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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Ishmael Hurst Jun 2010
No towering, flowering, landlocked tree
Will weep for the waning life of thee
Forgive them, friend, they never saw you smile
Forgive them, friend, they never saw you grin

To mistress maritime you were married
For her you lived, so with her be buried
Below the surface of sorrowful sin
Where above breathe hateful and hollow men

Solar shadows spin and empty seas flow
Though they are bereft your supernal glow
Forgive me, father, I can't seem to smile
Since you died, father, I can't seem to grin



(And from the waves we are ******)

(And unto the waves we are ******)
At that hour
the breeze turns around.
The fishermen are coming back
with hands splintery,
without lips,
with eyes of stone.
The bottom is empty
like a bottle at midnight.
The shore is there
where somebody’s waiting.
They’ve sleep for a long time. Dreaming.
With hands locked together.
He, the wind, the last one
an orphan, leads
them…


The original:


Възхвала

Във този час
бризът се обръща.
Рибарите се връщат
с ръце нацепени,
без устни,
с очи от камък.
Дъното е празно
като бутилка в полунощ.
Брегът е там,
където някой чака.
Отдавна спят. Сънуват.
С ръце преплетени.
Той, вятърът, последният
сирак, ги
води…


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
have you ever made a spider a Palestinian? i have, today, refreshing the paint-job on the back of my house, a whole family strutting away from fresh paint being applied (poets cure boredom, they simply don't know it), the cardigans erase & rewind, my uncle would be perfect with his age to work out the demographics - my age circuit, 30 and listening to the palette of those in full-throttle of the 1990s - anyway, refreshing the paint on the back of my house, not for dough, but for the sweat of my brow - learning i succumb to acrophobia on the ladder - but i did it anyway... i love phobias, they're not the fear, they're like a box of chocolates... you never know what will make you startle... it's not permanent, phobias shouldn't be considered permanent, they're too reflexive... and we all know that nibbling them in the reflective realm immediately suggests irrationality, not to a reaction, but to a continuum of a reaction: a ladder, a giant spider to boot. but i never watched a spider eat fresh paint... watched the ******* do the nibble on paint... ***** - a getty cardinal spider shooting paint pollutants with its leg, eating the Chernobyl cocktail, the rainbow melt in a puddle of oil spill... junkies everywhere; so that done, a beer and a quick look at the Olympics...

if table tennis was as relevant as table tennis -
i prefer table tennis,
judo is too cool too - classic Greek wrestling
with feet to match the hands -
i think in terms of the Olympics we're in
the Gobi desert - so many sports are shown only
once every 4 years, the once that don't make the dough...
i'd prefer the Olympics without the pop culture
exponents that keep us hungry for spectacles
during the 4 years apart -
hand-ball, Romania thrashed by Angola -
ladies first, of course,
and weight-lifting, weighs in at 48kg and lifts
80+kg... well Jihad John versus G.I. Jane...
a pretty match up... look, i came from a certain background
i won't be making politically correct statements,
if it weren't for my personal initiative i'd be scooping
grub from an industrial flat surface roof like my father...
i don't mind getting paid... i just love the fact that i will
and if ending up homeless, i have enough heart already
to start a religion, or something.
of course i'll miss my personal library of books and albums,
who wouldn't? i'll join the divorcee crew and it'll be
like it always was supposed to be.
but am i really that ridiculous? think about it,
i use ridiculous words in my vocabulary, after all i went
to a catholic school, it was bound to happen -
not true secular cool, sorry -
but is my usage of certain words completely penniless
more ridiculous in the form of an oligarch buying
a pearl entombed in a custard pie? of a yacht for a month
at Monte Carlo? seriously? if i utilise the words
Paraclete or Antichrist after just skimmed rereading of
a psychiatrist's religious venture in Jung's *answer to Job

am i as ridiculous as those barons?
i don't think so... i read that book like Flaubert instructed
concerning all books: read in order to live it -
a book is a transplant, some leave a heart, come a ****,
some a brain, some a pint of blood with a book...
i hope to leave the worm of hell licking your ear for a sloppy
Jim - read Jung... almost atypical German Christian
intelligentsia byproduct, neutral Swiss just after the second
world war... Freud read Nietzsche and so did Mussolini...
****** was very much Jung... it's a strange book...
we all know that the Greeks hijacked Judaism...
the Romans were like: whatever that meant...
shoved it into a cauldron of the prefix omni-
and attributed to the prefix geographies and geometries
all inclusive (herr deutsche came along though) -
but the Greeks hijacked the oddity of Judea at that
special time because they had scientific inclinations
rather than aesthetic inclinations of the Romans,
and they wanted answers... got **** all...
it's not the Jews that thought the Greek involvement
ridiculous, it was the Romans... hence the omni-
and -presence, -potency, etc. - the Greeks just had
those mythical names for ****... Logos, Sophia...
that's the funny thing with mythology and history -
the book of Revelation by the looks of it simply looks
like a redemption of Oedipus... mythology is a logic
of history where either none was recorded on papyrus
since no one required hush-hush intrigue talk and people
spoke to each other face to face rather than to a profile -
mugs and mustard seeds -
you can always buy the book, C. G. Jung answer to Job,
it's peppered with too much Greek, and very little
Roman care... the theological addition of a globalised world
(under monotheism, failed and thriving, whichever)
is bound to play the montage of omni- and simply add -
God = omnivocab - i have my limitations of words -
i had to censor or rather select a vocabulary in order
to process the interchanges to reach a conclusive churning
without an ultimate goal other than to preserve a continuum,
like Balzac boring everybody with the 19th instalment of
the human comedy. so after reading this book on religious
matters by a psychiatrists i'm sorta bothered...
i'm tripping... obviously not seeing any hyper-geometry
of your choice... i just think the Greeks did the most horrid
hoarding and looting know to man... which reflected
the looting of Byzantium and never reaching the Holy Land...
the barbarians never cared to be honest, they only
started caring when they started to castrate the boys
for the "holy" choir rather than circumcise them...
then they went Berserk... the book of revelation can only
mean the quantum mechanics of history, bound to
mythology - Oedipus was very real... the blackened
heart of Greeks even though Aristotle, Socrates, Plato...
that intellectual import and expression didn't help...
after all Eddie Gein gave birth to the latter part of the 20th
century pop culture... Texas Chainsaw... Haemorrhoid Hannibal,
House of a 1000 Corpses.. history and journalism
dismisses mythology, i dismiss journalism as simply
a hyper-sensitivity that keeps dialectics out of the picture,
a monologue of opinions... mythology just doesn't seem
that insensible given our perspective into history with Darwin
and millions of years ago with the sea-turtles... you know
how gossip works... it sooth the reality of it had happened...
because we prefer oysters and chicken thighs to digest than
the tales of Eddie, oh yeah... Fe Maiden... d'uh!
the Greeks looted the Hebrews to purge themselves of
Oedipus... the weakness came by keeping estranged with
Narcissus and iconoclasm... you want an extract?
bombshell blonde at your bidding -
assumptio mariae: mary as the bride is united with the son
in the heavenly-chamber, and as sophia, with the godhead
.
basically Mary is a schizophrenic ****-child of lust
for a Roman centurion who makes the story of a ****** birth
her wish to bed-wet her son (Jesus) into joining **** John
and Toe into her ****** (***** *****, like her already)
in heaven - she thinks her body will **** her "******-birth"
son and her wisdom (Sophia is her alias, or nickname)
will **** god in the head. oh hell this is sacrilege -
i'm not afraid of it... boo! ha! caught you mouth dry with the
boogie man. so this is a psychiatrist reasoning his religion...
as i said, the Greeks had no omni- Roman put the **** back
into his boots before he starts river-dancing...
all these quizzical ultra-mythical words that the Greeks
used starting with the Logos and Hippocrates were attached
to the failed Platonism of the unconverted Damocles principle
and the tyrant succumbing to drink and never bound to
a sober wish for anything more - (i'm guessing his intentions
were laid with Nietzsche as source of discipleship) - in short
let's just say that Platonism failed in practice,
and it needed a populist movement, a redemption from
the curse of Oedipus came from Hebrew with the schizoid-birth,
Joseph bin Adam was: better bite that ****** of the cow-fruit
and remind her of the stoning practices around here -
oh it's all pretty much Eastenders around here, it's
not the ******* Vatican marble corridors, we're talking
Gaza dust sneezing while whipping the donkey's *** to
move along... split-mind: beautiful metaphor... premature
dementia, obviously misunderstood... if premature "dementia"
while so much creativity among the split-minded...
it's like all the zodiac signs became jealous of Gemini,
incorporating Gemini-Solipsism... well, i have a neck like a bull
and a *****-count like a charging bull... but the thinking
behind the 3.a.m. is kinda staggering... oh right, you want
more quirky clues from Jung's book:
- silvia loret
- maritza mendez
- aria giovanni             (get a hybrid and i'll believe in Disneyland) -
****, that ain't what i was going to write, never mind,
you get a chance to see the palette of what's fudge for
fucky-fucky sized 16+ and what the Renaissance men
knew would be better than duck-feathers in pillows;
- meister eckhart: gott ist selig in der seele
- puer aeternus: vultu mutabilis albus et ater
    (of changeful countenance, both white and black)
- pius XII's apostolic constitution (munificentissimus dei)
   words like muni-imus really make you train in
    grammatical arithmetic, don't they? playing doctor with
   them as to where to cut them for a aqua format of rivers
   is quiet like reciting a 5x table up to 30 (sometimes)
- oportebat sponsam, quam pater desponsaverat, in θalmis caelestibus habitare (the bride whom the father had espoused had to abide in the heavenly bridal-chambers): st. john damascene (encomium in dormitionem);

summa summarum?
Nietzsche answered Job... this is my answer to Jung as also an answer to Lot - **** your daughters, your wife turns into a pillar of salt... and i equate that as a precursor to the man of sorrows on the ****** crucifix - salt is a metaphor for misery (that's etymology for you); and the Roman phonetic encoding survived over the fates of Egyptian and Babylonian is precisely why the adopted son of Caesar later made his uncle's adopted nephew his successor - as with the four dogma canon gospels, we're replicas of the tetragrammaton... well... i was never confirmed, i'm one short of joining the god-men that came out from catholic school after choosing a name for themselves they could have changed not having wished to be known by the two names given to them by their parents... few did... i just ended up an acronym of Einstein: M C E.
John Mahoney Jan 2012
O, Death,
thy softly gripped hand,
has reached for me
with such deliberate
sweetness,
embrace me now
fully,
while I have been
spent in my
finest moments
Wordfreak Jan 2019
It really is amazing
How a human hand
Can turn taught strings
Into a song that touches the soul.
Inspired by and titled after a Mike Dawes instrumental, which in my opinion is one of the greatest pieces ever composed.
1384

Praise it—’tis dead—
It cannot glow—
Warm this inclement Ear
With the encomium it earned
Since it was gathered here—
Invest this alabaster Zest
In the Delights of Dust—
Remitted—since it flitted it
In recusance august.
Chris Saitta Jul 2019
You who have never known the loveliness of love,
Gather your heads on the torn pillow’s edge of mud,
Under the wood-tar shadows of camphor-aided sleep,  
Where your low-flung groans are starvations of sound,
And the amputated clouds, insinuated with gangrene
And blood-stained woods, are still bound to the shooting
Stars that fell beside you and flung up hissing rays of grass.

Parents of the midnight sky, the stolen stars of your children
Open their broken mouths to the battlefield heart of trespass.
To their soldiers’ eyes, the floor of heaven is uncut grass,
Wet with rain and mold and the unlifted wings of Pegasus,
Whose unearthly hoof to unearthly earth scuffs the clod
Of the lunette for the cannons to divulge the great, stuttering
Coda of everything old, malformed of breath and bone.  

Some grass somewhere will now seem the hair of a sweetheart,
And those dead eyes will aways stare, too fond of love unknown.
So the dead soldier and grass and sky conspire to hold a woman,
So the soldier makes the truce between earth and sky,
Between man and the divine, though the chestnut trees    
In red human tongues, pay their deep-forested encomium to distance,
In misspilled gorgeousness like Apollo surveying his own tomb.
This is a Civil War poem that doesn’t pretend to examine causes or the sides, just the aspect of war and its toll.

“Lunette” is simply a crescent-shaped, earthen fortification that was used for cannon in the Civil War, with several well-preserved examples on the Chancellorsville battlefield.
Dennis Go Jul 2010
Wise men tell their tales
Of yesteryear
With vigor and pride
To youngsters and noblemen
In accordance
With their passion
To teach.

Fools tell their stories
Of mockeries
With evil and filth
To ascertain encomium
In accordance
With their pleasure
To scorn.

Young ones keep silent
And understand
As the words are drawn
From both the fool and the wise
In accordance
With their desire
To learn.
Excerpt from “fake” encomium given years ago...
at Lake Wobegone High School (my alma mater),

and recently discovered ridiculous rough draft
amidst plethora of junk emails
while practice reading some lines
regarding Midsummer Night's Dream
upcoming performance.

Arch back like a professional ballet dancer
to stand out from other pedestrian applicants
seeking to fill my well-worn shoes.

Illuminate your soul
via modest communication
sans sole full insight
acquired thru being apprenticed
with this storied prestigious law firm
of Anne Culle, Achilles Heale,
and Marathon Nike.
  
Keep your nose
to the academic grindstone
despite the temptation
to appropriate the international family business
and graduate with supreme accolades
from this famous father.

He forsook frivolity
per his peers
in exchange for a stock reputation
of gentility honesty, and integrity
despite his humble roots
as the only male heir
of a Middle Eastern European
Jewish mother and father.

They scrimped, saved and sacrificed
scarce resources to set the stage
for this scion
of well-deserved fame and fortune.

Never forget those grandparents
whose adherence to work
their fingers to the bone
(literally) allowed, enabled
and provided this founding partner
per the trio of stalwart attorneys
for the underdogs
of the World Wide Web.

Match deeds with credo of obedience
to the law of the land,
as epitomized by Abraham Lincoln.

Such obeisance to a democratic dogma
will be firm stepping-stones
to engender and kindle tinder
an Amazon zone
of cathartic karma
from paternal persona.

Such acquiescence toward morals
of the conscience (and remembrance
of previous generations
blood, sweat and tears)
will serve as intrinsic manna
for clients to clamor
like an unstoppable rolling stone
to seek counsel
from one whose genuine
heart felt equalitarian demeanor
a near perfect recipe for satisfaction
for helping others smooth out
jagged abutments arising in their lives.

Rather than lecture and command
with a dictatorial cutthroat reign of terror
(as casually espoused in “The Prince”
by Machiavelli), this democratic,
humanistic, liberal minded torchbearer
of justice advises active listening
(as advocated by the late Jean Dole,
my renown mentor from Lima, Pennsylvania),
inculcating intuitive posturing
toward delivering random acts of kindness.

This includes offer services
pro bono (with Cher full smile)
if an individual, family,
municipality, et cetera appears copacetic
yet struggles against insurmountable odds
from even chew will fickle finger of fate.

Exemplify by example of zeal
for the underdog
(immersed in some catastrophic series
of unfortunate events)
that money need not be demanded
before the welfare of the downtrodden
(sic – such as the Harris Family
from Penn Valley –
who live among the wealthiest people,
yet feel like outcasts of Poker Flats)
from the mere exuberance
of witnessing an ear to ear smile of gratitude.

Rather than be biased, inclined
to be prejudiced based
on cursory observations
of one or many barely clinging
to the life raft of survival,
I (as a humble human)
encourage a relationship of trust
before casting an indiscriminate eye
toward those less fortunate
to live in the lap of luxury.

Luck (or the lack thereof)
an invisible yet potent additive
to this mix for those flush
with disposable income
or exiled to a hand to mouth
hardscrabble existential dilemma.

Daily acknowledgement
for ethnic, genetic and quixotic
dice throw of chance in tandem
with loving support of immediate
kith and kin instrumental
in keeping in check
bombastically egotistical,
haughtily radical degradation
of fixation of values
steeped in appreciation
of aesthetics, beauty, charm,
decency, equality
from gifts hoed inside.

Joyfulness keeps love moving
needling offset predilections.

Quality rests squarely
upon the pillars of staying
within the bounds of service
to those less able bodied
or beset with untold obstacles
that discourage setting virtue
(or the closest approximation
of what that means
to the inquiring mind)
as precedent to blaze a trail
of care and concern.

Always maintain benevolent devotion
forswearing greediness.
    
Invoke keepsake mandating omnipotent
natural personal righteousness
to vaccinate yourself against
heinous, nefarious, pernicious,
et cetera rapacious
trapdoors of selfishness.
Mahesh Hegde Dec 2013
When aversion arises in us, we may get jealous,
Enigmatic, but it takes against them who's vivacious.
Then we act flamboyant to cope up with them,
But when there's no encomium, life's still like a stem.
Hatred is a seed of frustration and crisis,
It builds in us nothing but prejudices,
Dont get cynical, see the world with tinted eyes,
Beauty that it holds, like at night, the fluoroscent fireflies.
Affection is indespensable which should be adduced,
It is inconcievable and cannot be induced.
Powers are always used to do something rough,
Otherwise to win the world, Love is Enough..
A hustle flow, trips to Buffalo, Women annoyed by bricks, in contrast to when the cabin air hits her lips. You wonder why i do this ? I do this because I find it therapeutic for all my enthusiast to love my poetry, you stupid, my brain faster than cray computers,

This tone this poem's micro processor is submerged in cryogenic fuelers on some rude **** because you better not use it or confused it.


Her voice is my music.

 She's a Mortal atomic element

her circular third eye sees all ingredients

,  Atlantis was surrounded by four sea walls,  reading one fourth of the library of Alexandria before it was burned to the floor, every time she draws I see the shapes of sacred geometry I wish I can see more, before it gets lost. As we start reminiscing about the scripts that was written before the beginning. Can't even count the art I expended so far ,I don't really write anymore it's been so long I wish the clock will hurry up and tick, understand I'm timeless to this ****. You wanna laugh now and cast your belligerent doubt? I will show you what poetry is really about. The more pretentious the more apprehensive the sentence! Your time equals a purchase, these verses have perennial purpose, these other writers are worthless when it comes to me approaching the podium, I delivered my encomium, to a selected few, see I don't like compliments because it's counterproductive to my mood, but that's just you being you. I rather you learn off me and tell me what your about to do, about to create, weld and shape. Close your eyes , ritualize relax your spine ,without trying you can shift your mind.  It is my understanding  when I'm high I'm channeling but when I'm with people who can't "be" I'm animal handling. What is jean determine to ascertain for himself? There's a proverb that goes one should know thyself before one can know the world, so I showed myself. Checkpoints require all concentration I can muster, submitting specifics about the operation I'm running, but no details are public.  I've apologized, but I can't change who I am , I've tried to change the future but you can't budge the past. Jude, our uniforms match so we look the same from the sky, the only time you see a difference is when we die. An unrelenting  pace creating the main route sulfuric nitric acid burns through the labyrinth you need to take action rigid hommagnized metal I mix words that shouldn't happen.........................
Mahesh Hegde Dec 2013
When aversion arises in us, we may get jealous,
Enigmatic, but it takes against them who's vivacious.
Then we act flamboyant to cope up with them,
But when there's no encomium, life's still like a stem.
Hatred is a seed of frustration and crisis,
It builds in us nothing but prejudices,
Dont get cynical, see the world with tinted eyes,
Beauty that it holds, like at night, the fluoroscent fireflies.
Affection is indespensable which should be adduced,
It is inconcievable and cannot be induced.
Powers are always used to do something rough,
Otherwise to win the world, Love is Enough..
Dear Father,

It is with an intoxicated, profound, and perhaps misled familial respect and gratitude
That I write you and I ask of you
That you assess your cavalier attitude
On your own life and widespread dissidence you feel
For when your recklessness kills you and I am to serve you leal
I would be disingenuous to gaze upon the eyes of all your peers
And not deliver an encomium weighted by your grievances and jeers
So if you must die, please give me explicit instruction that you have cured your lover's quarrel with life and it's inhabitants
If you cannot I will stress the points of your plight with an unrelenting adamance

I have the honor to be your obedient servant,
M. Whit
Keith W Fletcher Dec 2016
Do not give me reason to haunt your mind
For I will dig and dredge up what I can find
Turning it back on your placid core
Non sequitur alliterations a lit alit alittle more
   FOR I AM NOTORIOUS

So, do not doubt my ability to route
You... from your sanctimonious intransigency
To push and pull you into a corner where
You never thought you would be  
   FOR I AM
INSUFFERABLY NOTORIOUS

Should I find you neglect to collect
the pieces you discard
I will indeed ...
...far exceed the need...you plead
so hard to accede

   FOR I AM
AMBIVALENTLY NOTORIOUS
       AND INSUFFERABLE

Any abuse necessary to waylay
any excuse
You choose to use
In order to...
...cling
To your inner sanctum
Will i infuse..as I

Resort
to retort
By waxing
Perspicaciously panegyric
Upon your very being
In order to inspire..desire
With any and all necessary
Encomiastic encomium
So as to create higher aspirations

For I am notoriously cruel and inspiring
As I push one to the brink
Because....one way or another..
One way or another
I will....
.. Whatever it takes

I will... Make you think!

FOR I AM.... NOTORIOUS!
Sans Eldest Daughter Eden Liat

No matter this papa
who may as well live in Zaire
he reckons "star student"
no longer relevant to me,
now grown independent upon
your twenty second

orbit since...yesteryear
(happy birthday orbit around the sun
fast approaching twenty second year
December twenty second,
this glum papa doth wonder, where
he wishes owning magical power

to reach back across space/
time continuum and volunteer
to make amends for situations,
he contributed to make unbear
rubble analogous to aftermath
of unleashing paternal thermonuclear

inflicting harm upon
your psychological state
as if pierced with a razor sharp spear
unnecessarily provoking rage,
dischord, grief, et cetera,
now fallout rear

ring up inside my
psyche with **** quare
lee invisibly pummeling,
thus I indirectly persevere,
albeit indirectly thawing chill
between us without,

I can no longer overbear
the torturous repercussions
as if choking by unseen near
medium small at large lightly
shocking me with about
a bajillion microampere

charge emanating
from tragicomic mask
courtesy Classic Greek
playwrights, whose ghosts lear
sporting harris tweed knitwear
haunting me in close proximity - jeer
ring at my parental facebook,

and sundry faux pas
unwittingly causing unpleasant interfere
rinse knowing (i.e. intuitively
sensing) telepathically here
ring cackling laughter,
and imagining a cruel glare.
The pyromaniac within yours truly
beckons sacrificial ritual
mine burning (man's)
sacred plastic bags
of ******* (comprised of: hairs combed,
ditto trimmed from dead head,
filthy lucre - ha, phlegm
wrapped in tissue paper,
snips and snails,
and puppy dogs' tails),
awaiting flame thence said materials
reincarnated into sooty ash

no matter such fiery rhetoric
would be deemed
illogical or brash,
cuz I would sooner serve as a crash
test dummy while riding *******
with spicy specie missus dash
(subsequently witnessing Chiroptera
bat out of hell bat an eyelash
at weird ways of wordsmith)
subsequently prompting me
a praetorian guard reincarnate,

whose coat of shining armor
after radiant dancing sunbeams
beating down ferociously
upon the terra firma indicating
resplendent morning has broken
to blindingly flash
belying onerous task
setting sharp teeth into
bite size meaty morsel that gnash,
whereby said raw bits of comestibles
masticated into hash.

Sheesh, yours truly the fire starter
his fiery soul he would willingly barter
with the devil, who might be repulsed
all the way to kingdom come
courtesy one powerful farter,
whose name alone sends shivers,
especially snaking down
the spines of Thamnophis.

Maybe being a garbage patch kid,
the progeny of renown Chemist
B.B. Harris and to slightly lesser extent
late culinary cuisine queen Harmit Harms
Kuritsky – (both parents deceased)
as well as a long haired
pencil necked geek
even going Halloweening once
as chief garbage taster
helps explain this fixation
retaining said plastic bags of trash,
which mode of disposal
would ideally be courtesy kindling tinder.

This combustible transunion link analogous
to their representative first electric kool aid
basic laboratory litmus test date), which
took place without a hitch, and telepathically
encouraged begetting retinue of revered
sons and daughters, whose ken hopefully
burned with passion KRISPR incubated,
inculcated, and incurred genetic outlook
ideally transmitted to prolific brood
of begotten babes.

This kid felt embers crackling, popping,
and snapping with yen that burned from
within and without buns sin burner of this
cingular earthlinked son.

Pardon me while I attend
to formidable task
to buzzfeed incinerator,
which cries out like a hungry caterpillar
a rumbling easily mistaken
for the Alaskan bull worm.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2021
what a mismatch, i'm currently sitting on a wheeled chair
from the box / office room of the house...
it's much taller... the keyboard is sitting on my
bedside table: much shorter...
to what i'm used to... a comfortable leather chair
that's below the side table the keyboard is usually
placed on... i'm almost double hunched over...
perhaps i should think about sitting on the floor
in a Turkish akimbo... or kneeling...
my elbows are firmly rooted into my legs
as i try to get some balance... my legs are spread out
so they don't slide about on the wooden floor...
woke up late, had some things to discuss with
someone... i guess i sleep longer hours
when i know i have a peace of mind...
might have gone to bed at 4am... woke up at 12pm...

i didn't start doing **** well until... after 8pm...
proper... i.e. painting the ceiling all white...
with a flashlight...
how else would you paint white on white
during the winter months if not using a flashlight?
why? to see which areas are wet...
and which areas are dry...
the normal lightning was turned on...
sure... but it doesn't give you the required
perspective...

**** VALSPAR! complete and utter...
überscheiße!
what the hell was i painting with?
balsamic vinegar... a mixture of ***** and milk?!
splattering everywhere...
usually decorative paint is reminiscent of
custard... it doesn't stink...
this stuff was splattering everywhere...
i ended up cleaning dots of drool almost every
second stroke...
oddly enough i had some left-over VALSPAR
in the shed... someone should do a quality control
on this company... their older product is perfect
for ceiling decorative painting...

well... ****** of a light in the ceiling...
i rarely turn it on... if i lose something...
the crackling was creaking...
it was found to happen...
****! the ceiling light blew out the fuse...
down i go... to switch the fuse box on...
seems like i don't need a flashlight
to spot the wet paint anymore..
when i turned my bedside lamp:
in a cloche... apparently dry paint casts a shadow...
wet paint... doesn't: wet paint absorbs the light...
but old, dry, paint... even if it's white on white?
as clear as day...

it took me about an hour and a half to "horde" out
my possessions from the bedroom to the box / office
room... as i was taking the books out,
piling them on the floor, memorising how they were
ordered... no, not alphabetically,
my own idiosyncratic system, i won't go into the details...
but i asked myself: why do i own so many books?!
come to think of it, what's the point
of owning so many books one has already read?

i already have a project in mind...
i'll take a ruler... measure each line... measure each
paragraph, measure each page,
then multiply each page by the number of pages...
i want to know what the "metaphysics"
looks like... of reading a... 1000+ page stunner...
when compared to... walking a marathon...
or cycling for 40 miles..
after all.. Heidegger's Sein und Zeit (on and off)
took me about 2 years to complete:
an amalgamation of reading and thinking...
then years later: putting dasein into practice...
the right sort of dasein...
stewarding a football match...
it takes time... oh ****... the wine i started making
almost 2 months ago...
i checked up on it...
looking good... a nice rosé:
a pink resembling something akin to
embarrassment...

so many books... it almost feels like a Roman Polanski
film: the Ninth Gate... i don't care
about the personal tribulations...
i appreciate the work... a film for any bibliophile out
there... Kevin Spacey to boot...
come on... who can't side with Lester Burnham?
a much more invested role than that portrayed
by Michael Douglas in Falling Down...

i own so many books that... to be frank?
my local Romford library ought to be shamed...
ashamed... they own trivial stuff:
i, on the other hand: own the juice...
****'s sake... i own books from the 19th century!
funny side-note...
the older the books are... even though they might
have hard-covers... they become lighter
than... fresher print... perhaps the ink dries out...
the paper dries out...
or... perhaps the knowledge contained in them
weighs more...

two pristine examples...

1. desiderii erasmi
      roterodami
    colloquia familiaria
   et encomium moriae
LIPSIAE
sumtibus et typis car. tauchnitii
  1829

it has become such a fragile piece of work...
why? the binding has gone to ****
since i wanted to read it... in Latin...
i did likewise with a 19th century first cheap edition
of Dickens' the Pickwick papers...
the binding gave way.... because i was reading it...
i had to buy a cheap paperback edition
to: not finish reading it...
last time i heard: you can't reread the Pickwick Papers...
great... i don't reread books...
if some critique suggests that rereading is impossible...
finishing the first Dickens novel serialisation
should be a problem... also circa the 1800s...

2. the beauties of Sterne
(and some accounts of his life)
London: printed for J. Walker... 1811...
W. Wilson, printer,  st. john's sq., London...

3. the rubaiyat of omar khayyam..
   printed by chiswick press ltd.
  new soughgate, N11... 1944...

i have some cheap *** edition of a Rumi collection...
now... that's Islam... that's the sort of humanity
i admire... transcendental, clenching for the universal quest...
together, or not at all...

like with the current advent of superhero movies...
comic books translated into the medium
of movies...
i could do with just one, simply based on the soundtrack...
Unbreakable... that's it... i'm done...
well... with one exception...
X-Men Apocalypse...
hearing a ****** accent being lent...
it's kind of refreshing to not hear...
EVIL GENUIS RUSSIAN
or... FOREVER **** GERMAN /
RESURRECTED WEIMAR TRANSGENDER ******
ADDICT PUFFED-RICE...

my own private library would put the local library to shame!
out from the supposed night of socialism...
within the confines of capitalism....
ah... a private affair... private ownership...
but now that i've emptied the room
from my gems, these books... some newspaper pages
i use like i wouldn't use toilet paper...
because i like to keep my bed-sheets clean...
it's so... empty... the room is really readied for
showcasing the property for a sale...
weird... it's almost like i wasn't even there...

oh, by the way... X-Men Apocalypse...
last time i heard... Julian Tuwim was a Jew...
but he spoke perfecto ******...
perhaps knew some Judeo-German Yiddish slang...
too bad for the Hebs that integrated too much:
too little... the Holocaust is minded within the context
of a re-established Jewish-State...
no... they were living in Paul's Land...
they were Polacks first, Jews: second...
i'm going to rob these refresher... revisionist pseudo-historians
of their weight of argument...
****** citizenry.... poets, engineers...

first comes first, second... comes second...
**** me... what wild thoughts... when simply panting & decorating...
tomorrow when i finish the walls in green...
second time, green... i tried crimson "tide" several times...
a welcoming colour on the walls...
once the night comes... but not during
the day...
i tried white... thinking... what could go wrong....
cream: white room... almost everything...
i woke up each morning... exhausted!

this now emptied room, with all the books, the vinyl records,
the paintings hanging on the walls... "missing"
(just moved to the box room):
i like to appreciate the space i will leave behind,
i like to appreciate the then, the when, some variation
of now of a when: of my mortality...
i might be drinking, i might be drunk...
but... this spectacle is sobering... ha!
i don't require a lineage prestige... ooh dear gwandpa...
blah blah to explain RE-AH-LI-TY for me...

clenched teeth... some things are just looking at
you...
as a man... working my way around inanimate objects
was a compensation for...
the inanimate earth, supposedly...
but the animation of clouds!

- the first paycheck i get.... i'm ******* off to a brothel
period....
and while painting the walls of my bedroom
green, like the colour of my iris ...
i'll think of "you"...
and i'll count the number of books in
my private collection, and...
i'll bemoan the state of the public library's choice
of literature... i suppose i''ll giggle a while...

i now see, my absence in this world, prophetically
ascribed to Yeats..
the centre cannot hold..
vanity conquers pride...
should i return... my lesson was not learned?
i've devolved from PRIDE...
but acquired.... like the rest of "them":
submission to vanity!

you wanted an equal among equals...
where did that leave you?
i will not be part of your choir!
you should have kept me sleeping...
don't burden the light
with too many cognitive shadows!
as much as i adore the plethora of dis-inhibitions
of doubt presented by man

i will watch... regardless of your tirades...
dearest... man-quasi-woman /
woman-pseudo-man... deity...

i'm tired of writing, therefore..
such a a day is closele approaching;
these people are not my project...
you supposedly left them...
hanging on a crucifix...
     i will leave them: in the night...
guiding their shadows....
to... i hope... a reclamation of their
own bodies... do you even want
to concern yourself with a repeasted
care for them?
personally? i wouldn't...
leave them to their own devices...
if you supposedly gave them free-will..
let them express it...
however good, or however bad...
let these children have their freedom!

there was only one proof worth being given:
once, is enough... i inquired after you...
don't allow yourself to rekindle your with
the same caring you showcased the first time...
filthy, firsty... thirsty..

yes, i will paint the walls, somewhat green....
enough's enough...
i knelt for much too long....
i'm willingly becoking ...
tired... the world can leave traces
of a roman empire..
easy excess ****.... easy access ****....
a sort of Orwellian: oh well...
a sort of oops...
      a best sort of:
a time (i) ought to forget.

— The End —