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sobroquet Jul 2016
Soma
a pharmaceutical usurpation
some subjunctive psychedelic
noxious decoction
of the capital  kind
wrought by unoriginality
a conjuring elixir
to ignite the  material  mind

Maya
will have you
if you don't recognize
behind appearances
is always a disguise
beyond the superficial
over what eyes can surveil  
may entitle you to what is
to be entailed

Yuga
beyond the ages
beyond the sages
epochs and eras
multiplied to infinity
expecting some recourse
exponential beyond sanity
gauges of the cyclical planetary

Akasha
ubiquitous aether
all pervading
all invading
revelations' recordings
substratum of
then and now
rife marshaler of how

Ishwara
great atman
ultimate overseer
transcending all time
cosmic conscience
consciousness sublime
beyond everything
sight unseen

Samadhi
reign over me
the be all and end all
of life's raisons d'être
superconsciousness
enlightenments
bestowal
of divine grace and mercy

Gunas
by knowledge of these moods
this will allow you
ambrosia of all roads
in your journey ahead
to navigate solely
without flag or fail
through equipoise unassailed

Ahimsa
through this your lips
can no longer trespass
over your welfare
or the welfare of any other
true liberation
from human inebriation
true love for one another

Siddhis
they will misunderstand you
not being like the same
eschewing commonality
for the perfected mindscape
a narrowed perspective
to focus more completely
upon the rarest of views

Om
what can be said
of this holiest sound
that permeates all ethers
the skies and the grounds
Brahman of this plane
and all that surrounds
now perish all that confounds
soma: A plant, probably with psychedelic properties, that was prepared and used in ritual fashion to enable men to communicate with the gods.

maya: The illusions the physical world generates to ensnare our consciousness.

Yuga: in Hinduism is an epoch or era within a four age cycle. A complete Yuga starts with the Satya Yuga, via Treta Yuga and Dvapara Yuga into a Kali Yuga.

akasha: The ether; primordial substance that pervades the entire universe; the substratum of both mind and matter. All thoughts, feelings, or actions are recorded within it.

Ishwara: Personal manifestation of the supreme; the cosmic self; cosmic consciousness.

ahimsa: The doctrine of non-violence toward sentient beings.

siddhis: Powers of the soul and spirit that are the fruits of yogic disciplines.

Om is one of the most important spiritual symbols (pratima).[7][8] It refers to Atman (soul, self within) and Brahman (ultimate reality, entirety of the universe, truth, divine, supreme spirit, cosmic principles, knowledge).

Mathematics a number greater than any assignable quantity or countable number (symbol ∞)
Francie Lynch Nov 2015
Aine sits in our big chair,
Her legs stretched out,
Her feet are bare;
I'm counting ten wee toes for her,
Toes I love so dear.

They lead her from the crib to stairs,
Though never far from loving care;
Those ten wee toes we love so dear,
Will take her far,
Will lead her there.

They'll get ***** in the garden
While laughing in the rain;
They'll be her fins
When she swims,
They'll wiggle
When she sings.

They'll tap out eighths and quarters
When she plays her songs;
She'll slip them into runners
For a race to last life-long.

They'll get cold on the rink
When she plays our game;
We'll rub those toes quite vigorously
To warm the ice-cold sting.

They'll fit right into heels and pumps
When she plays her game;
But for me those liddle toes of hers
Will always be the same.
"our game": hockey
OldManAtHeart Mar 2014
Unborn
You were alive and kicking
one third a child and one half me
But I was half the person
I was half-dead and hurting
And now I'm half-alive, half-dead, half-empty and half-full
Alive enough to feel the dead part of me that's missing.

In this world I can never make sense of
That makes the unnatural seem so right
Everything natural lead to you, and now I'm siding with the unnatural.
I'm living with half myself and no more you
Beautiful, alive and kicking
Kicking me into the unnatural world and yourself into oblivion

You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in black and white
But nothing about this was black or white
I'm fifty shades away from the greyest grey
And I miss you. Even if we'll never speak. I miss how much you scared me. I miss my natural world. My world of alcohol and *** and cigarettes and love and me at the centre.
And I still picked me. But you're half me.

This natural world is unfair; people who want you can't get you and people who don't want you do.
Now I'm siding with the unnatural.
But it's too grey to handle, too complex
never as beautiful as you
It's mother's Day today and I am no mother.
And even in your non-existence my hair is turning grey.

What I didn't realise when I ****** the life out of you is that I ****** some of the life out of me, too.
I know you cannot feel, but I wish I could have comforted you as you became sixths and eighths and suddenly nothing to be afraid of any more.

I wish I could have held you and briefly been your mother for just a second as you left me and as you screamed.
But you can't scream.
No, you're just cells. I'm just cells.
A nervous system away from you and
cords and worlds apart.

I wish I could have gone with you to your world as I felt the artificial peace of mine when you left me in my sleep.
I think I will prefer your world to this unnatural one.
FeelMyFeelings Jul 2013
This eraser is my trust,
huge isn’t it,
there’s so much to give
I have given it to you, now be careful
the more mistakes you make
the less there is,
the more you play with it,
the more it breaks,
the less you care for it,
the more that you lose it,
follow these guidelines,
you’ll be fine,
One, don’t draw on it,
it’s not a paper it’s an eraser,
it can get forget your mistakes,
unless they're written on there,
Two. don’t let anyone borrow it,
I’m trusting you, only you
to care for my eraser,
to be sure that you can handle it
Three, don’t break it in half,
or in fourths, not even eighths,
may seem like more but really,
it’s just easier to lose,
and once it's gone,
you can’t ever have it back.
Matthew Cuellar Jun 2010
The notes of the song -
the quarter notes
the half notes,
eighths and sixteenths
triplets and all variations -

they form in my brain
through the speaker to my ears
and form a picture,
ever flowing and moving
that depicts, sometimes,
your face and your body.

Images of different sorts
some with color and some with out
that can relax and satiate
or do the opposite
and deviate
from the normal cooing
of my heart,
creating an anxiety matched by no other.

The pictures becoming what I see in front of me
as I walk around in life. My brain and nerves -
dancing along
singing their own words to the song
and making everything right
that was once wrong.

And I’m not sure if you will get this
and understand what I mean
but I know my thoughts will never be clean
of images from sounds
dancing all around.
Written By Matthew Cuellar
Edward Coles Sep 2012
For seven-eighths of each day

I long for those instantaneous moments of

Unbridled joy.

I bid so long to Marianne

As I hear the full bubble of wine

And welcome Suzanne

And the fullness of her moistened lips.



Oh, if the eyes are portals to the soul,

Then the throat must positively be the vessel

To all that soothes the thunder

and causes our souls to shudder

In the watery pits of our gut.



These toxic tonics that we hold

Betwixt our baneful id,

And our most pathetic of egos.



This lamb that tames the lion,

Purple hearted with paranoia

and a lack of trust to rival even the most barbarous

Of governments.



**** me or don’t.

Perhaps the only mark of solace in this life

Is to be stabbed in the front

And to avoid the hustling of the scheming lovers

Behind the roman blinds of your devotion.



Set fire to Marianne.

You can lay with Suzanne

But don’t share a smoke with her.

Because she will take.

And take.

Take.

T.
Alin Nov 2014
That dark patterned line
crossing straight the moon,
centering the frozen sphere-gate
of a misty autumn night-sky,
is not a cloud to sink down on only
and float subtly for a while
< so I can feel the aura of your skin mixing with the mine >
but it is also a five line staff
and tells me an aurally perceived absolute secret so that ,
through my hearing ,
you will
rise,
glide,
twirl
and cross
other lines,
tune my gaze
and engrave a mystic score beyond your shine,  
plant each of  ‘you’s,
note by note,
in ones, halves, fourths, eighths , sixteenths and ‘pi’s
in the heart of each
<beyond the clouds away from my reach>
twinkling star  

so that anyone that could look up with a heart,
<maybe on a clear night sky>
would see a commencing song-
singing the dance of an ever weaving light-story
visible to those eyes with a knowing only that
<the knowing about a wish is
a wish that shall eternally be kept a secret>
has the enlightening technology to recreate a reflecting galaxy
with an authentic memory
that expands infinitesimally
<which we in our terms would say it expands by love
but in truth would not really know how
unless the terms are lost and we have got no time except to  > - be now-
be now
be now with me now
and now and only now
be now and with me now
and only now and now

Would you come and meet me then?
there?  
but I don’t know where… just there?
wherever all these sky lookers are
and be one of them, again ?  as we did once– on a terrace
one summer night, we watched our own story under stars,  among crowds while I asked for your light and you kissed me awake for eternity and so
would you let me kiss you this time - one more time
just for the last time  and forget that eternity  eternally this time?
Zoella Jul 2013
I wake up,
I never sleep

I fill my lungs,
I never breathe

I move my lips,
I never speak

Broken pipes that never leak

I open eyes,
I cannot see

I spire thoughts
I cannot teach

I drip in eighths,
I cannot listen

Outside you see happiness
on the inside theres nothing,

but tortured souls that cannot glisten
Joe Wilson Feb 2014
He still felt deafened by the terrible noise
From the huge field guns that both sides had
Been firing hour after hour for four days. You
Could be scared to death just from the noise.

An eighth didn’t seem like much
Two sixteenths
Four thirty-seconds
Eight sixty-fourths
Sixteen one hundred and twenty-eighths.

Following his recent promotion to Colonel
He was sitting in his new office at his new desk
Hesitating to put his pen to paper
Resisting the inevitable sorrow to come.

He was writing down the numbers – thinking
Thirty two two hundred and fifty-sixths
Sixty four five hundred and twelfths.
Now the numbers looked much bigger.
When he reached
Five hundred and twelve as a
fraction of four thousand and ninety-six
He stopped.

The number now seemed insurmountable
Yet it was still that small fraction.
But he now had to write to that number
Of wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters
And tell them that their boy would
Never again walk through their front door.

An eighth is so much more than just a fraction.

©JRW2014
This is a poem about one man's responsibility in WW1
mûre Sep 2012
The hollow of the cheek, rosy yet
Maplewood, quiet, yet stirring
breathless against the pale of the thigh
Eyes flicker in eighths upward touch secret blue
Hers is the downbeat of his coronary bolero
He, the maestro for her skyward glissando-
the unspoken, unbroken fermata
in the dying wash of sound
in the instant before the applause.
Lightbulb Martin Jan 2014
And at him She
can't get up *****
***** She won't get
Down roundest town
She got snow seek ritz.
Not in ease et al.
Sipped at air
Owe win.

Thin call parties
Heard ur now
Sewn unwell been
In fight head.
Know shuns Felt
Ired real lies ten
Spied her
Sell fear yeah till
All ill own.

Thoughts big inner red
sighed dread kin days
pull its fair ingots
true an ask whoop
A Fool.
Errand freight sands
rebate witch whit

Wit sending she sings
A mall of us
Sudden leaps
wings to retch doubt
stun dare each tout
Ooh dues we
fund her joy

none drive all seas
Her Hollers treat tang
Urge greed sold eighths
Whim bling out
Loud Uncle Ear....

All good thin geese


must
calm.
   tune
      in.
Nemo Jan 2014
Intention can mold a face
On either side of the head
Seven eighths shadowed
And one half lit
Bridged nose comprehending
Life-red cheeks
And seeking.
Sun-heated path
In any direction
Meets oak park benches
By park lamps.
Feet tinged by chilled swaying greenery;
Move forward,
Or change faces and digress?
Amanda Apr 2014
"One eighth of my heart is for tea & penning silly things on blank pages."
she murmurs under her slow breaths.

A little inward gasp falters her heartbeat upon the realization that the seven eighths of her heart has been unwittingly stolen by Mister Him.

"Sweet-heart, you have managed to take one ∞ of mine."
His voice is like buttery sunshine on winter-bitter skin.

"That's not possible, silly boy!"
Her smile punctuating each letter, sighs of bliss lives in the spaces.

"What I meant was: You have taken all of me. Not just my heart.
Soul & body.
The little kaleidoscope of moments I think at 2am are already hopelessly tangled with that hell of a smile, the astute wittiness
and
the
curve
of
your waist."

For now, I have only taken one whole of your lips. I think. He pauses and winks a upside crescent moon.

I have made you

*speechless.
Hello there lovely!
I hope with all my heart that you enjoyed this nonsensical writing!
x
Harry J Baxter Mar 2014
they are taking all of the ideas which once worked
and are forcing them into the corpses of dead horses
kids are slitting each others’ throats for the clothes on their backs
or are in charity stores stealing from the poor
the tension in the air at the dinner party has half of us
leaning on lean towards outlawdom and fifty dollar eighths
a spark of flint in the dark gives away your position on the wrong side of tracks
with eyeballs and ears waiting around every single ******* corner
so now private is ******* and they are ******* with fury
the constant race with fake identities until we find one that is safe
we caught a glimpse of the earth turning lazily on its axis
and realized how far away we all are from hand holding kumbaya camp fires
the tribes of black and metal and steel and concrete and blood are tearing through the land
and they don’t tend to take prisoners
we kept on churning out the same ******* and then got confused when they all stopped eating
so now they hunt for new witches to scapegoat
burning them on crosses and pyres until all the screaming ceases
all we can do is find a little inch of free ground
and defend it with all we have got
Bella Isaacs Sep 2021
What flawed design is this? Framed by greed, eyed by chance,
Do you think so easily you can entrap me in this dance?
It is a marriage contract in which I have no choice -
I have no ground, no sound, no voice...
I cannot. What? Either it is my future or my siblings' in jeopardy.
I exaggerate - We can afford this, but barely.
Minimum student loan: The bane of many, the burden of many
Burden of unrealistic measures. You ask me to live off borrowed money
On borrowed time? You ask me to learn as others did off reflections from the past,
When time has moved on, and moved on fast?
When the world is barking at these measures, and still it continues,
And I, at risk of being denied an education, cannot refuse
To do things, not just by halves, but by even by eighths.
And would I, I would refuse another year, and hope the Fates
Prove kind. Do they prove kind to those who complain?
Who ever loved a rebel, when the rebel was alone?
My university is giving me 2 hours of in-person teaching a week, and the rest is online, and they are asking me to travel to the campus to study, meaning I have to pay to live there. My parents are already paying for my mother's degree and my siblings' education, and they'll have to help me too, but for what? I have to take out a large student loan, for what? I have to pay the same as other students did in days gone by, when they had in-person lectures and seminars. And I get two hours a week. I am appalled, and I know I'm not the only person in this situation. It's so absurd.
Anyway, my problems aside: If you liked this, I would ask you please to consider donating to The Morten Group - Oxford (https://www.development.ox.ac.uk/mecfs). This would help fund my mother's PhD, in which she will be trying to find the cause of ME/CFS and other serious fatigue-related illnesses, which affect the quality of life of millions. Thank you so much!

UPDATE: I've found out I am having more in-person contact time, thank goodness! But still less than I would pre-COVID!
Tim Knight Feb 2016
One day our spines’ll tesselate under sage soft duvets as storms sweep across us and no one will cry;
not one noise shall slip from tongues
‘cos strength comes from keeping quiet
or carrying on.

You’re a now realised kindness that doesn’t know what breath is
or how the north circular works in festive rush hours home,
but I’ll kiss the answers upon your tender carbon tapered chest and hope the toner never runs low
(your dad would’ve handcrafted every thing he knew in semaphore if he’d have pulled through,
but you’ll learn in time, too, that time does not ruin fewer experiences than being).

I lean in. Whisper this (above) across your one body,
three eighths the size of a coffee table hardback book:
the result of patience pined for
that I mimed along to motherhood the best I could for nine months
and now, here, I lift the hood and work out what to do next       in this rush to settle down and sit,
sip until you snooze off into silence.
Here I carry you and do not notice the weight,
stare at the gape of you, my newly framed little one held in the palm of my hand,
squat full four pinter named after someone we knew.
You landed lunar surface side up,
smoothed new to the toes
and I wonder how I’ll meet you
I wonder how this goes.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
Daniel Magner Apr 2013
My pupils are turning green
that loot, that coin, that greed
money doesn't grow on trees
**** straight, but I throw cash
on eighths, domed so my foot
don't hit the brake.
high on the way, I don't tail gate
I pass
Hear a bump in my trunk
my stash,
rattlin' around to the amp,
off that ramp, round the corner to the
courthouse,
sippin' on a shake
bought with food stamps
**** this I'm out
home to crash on the couch
and scheme
cream, cream, I want my cheese
stacked like chedda' on the line
at my minimum wage grind
Cops gave me a fine
like I got time to pay that ****
can't blame 'em though
they tryin' to get what I got
in my pocket
my wallet
you called it
Money
© Daniel Magner 2013
A L Davies May 2011
montréal, je t’aime.*
—but sometimes, you can be so loud,
so noisy,
that i wish i could cut you into eighths;
devour you, piece-by-piece,
eat away the hustle and bustle until
silence is all that beckons to me from the dark.
you shouldn't keep me up so late montréal.
n stiles carmona Jan 2021
Where'd you wander off to? I was one lonesome night-shift from writing another piece entirely – Allen y Federico, chasing Whitman as he climbs the paywall guarding Bohemia, ashen fog of beard left trailing in his wake. Ah, but here you are, my High Court of Muses! Lavender castoffs of two mechanical empires, camped outside on the supermarket pavement: awaiting a dawn delayed by the skyscrapers it hides behind. The Best Minds Left Standing... Lorca’s feet beating faraway Gitano rhythms; Ginsberg spouting love-letters re: the weeds’ anarchic growth from the concrete cracks... and one smaller sycophant.

I’ve offerings of oranges – Spanish nostalgia reduced to contraband – ‘stolen’, bruised, saved from dumpster fates. Wouldn't you have done the same? Isn’t food waste just state-sanctioned sacrilege? Naranjas, clementinas, full miniature moons split into crescents: I figured (halved) you'd (quartered) be starved (eighths). You savour each sacred drop of juice in ways I've yet to master. I’d always been preoccupied with expiry dates... Moloch who sets up shop inside my brain... yet time melts between my lips and I am with You under UV floodlights. I am with You where the overhead glow may not be starlight but it’s not the worst alternative. I am with You – until the checkout boy steps out for a cigarette and when Allen’s eyes follow in pursuit, I’ve lost him again. Holy, he mutters into his final segment of fruit; holy, I repeat, imagining Eve’s overeager sprint into the wide-open prisons of thought.
    I am a woman cloved in two, better half wrapped in citrus peel and tied with string – para tí, maestro Lorca. Does it bother you that these buildings stand closer to the Sun than you could have ever reached? Yet you were nothing short of an Icarus, and how close you came! Abstract wings borne from words and notoriety! Your mythology was written to fit a flamenco guitar – if they don’t know that, they don’t know you – through musical folklore, Franco tried to **** that which was immortal. His legacy is a nation of graves and a granddaughter in the gutter press.
    I begin to feel that history is a ripple-effect of looking over one’s shoulder and deciding “you’d hate it here.” There’s always the dawn. You wait for it with practised patience – pervasive optimism – the ability not to end an “always was” with “and always will be”. Is it all you’d waited for? Has time diminished its novelty? Will you write it down and tell me what I’d slept through?
    Out cold, you turn me onto my side so I don’t choke when Moloch finds his way out.
just a writing exercise rly lol. direct response to ginsberg's 'a supermarket in california' about his literary hero, walt whitman (i feel like it'd make even less sense without having read that beforehand). one day i'll write something that isn't too long for folks to bother reading - until then...
There is an edge.
To me.
Where the lines meet the air, where I am a juxtaposition between the earth and the sky.
Where I am black or white,
Never grey.
There is an edge,
Folded in half, into quarters, into eighths,
Into infinity edges are folded
To fit, to puzzle, to contain
A box, a boat, a decision.
There is an edge,
There is the stopping point,
There is a long way down,
A line I cannot cross
A place I have dared to venture,
And died a thousand times.
There is an edge,
And here I sit on the precipice,
Here I contemplate the fall,
Contemplate the sky holding the air,
Sharp to the tongue, and whipped into the ears
Here is the edge
Where the mind and the heart,
Do not cross,
Multiple edges, of juxtaposition,
Of falling, of dying, of breaking,
Between the earth and the sky,
The black and the white,
The heart and the break.....
There is an edge,
Where I sit and contemplate,
The line between life and death,
The edge between safety and chaos,
Between fear and bliss.
There is an edge,
to me,
Where my edges met yours,
Where lines were crossed,
Where bliss met fear,
Where the edges of my heart,
Thawed,
Where my edges met yours,
Between the earth and the sky.
And I'm here on this edge,
And in tears I wonder why.
Remmy Aug 2017
maybe i need to accept my flaws
what flaws?
no darling no more denial
you jump without leaping
leap without jumping
you dont think about the situation in its entirety
you didnt think about the situation surrounding her
you just saw her and your feelings for her
you didnt think you just leaped
youu leaped without jumping
and jumped without leaping
you need to do both
you need to jump and leap
you need to remember that situations come in wholes
not halves or quarters or eighths
they come in wholes
jump and leap my darling
jump and leap
sandra wyllie Dec 2018
I’m a sawmill in the sky.
And I’ll cut you down to size
in eighths like apple pie.

Don’t overlook me
as a jumpy little flea
that is hidden in the hair
of your old grandmother’s chair.

Don’t contemplate
me as second rate.
I’m better than anyone.
Second to none.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2021
EIGHT OKTAS

Walked out the door.

First thing that hit me
was an isobar.

Right in the right eye.

A weather map had fallen
out of the blue sky.

A row of black *****
lying in the back yard.

A star perched
upon a roof top.

A warm front
lay across the road

in a solid red line
with red semi-circles

which shortsightedly I
had almost fallen over.

An occluded front
lay perfectly balanced

upon a low wall
upon which graffiti scrawled:

"Up de Rids!"

Their fanaticism
badly misspelled.

Weather! Whatever!

I tried to put on
a brave front

but it was no use.

There were tears.

Here, here and:
. . . here.

*

Complete cloud cover (eight oktas).

In meteorology, an okta is a unit of measurement used to describe the amount of cloud cover at any given location such as a weather station. Sky conditions are estimated in terms of how many eighths of the sky are covered in cloud, ranging from 0 oktas (completely clear sky) through to 8 oktas (completely overcast).

Isobars are lines on a weather map joining together places of equal atmospheric pressure.

On coloured weather maps, a warm front is drawn with a solid red line with red semicircles.

Symbol for rain is a black ball and the symbol for snow is a star, then you know sleet will be a ball plus a star, and two, three or four ***** denotes heavier rainstorms.

— The End —