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Jose Gonzalez Sep 2016
I am a traveler commuting on life's rails,
going station to station.
Disembarking at different destinations,
each time spent differently.
The car can be claustrophobic with passengers,
suffocating me in anxiety.
Other times, just a few of familiar faces,
friends, families, locals, daily riders.
Some talking, of life, nonsense, all or nothing,
each making their way.
There are times of light, above ground and of sun,
the rest tunneled, falsely lit, dark.
The sights of open land, buildings, and of the day,
the faces of love, hurt, hurried and grind.
Day in Day out this cycle goes on,
different,yet the same.
I am part of this mass exodus to get somewhere,
yet my commute is my own.
At times I arrive with many at the platform
bustling towards their tasks.
Trains for life come and go, expresses to locals,
roaring with noise, movements, purpose.
However, there are times i am the only one there,
Occasional train, in silence, alone.
Those are the days that my commute seems fruitless,
leaving me to wonder,
Have I just been passing it all by?

© J.L.Gonzalez75 09/2016
* this is a rough edit... am not a poet, but just write.
melinoe immortal Aug 2018
I will edit my soul
with the colourless liquid
that escaped from the two overflooded doors
and stained page 255 on
the medical ethics section.

'Drop on the floor, drops.
Tear drops
never to return.'

A lullaby moaned
before hope runs out of
the small, plastic bottle.
Eloisa Jul 27
Yes, you are indeed right.
I’m weird and a bit strange
unconventional, odd, different.
But no,
I do not want to cut myself into pieces to suit
to your approval of what’s normal
and what’s needed.
I do not need to edit myself to fit in.
I do not need to apologize for what
and who I am.
I am strong enough to live my life in my own terms.
I dance to the beat of my own music.
It doesn’t matter if nobody understands me.
I am just being me.
I am real.
I am beautiful.
I am unique.
I am a proud misfit.
~ A co-worker asked me a week ago of what I usually do during my free time and I  answered that I read poetry and scribble some pieces most of the time. Shaking his head, my reply invited a chuckle and an eye roll  from the others as well.
The Sphinx Sphanther, an ailuralien
from Slazenger 7, Ulthar System,
surveyed the vapid dullpink lunascape
of Smars. As he scanned yonder scanyons &
clabby tableland of Smartian terrain,
his 8ft henchbot, Ernie, numberwanged
'23467 097
11.' The Sphinx Sphanther's binary-brained
blabacus of a hotchbot robutler
doubled as personal security,
equipped w/ chainsawwindmillstars for hands.
But scant call for slicing 'n'dicing crowd
control here: Smars was desolate as smug
snow, too xeric to dessicater to
desertcraturf - in that, arid aphex
of its counterpart thru the quantumgate,
unsparticulate Mars. Sphinx had been there
too, long after the novalia cleared
by the Elon Muscovites for dometown
of New Creationham instead became
obumbrated by proxy war, a mauve
Somme for drones. The Zeta-Reticulan
barhover he'd met centuries later,
at Sagittarius Bolognaise, had
divulged he'd been staking out the Terrans
for millennia, concluding that quite
clearly they weren't Kardashev calibre:
' The Terran jackal apes could never build
fair Isratin on Mars's blank red slate,
but desecratered Earth 2.0
w/ telefactored lex talionis.
Palasraeli peace-world a daffy god's
dream.' But no roseplated, plaintive past
of lost races & their last, lost chances
would weigh on Sphinx Sphanther over 0-
g 'n' ts - least of all, kamikozmic
Terrans, ghosts of toddlers before his time.
Besides, he purrferred the splanetary
systems in his home universe, S-side
of the supersymmetrical stargate.
Even planet Smearth, whose gnomes salivate
for colloidal silver & often ate
salvers. But multiversally treasure-
hunting catman was not on Smars for smurrks,
nor to holoholo like a stalko
thru the pink pother, a fishbowlhead space-
*** w/ the best seat i.e. the worst seat
in a stadial sandstorm of foxglove
fog. In whirbles pulsive, Ernie's clicking
clock breath axlegroused, '23824
71719', as the Sphinx
Sphanther fremescently urged the servo-
droid to 'move your chrome cuirasse!' Which encased
Ernie's one lung of mesh & blexcroid heart,
repurposed by a gizmomancer from
silicone garage off Milkomeda
magic roundabout. Or was it spaceport
at the Smilkomeda?  Whichever,  the
Sphanther had long ago evolved beyond
flying saucers of cream. Caterpillar-
tracked calculator w/ a sporknose &
whisking shuriken fingers, Ernie creaked
futuristically behind its feline
master, as they descended in oblique
Indian file down scarp of Mountbattern
grink, for now the Sphinx Sphanther had bird's-eyed
some bearings. Manshaped moggy & lotto-
machine-A.I.'d adjutant had for days
yomped the candydross regolith of Smars,
a desert every bit as brass monkies
& indistinguishable in aspect
(save to areographers) as ginger
tundra of its supersymmetrical
sister sphere, yet pink as amassed honkies
(tho' ofays blushing ashen w/ gammon
guilt). A holo-map Ernie projected
from its cyflaptic eyezor had led them
this far, but now the Sphinx Sphanther relied
on the sort of stillicide scholarship
a cat gleens from spacerats (w/ translation
bracelet bangling his back, a caudal wire),
because Ernie's pirate-ninja meter
was in emergency credit. The pair
hinterlunged on thru tayammum douches
of inextinguishable pink, spinning
powders, smaze of Smartian haboob, until
Sphinx Sphanther sphied, sphorry, spied his wrecked grail.
'Initiating sleep sequence passout-
code: rats apollo defile robot tide,'
catman commanded his lollygagging
tincan manservant to take hard-earnied
standby. Then, before Ernie's spangbolts could
cease squeaking, before its hi-tec bits quit
bleeping &  the combined constadrone of   
mechanical chakras was susurrust
(engulfed by speckled banshee breaker of
nominal boughs, wolf sough of Smars booting
alien sandcastles), the Sphinx Sphanther
in his eagerness nearly lapsed into
quadrupedal ignominy, as he
raced towards the ruins, object of his
enantionautic planethopping
over 8 & 1/2 lifetimes. Not much
remained of whatever edifice had
once graced Smars, a primordial witness
wrought in masonry as lurid as some
Lovecraftchild of Liberace, its pink
pillars & pink hunky punks bubblegum
rubble now, vividness conspicuous
against the grink sands.These Smartian ruins
were only slightly less ancient than God
& his blue hypernovae toybox, or
Tohu wa-Bohu's pantherine absence
before that. The Temple of the Dark Lord,
Yod-Coalescence, indisputably
a stripling of deep architecture next
to the Sphinx Sphanther's incomparable find.
By the same token, the fabled Terran
city of Dubai would be an ugly
baby of steel & glass next to this site
of cosmic heritage, this exploded
damask rose of a UFOpolis,
stone petals shed by flower of dust. Engraved
on block immemorial, poking out
of a sandbank & imbued w/ forlorn
fascination for upright ****, such as
xoanon of Eve might hold for Conan
the Slybrarian, was maxim in long
dead tongue, the long dead sense of which rendered
it accidental koan, dumb poem
by anon culture that might as well be
entitled 'Sirenen Istigkeit'. Food
for thought anorexic Time, bulimic
Space inedibly graffitied on Smars:
'Nulla Dies Sine Linear B'.
Under cured Klyntar yurt later that night,
whilst Ernie hummed w/ Atari sheep sprites,
the Sphinx Sphanther dreamt of mighty works thru
the wringer of longslid signifiers:  

The barhover hovered above
membranous whatevers of mise-en-dream,
before the scene settled like anarchic snow.
Smickey Smouse was on a mauve rove
one smauve Tuesday. As Smickey
scanned yonder young scones,
young dust granted him edgehug.
Ernie said : Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
They certainly weren't in Snorwich, Snorfolk, anymore.
They hinterlunged on thru candybrass
of dross monkies, pinning spowders,
until Smickey Smouse smied, smorry, sphied
the Temple of the Dark Lord,
Pantherine Absence.
Smickey Smouse said: Wait there,
I'm just going for a quick Slazenger-7.
Ernie said: Skoda codas.
Elon Musk divulged he'd been
staking out the Terrans
for millennia & concluded they were in
emergency credit.
So they descended a serdab
poking into a sandbank,
its venom curd of darkness
further diagonally desecraterd
by Ernie's sadotronic **** attachment w/ knobs on,
thagomiser **** or Oumuamua
of steel & glass.
Its mace ***** drilled down
until Smickey, Ernie & Elon
were 3 spelunking sphinxes,
spelunking deeper into the recesses
of the alien sandcastle,
by the light of Ernie's eyeflaptic cyzors.
But you can't holoholo in a fishbowlobowlo,
lavalampadomancy of a daffy god's dream.
They longslod into the long dead clock breath
of Ozymandias' unconscious.
Should a cave-in cave in,
a hi-drama-gen bomb bomb,
quidzinc Ernie said: Inadjuvant Elon
Rifles should have hired
ghosts of toddlers  
for our pirate-ninja security.
Above them,
the embitteringly bitty yonder
stretched lone & level,
a ventriloquantum of solace on a grink brick
remained undiscovered & unsquandered,
waiting for a greater translator .
Ernie said: edit to bore life dollop a star.
Ernie said: Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
blank Mar 2018
If you stop running,
You will fall off the treadmill
And bang your head hard

edit: October 7th
So I won't live the treadmill life.
blank Nov 2018
they tell me quit
but all I need them to say
is that they think i can

EDIT and in the end I couldnt
Vivian May 16
Hi
edit: anyone going to say hi back?
edit 2: thank you, now how is life?
Cliff Perkins Sep 2018
Coyote

A sudden surge tears through the underbrush
A tumbling tackle of growling fur
A cornered coyote attacked by my two dogs

I stand and watch
Like it's some nature show
More horrible in real life

Strange how long it takes
A good twenty minutes
They must edit those shows

He is wounded, wants only to escape
My dogs refuse, synchronously circle
One hundred and eighty degrees apart

He knows nothing of degrees
He cannot watch them both
So always, one unseen
Dives in to wound him more

Unlike him, I can -
Watch the whole show
From a safe distance

I do

Twenty minutes is an eternity
Death does not come easy

There are breaks
Like rounds in a prize fight
A minute or two for everyone to rest

He lies there in the middle
My dogs nearby
Everyone relaxed and panting
Like friends on a hot afternoon

Perhaps they’ll let him go
He tries but, no.
They continue the carnage

He inflicts a few wounds of his own
But the outcome is now becoming clear

Knowing this, he whines and begs
Like a pup crying for his mother
My dogs do not care

I keep watching

Finally it’s over
He lies there, mouth wide open
Showing his beautiful white teeth
Eyes wide open, showing what I have no wish to see again
His life flashing before his eyes
And mine

The whole time, I just stood there
Did nothing to assist the ****
or stop the violence
Remained on the safe sidelines
A ****** of violence

Only when it's safe do I approach
I take his picture
What was it the aborigines said?
“No pictures -
Your pictures steal our soul”

But I insist
I take the pictures
I steal the souls

His and mine

Cliff Perkins
September 13, 2016
love is a rhythm i choose not to edit
burning serpents in syncopated tones
stolen vibrations from conquered nations
i am amazed at slavery's undertones
doomsday hypothesis
insufferable hypocrisy
is this the way we are meant to perceive
reality's final throes
perhaps a last attempt at infatuation
another insurgency toward our situation
there is music in the millipedes
1,000 feet stomping on the hot pavement
midday heat is burning the gentlest of trees
and yet saving lives of anteaters in need
grief is complete and not wasted
never jumbled by threads of frailty
insipid lipids deftly crawl upon caterpillars shoulders
starry eyed soldiers
sold to the streets in shivering brokenness
i am madness incarnate
the west is a spectacle of insubstantial lunacy
if you wish to conquer this reality

open your heart and kiss the feet of kindness
blindness is worshipped as if it was wisdom
sincere victims of another’s prison
simpler lives define simpler times
keepers of the rhythm
keepers of the rhyme
i dine on salamanders and supine slivers of the moon’s heartbeat
fault no one but yourself
gifts are wealth
i am salt and sulphur is the mother of the soul
loose cannons explode
she rode the wild shadows
and took the backroads all the way home
infinite living history
his memory serving beauty forever
for a lifetime i am looking for truth
in shattered space and respecting the face of the ancestors
self aware shades of solidarity
harvested by hands made light with clarity
is this music
is this meaning
her openness is our healing
this majesty surrounds us all
resolve to rise and your bound to fall
small instances of randomness daily
semantics are happenstance
you graduate from school with a bouquet of flowers
that rot in the morning’s splattering of paint
as garbage heaps resist *******
issues of power and surface tension
i am dreading the exceptions
give love now or move out of the way
stay awake and aware
while sadhana is beckoning to us all
Lisa May 2018
Hemingway once wrote, “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up but bull fighters.”
An alluring career path,
but I know bulls are color blind.
They can’t even see the red,
and that kills it for me.
Hemingway also said, “Write drunk, edit sober.”
I can drink myself into a state,
but words don’t flow as easily as gin.
I’ve taken a liking to martinis lately;
there are 13 different ways to order one.
There are a million better things I could do with my life than google how to order a martini,
but I’m no bull fighter.
Burlesque fatuous is the implication of your emotional daily pretentiousness. I am seldom, otherwise a psychopath, able
to own fraternity which I can't
discernment or jester because there is an art to love and ******
And it's a conventional edit to your own dullness. I am vivid,
Debris to impersonation.
I am absent but identical
to thin air. I am a Prometheus
Arabian night in Lysistrata premise.
My words may remind you of the day I held your eyes in infinite cluster. Perhaps my love isn't enough for you to understand. For example, the glassed vain is paralysis iridium illicitness which is svelte to inadmissible synthesis. The cloud let are torsion, assail with cypress and impossible solariums; and the propane was a sensation of disjointed loveliness.
Every time I go for a walk, mosquitoes understand my lonely talks because they sip my blood at a quarter past ten but these glazed roads scrutinized my wrist, escorted vernal preposterous blue/purple relentless ghostly cheekbones.
Thought I could festive the blaze among the cedar bridge road
but take a pause and look at my skin and thighbones,
Preterists to flowered unless I smile and tell you
"This is heartbreak"*

*Unable to keep up with your facetiousness, personality failed me temporarily. Mind melting in a moment of dissonance,
This cognitive refrain refracts the 'I' that oscillates accordingly.
One's morphology, tuned to its own metric of change.
Hypnos whispers and sleep beckons, taunting insomnia (which makes a mockery of all humans) but Morpheus has no time for anything less than grandiose archetypes.
Last night I may have dreamt or drunk some foolish things, told people the truth untruthfully, let slip more than I should have.
What a pity, secrecy. They say
information wants to be free.
Who lingers in the details?
Past memories are liberated only by the present. I stand here in the downpour, soaking it all in.
Compassion, god is in the rain.
My fulgurite heart resting on the palm of a deity, at a tilt, slowly it's sliding off; when it fell I gasped.
The reflection of wide eyes in each of its atria, emotion flowing through these venae cavae, those
dilated eyes shimmered before it shattered, gleaming with passion. Us, in the blink of an I.
written on May 13th, 2017.
Robert Anthony Aug 2018
The best way to edit that one was to delete it...
blank Mar 2018
What comes after you life falls apart completely
Depression?
Bec that scares me

edit: October 7th
so work out. You'll feel better mentally.
fiachra breac Jun 10
"words mean nothing," you hope -
in your anger, bile, and tears.

you've poured out your heart
with paper, and pen, and keyboard, and playlist, and life.

moulding great civilisations and intricate portraits and new lives and companions and loves.

you sew yourself together,
scattered fragments from your terror,
weaving a tapestry to replace your skin.

peel off the layers,
scrape away your pain

patching up wounds with words:
bandages from poems,
dressings from that play.

burn, burn bright as the stars in the sky -
distant and dying and alone.

shine, shine like that light on your desk...

_____________


you edit, and change
constantly revising
the story in your head -

and I think that's okay.
december 3rd 2018 // nollaig 3ú 2018

song lyrics?
Briscoe Aug 27
Air
Here I will take part, for I have before
If or since my path includes to suffer me.
I, through air's hue, weave invisibly
Something I said, jagged and jaded
Spiked and broken, woven with my things
Angered and sad. Fermented by grievance, demented
Thoughts and motions meant to be said
And instead are in this,
My collection of pink demons' chants.
A fool's flaccid stabbing into darkness,
Who tickles ears and who fakes consciousness.

All this my air. Fair evenings
With my mornings of no meaning.
My indeterminate verse that does
Flourish into the key of our sea.
A pretty sentence circling around my neck
Threatens to tighten with each re-edit.
These are just words in a row.
Osiria Melody Aug 17
How do you write?
I improvise
Let my imagination
and ideas coincide

I tend to rhyme,
Should be a crime
Don't ask me why
I bother to try

I barely edit
Craft some lines,
Then shred it
And tether it to
form a stanza

As I write, I pay
a visit to a
word bonanza

Similes, figurative
language and
imagery

Common themes
include love,
curiosity and
toxicity

I imagine myself
in a fictional situation
Usually the kind
that involves
premonition

I insert the key
into my creative
ignition
And drive myself
wild with ideas that
come into fruition

Ideas that stem
from branches of
a lucid dream,
Repeating and
changing each
scene

From the morning's
coffee made black
with no cream or
sugar or anything,
To the afternoon tea
that complements
everything

To the evening's arrival
that's comforting

My desire to write
Is an evergreen




Melody
8/17/19
I've been so sing-songy lately.
Freja Jep Jan 2
I can't sleep
I can't think
I can't eat
I can't live

Or maybe I just don't want to


I can't play guitar
I can't draw
I can't edit
I can't read

Or I'm just not good enough at doing it
- Freja Jep
I wrote this on a sad day.
james m nordlund Aug 2018
While I don't suffer, or suffer from
Normal, eurocentrism, northern malaise,
Nor, academia, a blood disease,
I do mind manners in which doings
And not doings are done or aren't,
As it brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't, for those most attached
To living or dying are most closely death.

This while acid rain from your closed eye
And an acre of rainforest falls each second.
Thus Earth's tears bleed for all you see is gray.
As machinations of travailing winds,
Miraging, veil, mirror narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego as self, do "..we(e),.." evince to be?
A republican chides, "put another poet
On the barbie", his idea of conservation.

Prump has had his exec. branch criminally:
Edit the official video and script of his
Helsinki news conference where tutin was asked,
"Did you help prump become president and did you
Have your gov't do the same", with tutin's answers,
"Yes I did, yes, I did..." + premeditatedly separate
Latino families at the border to torture them,
Dictate that "if they want to see their kids again
They have to sign away their rights and leave".

He just said, "don't believe what you hear, see",
Almost a quote from Orwell's '1984', in which
Is written, "this dictate of the gov't was most
Important of all, don't believe what your ears
Hear or your eyes see".  Since altright universe
Invaders were installed in the Blackhouse we've
Known things will only get worse, what other
Reason could his "military parade in 11-18" be for
Except military rule, will the American daymare end?
When's Mueller going to be done with his elaborate cover-up (he's purposely not using the REICO Statute that should be, and is necessitated), he's giving immunity to a dozen republican criminal conspiracy felons while only prosecuting, convicting, pleading out a few, before or after RumputiN's visible coup steals the midterms?  If you didn't vote for Hillary, you voted for RumputiN.  "...We(e),..." must protect the vote, vote early, GOTV, and protect the results more than ever, before the country gets used to being drunk on democracy's backslider's wine.  Also: All threads in the fabric of life are needed; "..we(e),...", can't allow it to be torn asunder.  Mothers are that which society builds on, their needs are all of ours; and necessary to meet.  "...Suffer the children...", from the Bible, didn't mean cause the kids suffering; when will remocrats, and even some dempublicans (dinos and DinoS), stop doing most everything asbackwards?   reality
like this.

Step 1.

Anticipate your audience. (Hi Pam)

Prove it with prudence

Unrelenting self-improvement.

Involuntary inducement (if it's slam)


Step 2.

Recite. Relapse. Reconvene. Review. Recommended.

Be always

obscenely you.


Step 3.


Edit you edict. Transform. Improve. Reprove.


Step 4.


Repeat.


Step 5.


Complete.


Step 6.


Submit.


Step 7.


Permit free interpretation.

Wait on high

see

what happens

upon the sea of words and waves of wisdom and rhythm.
We are minding our own eyes
We are minutes from
Disappearing into the night
I am a poem
Presumptuous at best
I freelance and edit
But it's still not my best
I am captivated by your capricious humor
And your deprecating laughter
Has me in stitches
It's riotous when your raucous cheer
Brings me to my knees
In silent waves of fear

I fear falling in love with you
Like a comet hitting the earth
Creating quite a commotion
And combusting all our promises
Yet you keep coming back to me
And I keep humming my symphony
These fires yield fruit
And Saturn’s rings bloom
Into a million diamonds
How come you never show me
The places where you hide
Your secrets anymore
There was a time when we once traveled
To the spaces in our minds
Now I mostly wonder
Who the hell is speaking
Such beautiful nonsense
From your mouth
Poetry In Motion: Strawberry Lemonade [Final Version/Re-Edit]

Pre Chrous:
Strawberry lemonade mix of us,
You can be yourself
I can be myself
Strawberry lemonade
I want to chill with you,
Acknowledge your self worth
Strawberry lemonade of your self love maintain your self care
Strawberry lemonade befriend your self-esteem
Strawberry lemonade be you, do you
Ignore what society says
Strawberry lemonade

Chrous:
Strawberry lemonade I want to chill with you,
I can be myself with you,
Strawberry lemonade you can chill with me,
You can be yourself with me
Come chill with me, you can be yourself I can be myself
Strawberry lemonade come chill come thru
I can be myself with and you can be yourself with me
Strawberry lemonade get chilled with you

Chrous:
Strawberry lemonade
Chill with you
Strawberry lemonade
Chill with me
Strawberry lemonade
You can be yourself I can be myself
Come chill come Thru
you can be yourself I can be myself with you,
Strawberry lemonade mix of us
Be ourselves

Bridge:
You free to be yourself with me
I free to be myself with you
Free to be yourself free to be myself
Mix of strawberry lemonade
We free to be ourselves

Strawberry lemonade,
You can be yourself I can be myself
Strawberry lemonade,
You can be yourself I can be myself
Strawberry lemonade,
You can be yourself I can be myself
Strawberry lemonade,
Be yourself with me I be myself with you

Outro:
Strawberry lemonade forget what society says,
You can be yourself I can be myself
Strawberry lemonade,
Strawberry lemonade,
I want to get chilled with you,
You can be yourself I can be myself
We can love ourselves
Strawberry lemonade
fiachra breac Jun 20
if I could
peel back the skin
from the top of my head
and crack open my skull
and reach inside,

I would pull out shards of
a woman made of Glass.

if I could
break open the covering
to my deepest fears and
truest hopes,

I fear the fingerprints
I would find lingering
on every part and piece
would erase themselves -
edit and change - cease.

if I could draw
the nameless stars
onto the inside of my eyes

and take your hand
and let your fingertips
trace the outline of my
thoughts;

if I could stab a straw
into the grey matter,
I would ask you drink it,
just so you could taste...

if I could open my veins,
and tie the bloodied strings
to your chest;

if I could hold your hand,
and feel our fingers
tangle and entwine;

if I could crack open my ribcage,
I would let you climb in;

if, if, if...
work in progress
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