated and her foot movement, unique.
She, all at once, knew and knew not what she was doing. As her surroundings stood marvelled in awe, she was alone. Her hips shaking and bouncing as though a chemical mixture was being synthesised deep within her, a mixture that was yet to explode. Explode with power so great, it would possess others in her 'roundings. Surroundings that would, in time faster than inhalation, be under the same knife. With movements and sways that embodied and humanised the worship of music.
Rhythm is their God, the controller of beings. Almost as if dance is the ritual of prayer, and the club, a mosque or sacred ground.
Like rhythm is the favoured slave-driver. Like rhythm is the unfeared tyrant. Like rhythm is what brings the animalistic spirit within us all back to life after daylight and spiritual rest. Like rhythm is the pair of unspoken arms that push them, its subjects, over the precipise and into the river of flow. And under The Rhythm's spell, they will move, they will love it.
Carlos Bolanos Oct 2012
Ever since they met, he's craved deep in his stomach to hear those words
words heard so many times before though their potency is never lacking

as he greets her the craving builds up - working its way to his ever increasingly beating heart

He lays eyes on her and his pupils dilate
the event horizon of blackness expands ever so quickly in his eyes

the hairs on his body tingle as the opened door lets in the cool air

she draws closer as his body prepares for the familiar yet indescribable rush

as her mouth moves, ripples of sound begin to penetrate the soft tissue of his eardrum

"I"

he hears as the sound bounces its way to the second ear
he has come to the realization that his craving will soon be satiated - at least for a moment

"love"

the word flutters through his mind; a butterfly which he finally captures at long last

"you"

the moment he's been waiting for, the realization of his temporary high now completed

the pieced together words rip through him like a shock-wave
easing the craving in his stomach while super-charging his already galloping heart

a moment passes as he returns to normal

he turns a smile to her and says,

"I love you too" - satisfying her craving as well
Isha Maini Feb 2010
Eos
My love;
Do I dare drop another shrouded truth upon your eardrum...?
I left another footprint today, you know
...but those granules of concrete are still hollow,
still quiet;

I've hidden behind your golden dreadlocks too often,
and heard your contemptuous laughter echo,
the crooked whistle of another gunshot
piercing the silence, and a silhouette
-of course

....yet I can't let go.

You're so young, I tell myself;
Your bedsheets are still crisp, still odorless;
...this sleep does not trouble you, does it?
-with her kissing nightmares.

And I dread my toes slipping-into that cadencing abyss,
...the scattered doom of my growing death wish;
there's no one to hold me,
but you.

The pillowcases still hiss...
their fingers clench my hair, often;
and threads tie me to a new paranoia
every night.

And I know
these windows aren't clean
...they disgust me;
yet they're my only source of light,
and I choose to compromise;

It's left me with nothing,
but your rusted blood on my tongue
and these shadows formed on the wall,
by your electric blue flesh...

I'm tired, dearest
...your fumbling silence hurts me-
maybe another drop of ******,
will bring you back to life.
Eos: - The beautiful Ancient Greek Goddess of the dawn who brings the hope of a brand new day.
Cody Edwards Feb 2010
The sky shoots its myriad blue eye
into a pavane of reds and silvers.
A farrago of ****** tastes signal second dawn at noon.
An indescribable sound pierces the eardrum
from the inside as it rushes ******,
humanly,
inhumanely outward.
© Cody Edwards 2010
every day
I don't pretend
it's not happening

every bruise
I'll never hide
again

every eardrum
not slit
shrill venomous
psychward razors

every day
not backed
into a corner
not choked

every time
I don't wonder
if I'll come to again
as limbs go limp
fading conscious
into black

every chance
for my greatest gift
not to end up like
my biggest mistake

every time
he greets the family
he'd never known

every day
I awake
to possibility
reunited family
rekindled friendships

every reclaimed moment
every shot at bliss
every joytear

is because

of
you

daring to flirt inside
messy, imperfect lines

catalyzing jumpstart
to the rest
of this

precious life

no matter
what happens
wherever you go
whatever you choose

I'll always see some cape
creeping out from under
your blackflak collar
The cacophony of sounds twisted
And entwined in the metal trees
Shakes my soul as I look to the sodden skyline
I view the last discarded leaves of this placid dimension

A girl walks across the grass
It’s cold out,
About 43 degrees but she lacks shoes
On her tired feet
The black of day collects on the souls of her ragged feet
But it has no effect on her angelic, bohemian outlook
She carries a smile and a switch blade in her pocket
No explanation necessary

Between a rock and a hard place I plant a flower that is my conscious
Simply to watch it grow

The stone pathway, cold against my skin
Creates an aire of direction
Follow the yellow brick road
I seek the wizard but instead-
Find a mirror,
Blistered and fractal
Producing infinite images in my own likeness
A concept of this magnitude is difficult
Much like a human action
In perspective of a fly

Our self proclaimed purpose-
For what, power, money,
Control of the masses
Suppress their minds, diminish their conscious.
The common man deserves better than the plebian life
Of a dog ordered by an invisible master
A shot in the dark,
Who puts forth this motivational bowl of oats?
Bed of hay,
Ring of gold?

I sit and watch
Trying to understand the habits of the world
Every day, the script more blasé and uninteresting than the last

The show created for those who watch,
Whose production value is low.
One must look beyond the projection screen
To understand the man behind the scenes,
The man daring you to dream.

I stop and smell the same lily as yesterday,
Just to denote any change in my world
This lily, my favorite lily,
Lives on, in the grime and muck of
America

If god is all loving and the devil all evil,
Could they be, one in the same
Changing day to day
He too must have mood swings.

As a child you’re told you can be
Anything you want,
Can this be true?
What if you just want to be happy?

Must you step on the fingers of people
Barely holding on
To the edge of the highest peak to climb,
Watch them fall to their own demise?

My happiness stems
From stepping down
And lending a hand,
My success stems from
The success of the flowers in bloom around me,
For I,
Am the fertilizer of the mind

Cremate me,
Spread my ashes in
The woods,
A field,
A lake,
A river,
The oceans grand.
Your person remebered,
Your kindness admired.

Let these blind people
Step on your cold, ***** fingers,
And offer your other hand
As a stepping stool

They may find their happiness
But only for a time
When all is said and done
Can they explain
Their reason or rhyme?
Who they answer to now may not always,
Be there.
But when they too sign up
For the eternal rest
With themselves only
Their cross they shall bare.

The streets I wander
Grow cold with urgency,
Like a gadfly I stand in the way,
Producing images of
Love, and life,
Without deadlines, submission, or oppression.

Nobody listens, but I speak my mind
I dive on the grenade
To safe these
Ungrateful cowards.

Their words
Shallow and dry against my eardrum
I bleed for new meaning
A redefined existence

Change
Cannot be something you wait for
It can never be found,
Only made
This is my change,
My attempt at change.



You may not like what I say,
But at least I try.

I know
One day
I will die
With your best interests in my mouth,
Your knife in my back,
A smile in my eyes,
And happiness
In my heart.

I bleed for the many,
The lost in translation.
My transcendental mindset
Opening my path,
I leave my door open
For those who choose to read.

Fore I know my thoughts are my own,
Whether they have been thought before or not,
I know that I am thinking them now.

The garbled sound of polka music drones on,
In ominous dance.
Something has changed
Maybe tempo or key,
The color rethought
For me, it’s so easy to see
Far more difficult to show.



Awaken yourselves
To the feverish heat
Of wisdom
And accept that
To truly be wise
One must know he cannot know

The sandy coast of endless life
Carries on in the bleak of night
Your hairy eye and jestered hand
Shall curse me no more

I’ve seen the golden ray of dark
Beyond the sun
And opened portals
To greener, sharper, harsher worlds

The stringent silence
Piercing ears and harmful shouts
Have shown me pathways beyond the sun

I’ve opened my eyes simply to glance,
And there was a man,
Tired and beaten
His voice a crusty piece of bread
Left by the children, wasted and old




He asked but a question,
Where are you from?
My reply, wordless and empty,
I think to myself,

Home, home is where I am from.
Where I belong
In the nestle of my childhood blanket.
Scent of me filled with memory, old and discarded.

I wish to return but
Memories oh tasteless, sightless memories
They shall remain.

The man, sitting on a stump of what was an apple tree,
Repeats his timeless question.
I have no reply

Carrying my thought
Through barbed wire fences
I pray to a god that is not mine and
Find a crumbling remnant of a statue
Holding a silver tarnished scepter
With a quote painstakingly engraved into the stone
"All that lives shall perish in due time"




Is this my time my thought moves on.
These worlds I view beyond the golden rays of darkness
Show me that without death
There can never be new life

Oh these sandy coast of infinity
Set me free to a new beginning
But first my work must be complete
In this treacherous world in which
I reside

My family grows hungry for answers
And receive no helping of knowledge
Passed down through the ancient cave writings of
Peoples before
The past is real
But remains a memory
Dusty and forgotten by many

This life a flower past by,
By the masses,
Material goods and swirls of profits.

Your god is not my god,
Your money means nothing
Show me what you truly believe,
Not what the texts of heralds
And documented in secret libraries
And chastised caves have told you
I too shall remain but a memory
Or shall I live on,
This sandy coast of endless life,
Teaching the ways of passage and right.
Eve Feb 2015
It's warm.
What is this blissfulness?
"It's me.. You're not alone"
Embedded in the eardrum.
Tears disappeared
By just one glance at that curve on the face
That weird, yet such an euphoric curve
It's called a smile
Strange-
For it made the pain scattered
What is this comfort?  

Soon a smile was made apart of the appearance
Apart of the life
This curve was then around all the corners of the world

But where is the warmth?
The one that was felt in the beginning
It was always felt in thy heart
It was always seen when looked right..
But is no more seen or felt.
Blinked away,
It vanished
And where was thy?
Back in the cold.
The smile, euphoric?
What's that?

-fir.m
Megan Jul 2014
I never liked crying in public. Matter of fact, I dread crying in public. Because to me personally, crying means attention craving and weakness. Two of the things I wish to not have in my fragile bones. But today, I couldn’t help but cry; nothing could describe the hurt I felt inside. Those tears were more than tears, they were my months of hard work, they were the nights I spent home studying when I could be out having fun, they were my spring break and all the time I spent hidden in my house, they were everything I gave up. And now the feeling left inside me is more hurt and loneliness. I sit in my room on this Friday night, alone. I drown out my pain with the blasting music coming from my laptop. I turn up the sound to the maximum and have the sound bounce in my eardrum.
Thump,
Thump,
Thump.

My eardrums yell at me to turn the noise down, but what I rather fight is the feeling inside of me, the devil soaring in my soul.

You know how you can really determine good friends?
The times when you’re crying your eyes out and you want someone.
You go through your contacts figuring out whose gonna actually care for you.
You scroll down looking at all the names and for a millisecond your mind checks them off them one by one.

Until you get to the end of your contacts and realized none of them has the time for you.

****.

I let the music reach the limits of the stereo until I can practically hear thumping in my eardrums. Does it make me reckless? I hope. Cause I never done anything reckless in my life, so this must make me a bad- ***.  HA! I am so bad I will keep blasting my music up to a point where I lose my hearing.  If I cannot hear, I cannot listen to the words I have been petrified to attend to, the truth.  

Don’t you ever have those times when you picture yourself losing it? You picture yourself throwing glass bottles at your bedroom floors? You see yourself throwing your phone as if all the memory of the phone meant nothing?  You get so angry, so furious; you don’t know what to do. You look at your swollen face in the mirror and you cry, because you know that it’s Friday night, and everyone but you is having a blast, and your sitting in your room, crying wishing you could be in anyone else’s shoes but your own. ****, how did I get like this? Maybe it’s my fault for isolating myself to a point where I was my own best friend.
samantha Sep 2014
Spare me my pride hip hop
Let me get lost in you
Swallow the conflicted emotions I carry
Your artistic touch humbles me
I think……. "Dear you....with love ...from Poetry
***** over the mere sounds of a pounding heart
To the drums and cellos that caress your eardrum

Brothers and sisters confide in you
Fell in love from the roots to souls of mischief
Nomadic as he busta a rhyme
Evidence of a bigger common dream
What he did to get there

****** bleed, notorious hit boy
That’s how some find death in the hands of art
Medusa, the beauty that shattered the lustful greed
Samuel Klistoff Aug 2014
in and out
in and out
out and in

my little breaths
              are of a different sort.

the pitterpatter of my heartdrum beats against my eardrum:
i sit in silence and do not know what to think.

salt water flows out from my eyes

oh when did i get this ocean inside of me?
Dorothy A Nov 2013
P

         *O


                    E

                               T

                                           R

                                                      Y

A­wakens the senses....

Captivates the eye with a unique flair, like a skilled artist on the stage-a great dancer, a supreme actor, an athletic acrobat, an experienced musician, an engaging orator, a gifted singer, a heavenly choir
Entices the nose to imagine the hint of various scents, soothing or disturbing, and often blends different aromas into peculiarity
Touches the heart, mind, soul and skin--when it is spot on, perhaps with shivers, or perhaps with warmth
Teases the tongue to taste the words, salty, sour or sweet, vaguely satisfying, sometimes mystifying
Pounds on the eardrum to listen to its beat, at times, offbeat, at times, in perfect rhythm
MaryJane Feb 2013
Being Drunk
Being intoxicated
A new perspective
A new understanding
You see things so differently
So profoundly
When you see the light
A new perspective arises
I see the loneliness in mysterious eyes
A lover of her purpose
To expose those to a better understanding
An amazing joyousness
I have become the pupil of alchohol
A completely different knowledge
The vibrance of all things,
The voice of each person,
A song in my left eardrum
Thoughts of others
Such an understatement of my experience
Swallow the art
Consume the knowledge
Let it pass deep into your soul
Continue to be who you are,
Complete your words,
But to understand?
A gift rapped in time.
This art taken as a substance
Where you speak,
You hear your thoughts
Insane you may call me
But I call it,
Me my thoughts,
Beautiful.
My thoughts secluded like all others
So as im told with his song he shares
Unmonotone letting me feel his thoughts
Held by my mind,
A gift.
The philosopher.
Dark Smile Oct 2018
1) empty bottles that clink as you wade through them. you drown in an ever-increasing pool of bottles

2) puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. i want to pour coloured powder on her cheeks. i want to trace every single stream

3) eardrum rupturing music. he screams along to it. they become indistinguishable from the music. he enjoys being a part of something.

4) a lone figure next to a lake. they hug their legs. nothing moves. everything is completely still. if you listen closely, you can hear their heart shattering into the tiniest fragments. they try to keep it together. an internal war rages. but nothing moves.

5) the buzzing. hair falling to the ground. a blank stare and tiny smile

6) you are a tiny dark speck, against the looming white landscape.

7) the lingering taste of coffee. a lit cigarette dangling from between fingers. flecks of ash fall to the ground.

8) submerged into the deepdarkbluebutmaybeblack ocean. everything is dulled.

9) a neatly folded stack of clothes in a washing machine.

10) putting your fingers in between your legs. you are in front of a mirror. you watch yourself

11) a body falling apart into several meat-sized chunks. they are stapled back together.

12) clay masks.

13) lose strands of hair tied together in a trash can

14) refusing to follow the rules.
i know this is not good. at all. but it's inspiredby 13 ways of looking at a blackbird by wallace stevens

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