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zebra Sep 2018
have you ever seen beauty in a silky nightmare
have you  ever seen the monster of deprivation in heavens promise?

we speak of private things
we should never talk about
about vailed women
and their terrible secrets
and about myself who remains no longer a secret to myself

somewhere i went off the track
like a  daisy chain saw of honesty
to ensure you knew i was sick
a sick **** with a trick
as if i ate some ****** up hallucinogenic' s
making me spill my obsessions all over you
like some weird perfumed *****
down a swirling rainbow toilet
that turns out to be only jelly and whipped cream
wrapped in colored ribbons on cellophane tampons

i feel like  having *** or going to the toilet in public
while waving my hands up in the air
screaming yahoo i'm free
to blow to kingdom come
the temple of normalcy
you know
the church of rose gardens, cemeteries and deprivations
except of course for the sneers, smears
and self loathing vanilla demons
who wear long see through dresses and crosses
like dash board plastic virgins
with bobbing heads
that make hissing sounds about sin

i confess
i'm attracted to the darkest women
strange *******
and  ******
the stranger the better
who shake their butts
like hoodoo enchanted show girls
doing what they shouldn't do
crying and scrying like cooing moons calling
"drink me like ****** Mary
daddy **** lollypop"
all inky tats and razorblade ouchies

or
you can join those
covered in white collared black as death habits
begging the invisible *** cake in paradise
waiting for mercy and a little ****
that never comes
stuck in an empty
loveless bar of crucifixes that only serves up theology

oh baby
***** dreams do come true
pink ****** ***** gladly widen their haunches
like **** without boots
not caring if they go to hell
playin
like a joy ride of fiddle **** sticks
all freaky tongues and tingling licks
thick saliva multi lingual blow jobs
lathering flashing lipped saliva for the squirt  
with fiery wet hypodermic kisses
that make screams
like creamed upleaping lava and ash
for a million hungry sexed up twisting tongues
in occult ecstasy
fecundating shrouds of steamy clouds
in stained red black lighted rooms
with cherub crowned *****
and their drooling snatches buttered ****

eat quivering
like fowl mouthed piranhas
crying more raw meat please
while you drag your perfect person visage
into hollow caves of despair
cold and lonely

so you forlorn love struck weeping
horney pathetic scarecrow
socially engineered robots
if you want love
like heated buttery waffles with sweet jam
just give your self away like slutty putty
to lust criminals and *** addicted pervs  
until
you feel someone swallow you whole
soul and all
and lick their lips
like your their cherry pie

then look passed your
rats nest of pride and exhaustive approval list
and love them back
like free beer
bang their brains out
be their slave and make them yours
in the mad house of love
of warped shimmering mirrors, straight jackets, and squeezy insertions

and if one day they don't appreciate your imperfect perfection
if they weaponize like critic's
teach them respect
shove it where they breathe
lick your wounds
be brave
throw them in the trash bin of history
and move on

Eros and Venus
take a million forms

look around
your swimming in a giant bowl of broken hearts
hungry mouths, drenched ***** and hard *****

you whimpering little beasts
dress to ****
undress to live

its a movable feast
advice to the lovelorn young
thank you to Lora Lee for the line
" swirling toilet rainbows"
Avary Oct 2018
No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

I don’t have the desire to see another end;
after exhaustive months of getting to know
a fictionalised persona, fragmented, so

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

The last one hurt and you didn’t see,
but that doesn’t proclaim the scar less prominent to me,
my feelings numb, I no longer crave the intimacy - detrimental to me.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

The last boys touch was for him not for me
and my body still screams cause he won’t let it be
and you’ll never understand as the trauma won’t subside
and my self esteem is diminished by his lies.

No, I don’t have a boyfriend.

I humoured a guy who gave it a try
but all I could feel was nothing inside
and when someone bumps into me sauntering by
the unwanted touch still makes me cry.

No, I don't want a boyfriend.
J G Mar 2015
Lately, his patience runs thin.
Onerous burdens, born in mind,
Vested into he who allows them.
"Exhaustive, yet necessary," he sighs.
I hateth th' song of th' grass outside;
and t'eir blades t'at swing about my feet
like fire. How unfeeling all of which are-
did t'ey really think I wouldst ever be tantalised
by t'eir sickly magic? Such a gross one-
demanding, rapacious, parasitic!
Even I am fed up with t'eir proposals,
and ideas t'at t'ey fervently throw
in th' hope t'at t'ey canst corrupt my dreams,
my feelings-ah, yes, my sincere feelings,
and secure, t'ough imaginary, dreams.
Oh, and my comfortable desire as well!
My rosy desire-which at times canst tiringly
petrify me-ah, unbelievable, is it not? Th' fact
t'at I am so satiatingly, and daringly, petrified
by my own desire-and reproved by th' one
whom I am astonished at, praise, and admire;
How pitiful I am! How horrific and tragic!
I hath knitted my sorry without caution,
I was too immersed in vivid glances
and disguises and mock admiration.
Perhaps it hath been my mistake!
Eyes t'at blindly saw,
ears t'at wrongly judged!
Lies t'at I forsook,
tensions t'at I undertook!
Oh, how credulous I am-to vice!
Mock me, detest me, strangle me!
Stop my sullen heart from breathing-
as I hath, I hath spurned my darling-
oh, I hath lost my love!
How sorrowful, tearful-and painful!
And how I hath lost my breath; for cannot I stop
my feet from swimming and tapping
in t'is fraudulent air, gothic and transient
With poems t'at no matter how mad,
but nearly as thoughtful and eloquent,
I shalt still remain doleful and sad,
for my love for him is indeedst thorough-
and imminent; No matter how absurd he fancies
I am, and how he looketh at me oftentimes
with twigs of governing dexterity;
but most of all, shame.
I hath no shape now.
I hath lost, and raked away,
my elaborate conscience;
I hath corrupted my conciseness,
I hath wounded my sanguinity,
originality, and thoughts even, of my poetic
soul-of my poetic bluntness and sometimes
rigid, creativity.
I am an utter failure.
I am a mad creature; I am maddened by love,
I am frightened by virtue, I despise and reject
truth. I hath no sibling in t'is world of humanity,
ah-yes, no more sibling, indeedst,
neither any more puzzles of fate
t'at I ought to host, and solve;
I deserve nothing but fading and fading away
and give up my soul, my human soul-
to being a slave to disgrace
and cordial nothingness.
I belongst not, to t'is whole human world;
T'is is not my region, for I canst, here-
smell everything sacrificed for one another
and rings of delightful and blessed laughter
which I loathe, with all th' sonnets and auguries
of my laconic heart. Oh, I am misery!
I am evil, evil misery!
I, myself, equal tragedy; I am a devil,
a feminine and laurel-like devil-
just like how I look,
but tormented I am inside,
as a cursed being by nature and God Almighty
for never I shalt be bound to any love;
and engaged to any hands
in my left years and in th' afterlife outright.
I shalt have never any marriage within me,
any marriage worthy of talks, parties,
neither anything my wan heart desires;
like sweets with no sweetness,
or dances with no music.
No human love should ever
be properly conducted by me,
I am incapable of embodying
a unity, I am destined to be with me.
To be with me only-ah, as sad as it is,
as vague as how it sounds, or it might be.
O, and how I should love, emptiness!
Any loss should thus be romantic to me:
Just how death already is;
my husband is death,
and my chamber is his grave.
I shalt, night and day, sing to th' leaves
on his tomb,
ah-as t'ey are alive to me!
Yes, my darling reader! To me, t'ey are living souls,
t'ey open t'eir mouths and sing to me
Whenever I approach 'em with my red
bucket of flowers; lilies t'ey eat, ah-
how romantic t'ey look, with tongues
slithering joyfully over th' baked loaves I proffer!
T'eir smell of rotting flesh my hug,
meanwhile t'eir deadness my kisses!
T'eir greyness, and paleness-my cherry,
and t'eir red-blood heath my berry!
So glad shalt I becometh, and shimmer shalt my hair-
and be quenched my buoyant hunger-
beneath th' sun, with my hands, t'at hath
been aborted for long, robbed of whose divine functions
Laid in such epic, and abundant rejections
Brought into life again, and its surreal breath
But t'is time realistic, t'ough which happiness
shalt be mortal, as I perfectly, and tidily knoweth
and as I flippeth my head around
And duly openeth my eyes, I shalt again
be sitting in th' same impeccable nowhereness,
nowhere about th' dead lake, with its white-furred
swans, ghost-like at t'is hour of night-
Wherein for th' rest of my years should I dwell,
with no ability and desired tranquility
t'at canst once more guarantee
my security to escape.
T'ere's no door-yes, no door, indeedst,
to flee from th' gruesome trees,
t'eir putrid breath solitary and reeks of tears,
whilst t'eir tangled leaves smell strongly
of vulgarity and hate.
I hate as well-th' foliage amongst 'em,
grotesque and fiendish art whose dreamy visages,
with sticking tails wiping and squeaking
about my eyes, t'ough as I glance through
thy heavens, Lord, gleam like watery roses
before t'eir petals swell, fall, and die.
Oh-so creepy and melancholy t'ese feelings are,
but granted to me I knoweth not how,
as to why allowed not I am,
to becomest a more agreeable mistress
to a human-a human t'at even in solitude
breathes th' same air, and feels all th' same
indolent as me, by th' tedious,
ye' cathartic, morn.
Ah, and shalt I miss my lover once more
And t'is time even more persistently t'an before,
For every single of his breath is my sonnet,
and every word he utters my play.
He is th' salvation, and mere justification
I should not for ever forget,
just like how I should cherish
every sound second; every brand-new day.
My heart is deeply rooted in him;
no matter how defunct-
and defected it may seem,
as well as how futile, as t'is selfish world
hath-with anger and jealousy, deemed.
How I feel envy towards t'ose lucky ones,
with lovers and ringlets about t'eir palms,
so jealous t'at I cringe towards my own fate,
and my inability to escape which.
How unfair t'is world is sometimes-to me!
Ah, but I shalt argue further not;
I shalt make t'is exhaustive story short-
I am like a nasty kid trapped in th' dark,
without knowing in which way I should linger,
'fore making my way out and surpass her.
She is a curse-indeedst, a curse to me,
t'ough at th' moment she is a cure-but to him,
but she is all to forever remain a bad dream,
which he should but better quit,
she shalt subdue my light,
and so cheat him out of his wit.
She is an angel to him at night,
but at noon he sees her not,
she is an elegant, but mischievous auroch
with ineffectual, ye' doll-like and plastic auras
She is deceit, she is litter, she is mockery;
She hath all but an indignant, ****** beauty
She does not even hath a life, nor
a journey of destiny
She hath not any trace of warmth, or grace,
and most of th' time, at night
It is her agelessness t'at plays,
she ages but she falsely tricks him-my love,
into her lusted, exasperating eagerness;
t'ough colourless is her soul, now,
from committing too much of yon sin
She still knoweth not of her unkindness,
and thinks t'at everything canst be bought
by beauty, and t'at neither love nor passion
canst afford her any real happiness.

Ah, my love, I am hung about
by t'is prolific suspense;
My heart feels repugnant in its wait;
uncertain about everything thou hath said
As thou wert gentle but mean to me;
despite my kindness, ye' mistaken shortcomings
as I stood by th' railings th' other day, next to thee.
Ah, thee, please hear my apologies!
Oh, thee, my life and my midday sun,
a song t'at I sing-in my bed and on my pillow,
last week, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
I am, however, to him forever a childlike prodigy-
shalt never he believeth in my tales,
ah, his faith is not in me,
but I in him.
How despicable!
But foolishly I still love him,
even over t'is overly weighing injustice
on my heart-
ah, still I love him, I love him!
I love him too badly and madly,
I love him too keenly, but wholly passionately.
I love him with all my heart and body!
Oh, Kozarev, I love thee!
I love thee only!
For love hath no more weight, neither justice
within it, if it is given not by thee;
I was born and raised to be thine,
as how thou wert created
and painted and crafted-by God Almighty,
to be mine. As I sit here I canst savagely feel, oh,
how painfully I feel-yon emptiness,
t'is insoluble, inseparable solitude
filled not with thy air, glancing at
th' deafening thunder, rusty rainbows
With thee not by my side.
I fallest asleep, as dusk preaches
and announces its arrival,
But asleep into a burdened nightmare,
too many fears and screams heightened in it,
ah, I am about to fallest from smart rocks
into th' boiling tides of fire beneath my feet.
I wake into th' imprudent smile of th' moon,
and her coquettish hands and feet
t'at conquer th' night so cold.
She is about to scold me away again,
'fore I slap her cheeks and send her back
to sleep, weeping.
I return to my wooden bench, and weep
all over again, as without thee still I am,
barefooted and thinly clothed amongst
th' dull stars at a killing cold night.
Th' rainbow is still th' rainbow,
but it is now filled with horror,
for I am not with thee, Kozarev!
Oh, Kozarev, th' darling of my heart,
th' mere, mere darling of my silent heart,
even th' heavens art still less handsome
t'an thy images-growing and fading
and growing and fading about me
Like a defiant chain, thou art my naughty prince,
but th' most decorous one, indeed;
thou art th' gift t'at I'th so heartily prayed for
and supplicated for-over what I should regard
as th' longest months of my life.
O, Kozarev, thou art my boy,
and which boy in th' world
who does not want to
play hide-and-seek in th' garden-
like we didst, last Monday?
Thou art my poem,
and thus worth all th' stories
within which. Thou art genial,
cautious, and beneficent. Thou art
vital-o, vital to me, my love!
I still blush with madness at th' remembrance
of thy voice, and giggle with joy and tears
over yon picture of thee; I canst ever forget thee
not, and sure as I am, t'at never in my life
I shalt be able to love, nor care for another;
thou art mine, Kozarev, thou art mine!
Thou art mine only, my sweet!
And ah, Kozarev, thou knoweth, my darling,
t'at the rainbow is longer beautiful
tonight; and as haughtiness surfaces again
from th' cynical undergrowth beneath,
I am afraid t'at t'eir fairness and brightness
shalt fade-just like thy love, which was back then
so glad and tender, but gets warmer not;
as we greet every inevitable day
and tend to t'eir needs,
like those obedient clouds
to th' appalling rain, in th' sky.

Ah, but nowest look-look at thee! Thy innocence,
t'at was but so delicate and sweet-
like t'ose bare, ye' green-clustered bushes yonder,
is now in exile, yes, deep exile, my love!
I congratulate thee on which, yes, I do!
I honestly do! For thy joy and gladness
doth mean everything to me,
'ven t'ough it means th' rudest,
th' eeriest of life; t'at I shalt'th ever seen!
But should I do so? T'at is a question
I canst stop questioning myself not.
Should I? Should I let thee go
and t'us myself suffer here
from th' absence
of my own true love-
and any ot'er future miracles
in my life?
I think not!
Ah, and not t'at there'd be
any ot'er mirages in my love,
for all hath been, and shalt always be-
united in thee! O, in thee, only, Kozarev!
For I am certain I love thee,
and so hysterically love thee only,
even amongst th' floods-ah, yes,
t'ese ambiguous piles of flooding pains,
disgusting as blood, but demure,
and clear as my own heartbeat;
I love and want thee only,
as how I dreameth of,
and careth for thee every night,
t'ough just in my dream,
and in life yet not!
Ah, Kozarev, I am thy star,
just like thou art mine-already,
I am fated and bound to thee,
and thou to me.
Thou art not an illusion,
neither a picture of my imagination.
Thou art real, Kozarev,
thou art real-and forever
shalt be real to me;
thou art th' blood,
t'at floweth through my veins,
thou art th' man,
t'at conquereth my heart-and hands,
thou art everything,
thou art more t'an my poem
and my delicate sonnet,
thou art more t'an my life
or my ever dearest friend.

Probably 'tis all neither a poem,
nor a matter of daydreams;
perhaps still I needst to find him,
t'ough it may bringst me anot'er curse,
and throwest me away
and into anot'er gloom.
Ah, Kozarev, thou-who shalt never
be reading t'is poem, much less write one
Unlike thou wert to me back t'en;
Thou art still as comely as th' sun;
Thou art still th' man t'at I want.
Even whenst all my age is done;
and my future days shalt be gone.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?


ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...


p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.


well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic


              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.
Even if I loved thee a thousand times, still thou'd never be real.
But still, in t'ese dark miseries and dreams of th' night-
ah, just like t'is silent night of ours
And t'ose fierce fairy tales of young hours
Thou'd still be shaken off my realms
As soon as morn comes-and unveils anew, my charms.
O, death, how lush and inviting thou art,
even though at t'is early age thou might
still be asleep and thus soundeth really far.
Thou art but as naughty as t'ose abundant peeping stars,
brimming with locks of divine warmth and wealth
T'ey shalt again, tease up my mind
Whilst capture my rude, hating heart;
and once more shall t'is gruesome life turn into a solitude
Beside promises t'at canst harm souls' benign attitude.
But as soon as thou art gone; thou might just be no longer safe
And to my conscience thy threat is no more than a slave
Thy delicacy is but servile and uninviting
In t'ose choruses of blood and suffering
For which our senses should nay be proud;
but only of our genuine voices and gravity
T'at though sometimes seem virtual,
but still, are crafted within reality.

And yes, my painting, behind thy soul was ever born thy art,
Locked safely within thy summer foliage and forests
But shall I, for your goodwill ever be sketched?
Ah, one swiftly done, and miraculously correct-
yes, one only, my love, for th' very sake of single jests!
For in thy eyes hovers my triumph,
and in t'ose bogs beneath-
yes, th' ones idling about thy feet,
are cuddled-just here like my little heart, my love.
A sacred love t'at is thrown about
But to which my thirst canst never shout.
Ah, as if my voice is hoarse, and not loud-
and soon I step into whose soils, shall be sanely caught.
Caught and swung around thy idyll-though against my will;
amongst heaven's sandy shoals, and t'eir creepy windowsill.
Oh, and be defected with t'ose blades of thy swords, how evil!
Bereft of my sanity, prudence and sometimes too-bitter delicacy
As I dance around to those lands of hurtful mockery.
Be my soul's delighted worry, and mouth-oh, but mouth of blasphemy!
Ah, how of which I'm now devilishly tired!
Though you might be my eternal sire,
and beside whom my virginal soul shall forever feel so sure
As if my pride shall never ever retire,
everything shall altogether be wounded and obscure
But comely and true, just like t'at shimmering white-lipped dew
With breaths so smooth, like one from my feelings for you.

Ah, my prince! T'is craze for thee is an arrogant little devil;
and its longing for thee which gradually eats away my soul
and at times ****** and tells me harshly what to feel.
Just like t'ose ill-hearted fruits of people's minds
For which t'eir villains wouldst even in death bleakly whine
I am but forever bound to thee;
just like thou art already inside of me;
For in majestic times of our days
Thou shall hungrily partake
my fruity; but eager soul, soul away
and marvel about th' visages of my purity
I shall always but love thee once more;
no matter how boastful thou art,
and detestable virginal pain might be!
For thou art always to me as pure,
though unconvincingly art forever in vain-
For t'ose loveless satisfactions thou hath procured-
and premature pain thou hath delightfully endured.
But healthily t'ese senses shall always love thee
And with such tragedies and tears
canst t'ey but forgive thee only
Because, regardless of how untrue thou art;
You lifted my soul when I was down
And cheered me up 'twixt yon last wound
Dark was th' night t'at day, ye' tender was the moon
As both would pass and dusk would fade away soon
And into my blood thou injected th' real meaning of virtue
Whenst I was all wasted and coldly blue
Whilst my thoughts had not even a clue.

Ah, painting, but still, our love is incorrect as a tragedy-
for t'is world is too exhaustive and greedy
And at times elusive whenst but not necessary-
to grant our love th' chance we needst best!
Oh, but hark; hark once more, my love!
Over t'ere are bursts and chants of a heartbroken violin,
Though spurned by heretic hanging clouds,
slandered by boastful chirping winds.
But, no matter; no matter how hard it might seem
Thou art still to me an indescribable story;
and in thy red cheeks lies my stranded vitality
Signs of virtuous tenderness and curtained loyalty
As though thou art but still with no sin;
No sin; and ah! No stain, no stain at all-of
neither viable crossness nor madness
Though thy cleverness is at times no more to be seen
As once thou said, t'at for thee t'ere might just be
no any further happiness.

Ah! And trapped shall I be, within poisonous vileness
Should I not be granted thee
For thou art th' only soul I love, and idolise
Through whom my life was once formed, and characterised.
For love, to me is like a whole pattern;
and thus needst to be complete;
Thereby in t'is sense-loving him is but like denying
my own merit-merit t'at I am part of, and sure of-
for it is not love, though he might; as fate might say;
just as reliable and handsome and sweet.
But still, he is not thee!
And by no chance, is being not thee is but the same,
as being thee!
How fraudulent, and gross-t'is comparison all be!
Ah! And so thou knoweth, t'at he is, too me-
more even not than a stunning evening doll
Like those ones I hath seen so often
strutting about posh malls
Whilst with heartlessness welcoming
and sneering at innocent cold falls
With faces too stern, yellow, and sometimes bold;
Too bold to be true, much less sincere
And wholly unlike thine-amongst those sins;
t'at for thou honestly admit; look still sparkling and keen;
thus so astoundingly charming my veins and curdling my blood
Until thy unread shadows but reach my heart;
With such braveness and th' frankness of a gentleman
Like at that moment-whenst we told each other's life stories, back then.

Ah, and lure, lure my heart, my love!
And play with it soon as we sit 'mongst th' groves;
I would like to lay again about thy breast,
as I whisper once more to thy chest;
t'at it is truly thee that my soul loves;
and invites to love from t'is moment to end.
Ah, but t'is love started I knew not when,
though never have I thought thou art just my friend.
And lie, just lie to me no more,
t'at thou, just like me-but needst me to thy very core,
with a love t'at seems impatient,
but is born still, from pure virtue and resilience.
Oh! How valuable thou art to me, darling!
Thou who art to me such a mindful; soulful treasure,
and betwixt thy impurity thou remaineth but pure;
Thou are a smiling cloud to my blinding sun;
but sunlight to my rain as soon as it is done.

And thick and tough just as yon bough may seem,
thou shall forever be to me more t'an him!
I shall do and always want thee,
it is thy picture t'at I keepest within and about me.
Ah! And to t'is world, I promise, I shall not bluntly surrender
as how my wailing heart it shall never disrupt!
For thee I shall swear with a thousand loves greater,
t'at from actualising thee, I shall never be stopped!

Then please, please me, o my love-once more,
and talk to me and look at me sweetly as just never before.
For I love thee brightly and gently, as how air loves breath;
and so shall I love thee purely and greatly, as how life loves death.
Andrew Guzaldo c Mar 2018
“If you can love the erroneous person endlessly,
Imagine how much euphoria you would,
Have with the right person,
Absinthe as a row of daffodils that spread flaming,

I love you as dark murky things are loved,
If you can cultivate a plant that will endow,
Your heart with a thousand flowers,
It is absinthe in the air that is expressed,

That is intoxicating from such a love.
The sea knows the love the stones,
of the rock as the waves flow above,
Kisses flowered daffodils in the cracks,

Then day came that our lips finally met,
Our tongues braided infinite purity in their crevices,
Kindling our nerves with desiring pleasures,
What can this be I say to myself the essence of?

As absinthe anise flavored from botanic gardens,
As so derives your skin within mine the contour
Of your beauty has quenched my desires,
With infinite purity and Exhaustive ecstasy”
By A.G. 3/2018
Ani
Bob
Cat
Dido
E...enough said
Florence
Grace
Hank
Ice T
Janis
Kimbra
Lyle
Melissa
Neko
Olivia
Poe
Queen (this one is tricky)
Robyn
Stevie
Tori
U2
Vic
Waits
XTC
Yo La Tengo
Zak

Many thanks
Byron May 2013
There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a curious English archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of Zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.

Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills

So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.
Baby Feb 2015
Desperate limbs drape themselves in the exact same shade of undiluted greengreengreen that we've seen in stagnant pools and empty hearts. A tiny verdant forest of lichens and moss to mask the barren grey of a self inflicted winter. Fingers cast out towards the sky grow thin and wretched with the desperate, exhaustive need need need to ****** the light from the sky. Forgotten are the mouldering piles of discarded stars laying around its feet. I think of that girl as I pick up a damp leaf and carefully press it between love poems and silent reveries.
She kinda irritates me.
Which takes us on a direct path to:
THE  INCIDENT.
Say you are a normal man—whatever that means—
But say it’s late June of 1993 and you’re laying on the couch,
Scratching your *****, trying to intuit your LDL level
Based on the two bowls of the Old Lady’s Cholesterol Chowder.
The Old Lady-- you can call her Peg or Mrs. Bundy—
Served it up in her special legacy china,
An assortment of recycled tin foil casserole dishes &
Vintage melmac handed down by your mother-in-law.
You are on the couch giving digestion your best shot,
Still scratching your agates when Peg comes
In from the kitchen with your second glass of
Two-buck chuck and a smoking fatty she’s just ignited,
Miraculously without burning the house down.
The TV is on—the TV is always on because
The TV has had no off button since 1984
You are tuned to the CNN evening news &
A report comes on that makes you sit up,
Snap to attention, straight up and take notice:
"WOMAN CUTS OFF HUSBAND'S *****!"
The media shrikes in Atlanta have your attention now,
Your complete attention;
Your eyes are riveted to the telescreen &
Your blood pressure spiking at 240 over 140.
During the previous night of June 23, 1993,
John Wayne Bobbitt arrives at the
Couple's apartment in Manassas, Virginia,
Highly intoxicated after a night of partying.
According to testimony given by Lorena Bobbitt
In a 1994 court hearing, he then rapes her.
Afterwards, Lorena Bobbitt gets out of bed,
Goes to the kitchen for a drink of water.
According to a journal article in the
National Women's Justice & Defense
League of Psychotic Castrating *******,
While in the kitchen she notices,
A carving knife on the counter & "memories of
Past domestic abuse races through her head."
Grabbing the knife, Lorena Bobbitt enters the bedroom
Where John is sleeping & proceeds to
Cut off nearly half his *****,
Half his Johnson,
In this instance aptly named.
So you have some schnook who’s named
After the iconic Hollywood superstar John Wayne . . .
Now understand something, John Wayne—
The ******* Duke of Earl--
Personifies everything alpha male:
Physique, animal magnetism & a pair of
Huge ***** swinging in his chaps as
He sashays across the screen.
In real life he’s a bullfight & cigar aficionado,
A big game hunter and sport fisherman, &
A hard drinking Hemingway hero
Who spends most of his time aboard
A customized WWII U.S. mine sweeper
******* to a pier behind his house in
Newport Harbor, California.
He’s the proverbial man’s man, &
There’s no one like him in America
Until maybe Eastwood or Willis comes along.
There’s a statue of him out in front of
The Orange County Airport that bears his name.
I have a photograph of him hanging in my garage
Next to a Mad-Dog 20-20 poster.
But I digress.
We return to the Bobbitt story because
It gets better, keeps getting crazier.
After assaulting her husband,
Lorena leaves the apartment with the severed *****,
Drives around aimlessly for a short while,
Then rolls down the car window &
Throws the ***** into a field.
Only then does the loony ***** realize
The severity of the incident.
She stops and calls 911.
After an exhaustive search by
Volunteers from the local Humane Society,
The ***** is located, packed in the ice-slurry of
A banana-flavored 7/11 Slurpee, &
Taken to the hospital where half-**** John Bobbitt
Gets a short-arm inspection and treated,
Mostly for shock and awe.
His ***** is later reattached by Drs. James T. Sehn &
David Berman during a nine-and-a-half-hour surgery
Filmed by Ken Burns and broadcast in its entirety by
WGBH Boston, a stunning illustration of
Your tax dollars hard at work
At the National Endowment for the Arts.
An abridged version later becomes the season premier of
"Girls Gone ******* ******, Manassas!"
Lorena goes on Oprah to explain herself.

Lorena Bobbitt ((née Gallo) was born in Ecuador.
Her maiden name, ironically,
Means **** in English.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio in Phoenix had this to say:
“Deport the *****. She may have an INS green card
But there’s no way she had a government permit to
Go around lopping ***** off in Virginia or any other state.
Who does she think she is, Janet Napolitano?”
Napolitano could not be reached for comment.
Shortly after the incident, episodes of "Bobbittmania,"
Or copycat crimes, were reported.
The name Lorena Bobbitt eventually became
Synonymous with ***** removal.
The terms "Bobbitt Punishment" and "Bobbitt Procedure" gained
Social cache with a radical break-away sect of N.O.W.
COPYCAT Catherine Kieu Becker, 48 (Garden Grove P.D.)  
Woman Accused of Cutting Off Husband's *****
Pleads Not Guilty/ VIDEO: Watch Jennifer Gould's Report
KTLA News   10:40 a.m. PST, February 3, 2012 /SANTA ANA, Calif.
"A 48-year-old woman accused of cutting off
Her husband's ***** and putting it
In the garbage disposal has pleaded
Not guilty to all the charges against her.
Catherine Kieu, of Garden Grove,
Was indicted earlier this month on
One felony count of torture &
One felony count of aggravated mayhem.
She also faces a sentencing enhancement for
Practicing surgical medicine without a license."
Sign up for KTLA 5 Breaking News Email Alerts
Comments (130) Add / View comments | Discussion FAQ
Happy627 at 10:35 PM January 18, 2012
"So my x-wife is a violent drunken *****?
Never once did I ever think of hurting her
But now I see I was wrong.
Vengeance's is the true answer & payback is hell.
So basically I should put an M-40
In her *** and light the fuse.
I should be acquitted from any wrong doing
Because she was a violent drunken *****.
Maybe all men should do this to their
Violent wives/girlfriends & teach them a lesson.
Cyanmanta at 1:10 AM January 11, 2012
In response to Doreen Meyer:
"So you're assuming that because he was the victim
He must have done something to deserve it
In some small way?
Typical of convenient feminism:
Assume all female victims are innocent &
Pure as driven snow,
While dismissing all male victims
With the idea that 'he had it coming.'
I wish I could pander shamelessly
To the media for preferential treatment,
But sadly, I am male (or as feminists would say)
The Evil Gender."
Westfield at 5:47 PM Jan.09, 2012
She should get her own show on the ***** channel.
(Bravo). KABC radio's John Phillips & his girlfriend
Nathan Baker would love to watch it."
Sluff it off, take a load off, baby.
Take a load off?
“Take a load off Annie,
Take a load for free;
Take a load off Annie, and
Bom bom bom bom
Bom be bom— & Dddddddddd,
You can put the load right on me.”
Send “The Weight” Ringtone to Your Cell

. . . Snipped, fixed, neutered, gelded,
Emasculated, eunuchized, or castrated?
(Castrating Forceps  (www.alibaba.com/
Showroom/castration-tool.html).
Bobbittized!
London Poet Sep 2012
Life is a journey that slowly ends,
but not allowing you to make amends.
How can I right the wrongs I have done,
With all the lies that I have spun.

Nobody teaches you right from wrong,
not in this life's tragic song.
where will I be in 10 years time?
what about this old heart of mine?
Love is for poets, or so they say,
not for my heart to wilfully stray.

for my heart is broken and scarred today,
there is no hope for tomorrow, so into the fray.
As Life is a journey, or so they say,
Nobody will love me or even pray.

So how do you travel on this exhaustive trip?
How do you travel without a stumble or slip?
Hope is a friend that regularly visits,
Hope is a friend that stands and spits!

But without this friend, how do you travel,
on this road of downtrodden gravel,
But hope is a friend, a true friend of mine
Hope is the one thing that's with me through time.

One day this journey will abruptly stop,
with hope behind me when I hear that knock.
The knock I hear so loud and clear
From deaths door alas I truly fear.

Life is a journey so full of promise
sadly its mostly full of solace.
what will be said when I am gone?
good riddens to *******, I hear from some.
I have tried to travel with love and compassion
but others may say I am just like fashion
as fashion changes and never stands still,
I am true to this hardened will.

Here lays Neil, may he rest in peace,
as his journey now has begun to cease.
Sometimes journeys are just too far, and some journeys  never end!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.there always comes a threshold of tedium, esp.around this time, when two sides are at each others' throats... you can't escape it, both sides are at each others' sides... you're either collateral, or the, "supposedly", dumb spectator... you're in it no matter what, but the point being: there's no winning or losing invoked, or involved... but after a while: the stale quality of the drama, the persistent repetitiveness of the content become - so ******* dry... you give off a whiff of a prune mentality worthy of an atypical English soap operatic manoeuvring... basic said to basic: i'm just tired of one side telling lies, but i'm also tired of the other side exposing the said lies... i'm tired of both.... it's pretty much me quintessentially, scratching my itching genital region whenever i hear one side and the other, attacking each other... scratching my itchy genitals is more entertaining than wartching these sides argue for the same ******-momentum: money! i'm starting to see: neither side having the high-ground... it's simply tiresome... and, as a message to content creators vs. legacy media outlets.. as a content ingesting mechanism of an individual worth: sorry... no... by now i can't tell the difference... what was once a dichotomy, has become a dualism... click-bait... i figured: i can't be expected to fathom a bias, either side... as far as i know... the alt.-media could be, just as well, covert mechanisms of the same paradigm of spewed opinion... who the **** is to say that these unique, supposedly "unique" youtubers are not subcontractors of the major media contracting apparatus? i realized there's a need to stop buying revenue, primarily based on the exfoliation of the exploitation of drama... i'm not smart, but i am drunk, and attentive... big ******* difference! and i know what a threshold of tedium implies... i know when original content becomes exhaustive... it implies: the content is no-longer original.

you'd think you'd be able
to escape the playground
drama sequence. of events,
given how people
make money n youtube...
apparently
that's not the case...
  i think i'll need another
whiskey to write this "critique"...
like a whiff of
bothersome flies...
    like: but unlike:
a whiff of bothersome flies...
fusiliers to the common
"rain" of canon fire...
        so much drama!
too much, to be exact...
        a vanity ****,
with anything but
the without attempts at claiming:
fair...
   to make videos
in order to simply make excuses...
what a waste of time...
    take up a career in drinking,
then you'll see what
sort of stupid **** sober people
get up to!
and, these, are,
sober, people? yes?!
  my god...
        if they're sober,
and i'm drunk...
           maybe i should stop drinking
and join the funfair of
soberness!
   then again...
god i abhor the drama
of some pumpkin mope glass
akin to a chimney-sweep
in the form of:
pittance for a Cinderella...
  the jokes goes along the lines
of:
back east there's a Cabaret...
back in the west there's the comedic
monologue of a stand-up comic...
back east there's no soap-opera...
back in the west:
   there's no tele novella -
which only old women
appreciate...
but there's soap opera:
which, even the english
class teachers advised not to watch,
encompassing girls as young
as 15...

with the said advice...
   how wonderful to be made
esteemed of...
     i could never blog using
video...
the whole medium is plighted
with an implosion...
           it imploded by the "sentiment"
to simmer solipsism...
   it's way beyond an echo
chamber...
   it's a claustrophobia...
i could never make video content...
because as far as i know:
only lazy people watch videos...
while the diligent people
read anything at all...

    i've grown tired...
simply... tired...
              of the video content...
i also remember the glory days
when i'd listen to music
on youtube...
  and later buy the merchant's
allure of goods...
pristine physical artifacts...
via the uncensored suggestions...

i hate drama...
the faking, the blood-sports,
you name it...
    for a while i tuned in...
now i'm thinking
about coupling
last.fm with youtube.com...

   i never paid, and i was also
never paid...
my concerns are not the concerns
of the creator throng...
    tired?
is tired the most simple word
to bind to an excuse?
no...
              i hate imploding
drama;
that gets me...
              
no wonder i write:
  it's overtly selective within the domain
of the regards to who actually
digests the content...
      video my lazy...
     video my lazy...
          writing has an imbedded
censorship,
that is a pseudo-censorship...
     thankfully more
women read, than the men that talk.
st64 Apr 2013
I couldn't know you'd need me then!
Just a human with all frailty and much fault....
  
Do you think the wind blows differently
When  it passes over leaves and trees?
That it says: "Wait, lemme stop here a bit
And blow on this one leaf  in a special way"
  
Hardly! Time to get with the manure beneath
And see that sunrays shine on everything
And indiscriminate clouds shimmer on all,
How haphazard, the way the wind blows.
  
So, don't hang your head and moan so much
Time dawns for you to get over yourself
Don't you see that I'm still here?
Now quit getting your knickers in a knot!
  
You rant and rave while I pant and slave
Dissect my every move, make me aloof
How can you possibly go counting
And re-arranging all the marbles in my head?
  
You're so insecure, you make me mad
So exhaustive are your constant jibes
So tiring to soothe your unfounded fears
I'm having to placate you so often of late.
  
Before it all gets blown out of size
Sit a while in  (h)arboured thought
Confront the dreads which cause disquiet
A trove may wash up....but broken, on your shore.
  
The wind comes not with tardy tidings
For it isn't the what you say or do
But forsooth, the how which carries weight
Let's not over-whip each other so.
  
My thoughts may be wanton, wild or reckless
Telling tigs bend on a riotous grind
Yet feckless deeds don't follow suit
Pardon my slightly-misbehaving mind.
  
Patient and respectful, I remain to be
Just guard against esurient whims
Paucity of faith and clockwork trivial'ties
Will lead us down a road of trials.
  
Fallen martyrs should not feign, see
The wind makes no pretense. It just blows....
Now, I really couldn't know you'd need me then
'Cause, baby, that's the way the wind blows!
  

S T, 5 April 13
How the seasons and nature can teach us things.....

Let's ....lisssssssssssten to that wind whistling in the treetops or howling late at night......

However it blows, it tries to say summat....if we but....spoke wind...lol

:)
Liz Nov 2014
I love you, but loving you has become exhaustive
I love you, but I'm tired of your sick jokes and our senseless fights
I love you, but loving you is taking my mind away from me
I love you, but you made me turn into a person I don't like
I love you, but loving you makes me feel so bad I can't sleep
I love you,  but this is killing my soul
I love you, but I need to love myself more
I love you, but goodbye.
Raquel Butler Sep 2016
Its been a cloudy day for a few years,
the sun and the darkness alternating presences,
Some days its stormy like death,
Others is dull and expressionless.
Oh, but there are sunny days too!
Accompanied by light coverage clouds, the day still has some gloom.
I wish this cloud would go away, it brings so much rain and lightning
without notice
and leaves without a trace.
But soon the next cloud rumbles in,
and exhaustive cycle that never ends.
If you can read between the lines you'll probably get the poem.
Devin Weaver Feb 2013
The following statements of truth were brought to you
Not through, but circumnavigating fated parameters
Of insane, yet normative, largely uninformative
Mechanisms that formally give birth to *******;
And instead, strategically splicing said bounds with
Ideal variables derived from the courageously quixotic,
Unrobotic, and outraged agents of, and for, capital Real:

The train of corporate reasoning derails so fast
To follow is to snap the head backward,
Far past angles within measures of pleasurable fit
And open gates to deluging tangled circular
Failures of logic that trick and co-opt the proletariat.

We are Present-Ambassadors with broken flux-capacitors
Demonstrating a consistent tendency toward error
In efforts to obtain diplomatic access to a future where
The same reemerging deficits do not manifest unfixed.
One of said deficits may include all positive freedoms.

For the record, it shall be noted that civil society
Currently arrives implicitly to find it compliantly fine
To promote systems of labor designed to illicit behaviors
That will eventually undermine the actors of exhaustive work
And make benefactors of those complicit in crime.

As case studies of this paradoxical paradigm, we observe
Nations signing trade agreements aligned with
Selling more of the goods whose extractions have
Cataclysmic exactions upon locals contracted not to resist.
Those who take issue with this are directed to appellate institutions.
The projected scarcity of over-consumed poisons causes fear
Which leads to faster hoarding and more ex(t/p)ensive death.

Thus, most human behaviors presently inflate pricing, popularity,
And rapidity associated with committing system-wide suicide.
As shackle-some power consolidation bends toward a transnational peak
I hereby slide-tackle these forwarded trends, seeking goals of the rational.
Kagey Sage Jan 2014
Soon I'll be a work day chump
9 hours a day, 1 hour drive
each way
Satisfied the pay's above minimum wage
and I got the weekends free to drink and play

8 hours of impersonal lonely phone calls
next to people unlike me in every way
except how we're all paid
A headset be my cursed crown
I'll forget to take it off
when I leave for lunch downtown

"You're doing this for her."
I'll say to the framed question mark
atop my plastic desk
A future wife, another life
Don't let the exhaustive poison win
We're destined for other places
And darling, you'd leave me here
face it

But, your king is a thrill seeking breadwinner
Who shall conquer fertile forests
abound with cabin mansions, reindeer dinners
and more than 5 hours of weekday waking freedom time
Till then, I just wish I could promise you
I won't lose my mind
George Krokos Oct 2014
General Note:
This is an autobiographical poem, given here in seven parts for reading convenience, which mentions some personal events of my life and the names of a few spiritual masters that I have read and studied a good deal about, the main ones being Paramahansa Yogananda and Meher Baba; the latter I have also written about in two other poems titled: #1 “The Highest Of The High” and #2 “The Universal Divine Plan” which are also posted on this website.*

Part 1
Even as a little child I do now recall
You often would respond to my call.
And whenever I was filled with sorrow
about certain things feared of tomorrow
You would comfort me in some natural way
assuring me there wouldn't be such a day
and then my heart would experience much joy
almost just like acquiring a long expected toy.

Together we would have laughter and fun
like a couple of children playing in the sun.
Though You did reproach me when I was bad
then lovingly forgive me when I'd be so sad.
You would always try and point out to me
the good things around there were to see.

You always were the one I called on when in need
beseeching You as no one else believed me indeed.
You were more or less my constant companion and friend
and together would see things through until the very end.
Now and then I would go my separate way and depart
but sooner or later I would remember You in my heart.
It seemed somehow, You had a permanent place in there
as if it would be impossible to leave it empty and bare.

Part 2
The days did pass by and as I was growing up with age
You would sometimes come and offer advice like a sage
especially when found out doing naughty things some days
by my elders, at the time, being not agreeable to their ways.
They would, by inflicting pain, try and get the message across to me
that what I'd been doing was particularly not very pleasing to see.
Those were the times when I would hide and cry my heart out,
wailing with remorse and anguish I would doubt You were about.
Blaming You for my misfortunes I would try and close the door
not accepting Your existence and then declaring a private war.
When all would become quiet and my mind's rage did subside
You would try and reason with me to put all my weapons aside.

Often were the times when I would listen rapt with awe,
to words of wisdom coming from deep in my heart's core.
Little did I know, at the time, that they would prove to be true,
as only to realise, much later in life, that they came from You.
Yet then, many a time, I had the temerity to pass You by
and meeting with troubles and difficulties wondered why.
The hardships I encountered seemed only to confirm in my mind
that You were a figment of my imagination better left far behind.

My alienation from You increased to such an extent,
as I grew up, becoming a storehouse of ill-content.
Associating with those very much in the same boat,
I began to drift and sink in life's tide rather than float.
Such was my plight, I realised, turning my back on You
ignorantly, yet willingly, tangling with a desparate crew.
That worldly ocean contains very many surprises in store,
for the unwary traveller, going away from the home shore.
By living an unnatural existence in a stormed-tossed sea
it's everyone for themselves disregarding their humanity.
But there were the moments when You would shine through
via members of my family and others advice on behalf of You.
Little did I heed though, what they would concernedly tell,
as I plunged headlong into a self-created, God forsaken hell.

Part 3
It was only through repeated experiences, I would learn
that, where I was heading, would surely make me burn.
Tempted with fancy indulgences my mind would lead me astray
and going from one extreme to the other in weakness I would stay.
Involved with those called 'friends' who really didn't know any better,
being like the blind following the blind, with many an unseen fetter.
It was living a life of sense pleasures; mainly that of wine, women and song,
which seemed to be what everyone else was doing, as each day came along.
Now and then I would stop to reflect on the state I found myself in
but, though I tried, didn't have the determination to leave and begin
a new life which would bring out and develop my real self
instead I wallowed in the mire of this worldly life like an elf.

Then the seemingly unexpected happened, while reeking with taints
I stumbled onto some wisdom through the words of one of Thy Saints.
Paramahansa Yogananda was one of Thy true and recent devotees;
mystic, philosopher, poet and saint, through Yoga he was all of these.
The story he told of life, in a far distant land, awakened my sleeping soul,
overwhelmed my mind with inspiration and taught that You were the goal.

He made the words of the New Testament come alive for me,
with patience and love, showing how real they could easily be.
Without any coercion he helped me realise the truth they contained
for many years escaping my attention though now readily attained.
By dispelling my ignorance he was leading me gently back to You
with Divine knowledge and practical wisdom, I did follow him too.
He helped to turn my gaze inside so that I may see the Inner Light
and by acting on his advice was able to behold that blessed sight.
Transforming my existence, he told me that which I hungered for,
ignorantly looking in the wrong direction not knowing any more.
I began to know the meaning of discipline, in a persons' life by which
any individual could rise from the bottom of existence and so reach
that state of consciousness from where all problems were resolved
through perseverance and grace did get myself seriously involved.

Part 4
He opened up a whole new world of possibilities and life to see,
while reading and comprehending his words power flowed in me.
Then one day at work almost at the turn of a new year,
I heard someone mention a name they held quite dear.
It must of remained in my head like a dormant and potent seed,
because it was associated with a person of a very high breed.
As it turned out an incident happened, involving someone dear in my life,
which I recognized to be more than a chance to end some personal strife.
So, early in the new year, I became determined to give it a go,
that is, live up to my highest aspirations, forsaking much woe.
In order to remove the distance between myself and that which I aspired to
many things were done, impossible it seemed, while keeping my mind on You.

With the knowledge and courage garnered by Yoganandaji's grace
I began to come closer to You at quite a remarkably steady pace.
A lot of things were given up, mainly those holding me heavily down,
and other things were taken up, suggested by Your chosens' renown.
Purification of body and mind was the main way to achieve that end,
sublimation of all actions, inner motives, Your Will I could not offend.
You had to become my One and Only, all else I had to give away,
all that I thought was mine belonged to You, having the final say.
You were everywhere, in everything and also in everyone,
I sought to please You only, like Your Own Begotten Son.
This was more easily said than done as I soon began to see,
that I virtually had to cease to exist and live totally in thee.
How I were to do this was beyond my situation at the time
though I tried with a little success in that favorable clime.

Part 5
Then I remembered that name mentioned just a short while ago
and thus made some effort to find out more as I needed to know.
I came across and even bought a few books relating to that name,
thus began another chapter in my life which wasn't quite the same.
What I began to read was the culmination of all that had come before
and by maintaining a steady discipline realized incredibly much more.
My expectations and joy increased so much so in what I had found
all else meant nothing to me, it seemed, coming across Holy ground.
The words I read were so beautiful, loving, very profound and true
I was dumbfounded to realize they were coming directly from You.

The books I read were by and about a person called Meher Baba
whose name in English was translated as 'Compassionate Father'.
In actual fact He never wrote those books at all as such
but dictated the words on an alphabet board in his clutch.
He would spell every word out to one of His close ones patiently,
by pointing to each letter in the words, moving His finger quickly.
His close one would then record what was 'said' each time by Him
for the benefit of those who would come later, such was His Whim.

He did not write or speak during the greater part of His life,
communicating with silent gestures, not even having a wife.
The words that He 'spoke' were of the highest wisdom and Love,
bringing down Divine Truth, with which to awaken us, from above.
He confirmed and corrected what all the others said about You,
knowing more than the others did, but also respecting their view.
His was the highest philosophy that's ever been described by hand,
by anyone before or since, in this world, anywhere inscribed on land.
He was The One I was always looking for everywhere to find
You were really Him being the latest Unique One of The Kind.
He was also from the same league as Zoroaster, Rama, Krishna, Buddha,
Jesus and Muhammad, but appearing this time around called Meher Baba.

Part 6
You, Him and all the Others were the same One, it was emphasized,
but each time You'd come down were so very differently disguised.
Each time You would come heralding a New Age and New Humanity,
which was what some of Your Saints were preparing mankind to see.
By discipline, meditation, study, prayer, purification of body and mind,
one could devote them self to You in daily life, so not to be left behind
in the coming New World Order which shall abate the rushing tide
of ignorance and selfishness, being a part of mankind's lower side.

We have all seen and should know how bad its really been lately,
with all the wars and power struggles that have passed belatedly;
causing so much destruction, pain, loss of life and property
Your words would ring through my brain jolting my memory:
You said 'such are the pangs and symptoms of spiritual rebirth'
and that all would be affected by Your presence on this earth.
Which is due to mankind's forgetfulness, of its divine origin, and is instead
all engaged in asserting short lasting and false values lodged in its head.
These are based on illusion which is the reason we are grossly misled
being the cause of much evil, having ignored what You previously said.
It's only by living a divine life while here on this earth that we can all
fulfill life's purpose thus being not required to come back any more.

You compassionately stated the importance of following a Perfect Master (See Note #1)
by surrendering and obedience to Him/Her anyone could get there much faster.
He/She was someone who had already achieved life's purpose and Divine goal
and was the very embodiment and shining example of man's Highest Soul.
Only by becoming as dust at the feet of such a living true saint,
seekers could gain His/Her grace and so attain a life free of taint.

Part 7
Your advent here amongst us was like the 'spring tide of creation',
when everyone gets a gentle 'push forward' to a higher life station.
The work You did while here was often very intense and exhaustive
so much so that many times You remained very aloof and seclusive.
Undergoing a great deal of suffering while working within the inner planes
uplifting mankind's consciousness by removing the vitiating mental stains,
that have accumulated over all the years to such an enormous extent
obscuring the Light of Love and Truth revealed by Your last advent.

The words You gave came from the Source of Truth and have real meaning
and those who are ready to receive them there's a rich harvest for gleaning.
Though You did say that You 'have come not to teach but to awaken'
and it was because of Love, in this present form, Your Spirit had taken.
You showered on those who came before You of Your Love, peace and charity
not forgetting the good humor and Divine Knowledge imparted out of necessity.
Continually exhorting Your dear ones that by remembering and loving You all would be well
because You were the God man (See Note #2) Who was the slave of Your lovers; by Grace one could tell.
You did mention many times that You were not limited by this apparent human ****** form
and that You used it only to manifest Thy compassion being more accessible than the norm.
Coming down to be amongst us on our level so that we could catch a glimpse of You as before
appeasing our spiritual hunger; by sight, touch, words and deeds, thus confirm our faith for sure.

_________
Note #1
A Perfect Master or Sadguru (Satguru) can be either male or female and is on the 7th Plane of Consciousness (Involution).and has achieved full Self-Realization and is one with God. Also called a Man or Woman God. He or She live the life of God in the world and wield infinite power, knowledge and bliss. A person who comes into contact with a Perfect Master is helped to progress on the spiritual path.
See also ‘Discourses‘ and ‘God Speaks’ by Meher Baba

Note #2
Also known as or called an Avatar – a direct and full Incarnation of God in human form. The Avatar appears on earth (is brought down) every once in a while - from between 600 to 700 years or 700 to 1400 years - when there is a great upheaval or turmoil in the world. The 20th Century was marked by two World Wars and the threat of Nuclear Destruction.
See also ‘Discourses ‘ and ‘God Speaks’ by Meher Baba.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
little pockets hid inside big pockets,
storage units with keys
purposely misplaced,
envelopes of documents,
labelled, saved for a purpose
that is no longer memorable,
but still instant recognizable

scenes from a marriage
violent hatreds so great,
that years of a single silence
were successes celebrated,
secrets never secreted

the taste of them
from your gorge
can't be easy erased
once the bile comes up,
you can't stomach the notion
of choking it back down

well past
the limits of inane,
voided arguments
left your bowels cleansed
but your mind throbbing pain bombs,
your body
floored in an exhaustive state

the limits of inane,
voided arguments,
left your bowels cleansed
your mind lobbing throbbing pain bombs,
your body
floored in an exhaustive state
and you dd this to yourself,
so no one helps you up

caches of glimpses of video snatches,
trailers of a life woeful misbegotten,
sudden asunder ripped to the fore,
you know you were there,
know you took part,
is that a younger sadder version of you?

the backyard of your brain
where the cache was dirt buried
kicked open foul odor and
well you smell the screaming hatred fights,
and the reel to reel breaks but you see it
anyway in the orangey brown colors of
time decaying, burnt-edges of video tape

you think your life is tough.
*******.
did hard time, 30 years,
in a prison with no air or light,
a cell the size of my brain

just when the stench is mostly gone,
the cache ripped asunder
and stink so profound
you gotta lie down,
cause a reflection in a mirror
is ample excuse to put your
head or hand through it

and all you did was go see a play entitled
scenes from a marriage,
and afterwards you keep both hands in your pockets
lest you start choking yourself
10/12/14
Cee Valenso Dec 2014
You sent my quiescent heart into a beating frenzy
A then lifeless ***** pumped itself back to life
It continues to beat at this very hour - relentless, restless
However every drop of sincere love is now replaced
It bangs against my constricting ribs, fueled by paroxysmal fury
I still find it difficult to breathe

No other melody equated your mellifluous voice
Every syllable that waltzed its way out of your lips enamored my soul
Now it turned to vexing noise that perturbs the tunnels of my ears
You are a song that does not belong in my playlist
Reverberating whispers haunt the hallways of my being
The hallways that you abandoned

Your name is etched on every wall of my mind
Its letters cavorted on the vacant space, owned the space
Each wall began to disintegrate now as your sobriquets induce cracks
Saccharine endearments quake the foundations of my sanity
But my castle of thoughts will not collapse
Commencing exhaustive repairs to extract you out of my life

Picturesque moments framed in my museum of memories
Images of your smile, of your enchanting eyes - all on display
How I wish you can watch me bathe the museum in gasoline now
The lofty flames will bring the light back in my insipid eyes
You were so quick to leave, shaming athletes on a race
Incinerating all to ash, witness how the wrathful flames emulate your pace
Raj Arumugam Jan 2013
it has been long, this voyage unintended;
one like a branch thrown into waters, into the currents of time
taken on, pushed on to unseen shores
from one continent across oceans to islands and continents
afloat always on the merciless drive and unfeeling, impassionate forces -
though sometimes the shores seemed clear, there seemed to be a destiny,
there seemed to be a will and things bent to it, and things shaped to a plan
it appeared one has arrived, one had arrived, the journey ended
one’s destination come –
but there was no announcement for passengers to disembark;
each clutches a valid ticket, but each ticket blank
the signs and boards all blank, all unmarked
and yet one was carried, one is falling, falling, one is afloat
in perpetual motion, seeming
like the leave that falls
like the sparrow that falls
like the maverick meteor that flies
and  I am so;
and I have given, I have received, I am done -
but is it done?
Are we there yet?
Are we home yet?

Oh it has been long, it has been exhaustive
But is my work done? Is it time?
Homunculus Dec 2014
Doesn't it bother anyone else: that by simply participating in our current culture of mindless, resource exhaustive consumer capitalism, we're directly perpetuating a model of conduct that will eventually lead to the loss of our habitat, and the decline of our species; one whose remorseless self indulgence now guarantees a rise of global sea level up to 10 feet?

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that we live in a society run by people who we don't know, who don't care about us, but only their own short term gain, regardless of the negative impact that their actions may and often do have on entire generations of people, present and future?

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that our economy thrives on war, and has since the 1940's, that the total for defense contracts this year has been $253,802,074,353, and that 19% of our federal budget goes to defense, with a meager 1% funding education, that we have a president who calls our congress "ceremonial," wins the Nobel Peace Prize, and then unilaterally commits acts of international terrorism without breaking a sweat?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that we're on camera all the time, that our government spies on all of our communications 24/7 as well as those of other countries, or that people who reveal these injustices are shut up in prisons for life, tortured, or exiled?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that our police force is increasingly hostile to innocent people, that they carry AR-15 assault rifles to peaceful protests, and that they constantly abuse their power? I have never ONCE consented to search, but has that ever stopped them?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that our lives are essentially meaningless in the grander scheme of things, that we all dance like puppets, and jump through hoops like dogs, working at jobs we don't like for people we can't stand, to earn money that often barely supplants our basic needs?

Doesn't it bother anyone else?
Doesn't it bother anyone else?
DOESN'T IT BOTHER ANYONE ELSE?!?!?!?
More of an editorial than a poem, but I had to get it out. I lose sleep over this stuff. (Edit... THIS started trending?!?!?! You guys are awesome!!!!)
Eleete j Muir Aug 2013
Wearing Solomons seal as a garland
With crocotto eyes under the tongue
My cynosure and I actuate and
Much alike the conversation of
Simurgh and King Solomon exchange
A solipsistic lingering stare
Fraught with meaning;
Now like an Oozlum bird wearing
Luned's ring stuck in ones gizzards
I fly, no sooner than to be one flesh
Brandishing the tears and sweat of
Tiamut and Apsu with exhaustive
Philosophical certitude kindling
The fires of adulation.


Eleete j Muir.
Matalie Niller May 2012
O sing in me muses
a tale of some beauty.
Beauty, meaning longing and sorrow
and love that leads to a ******, bitter demise.
Let me feel the cold sweats,
those breathy, exhaustive evenings
filled with the scent of sweet ripend fruits
and slowly drying paints.
I want to be an inspiration for a piece to hang forever
in limbo
in galleries
in Midwestern living rooms.
I want to hang from  branches in olive groves,
purely Greek
but with Nair and Netflix,
making sweet love to the ideals of ancient existence
while surviving the blackest of plagues
(modern immune systems are a Godsend).
Sing deeply into my rib cage, O muses,
so that my bone marrow may vibrate to the point of explosion
causes fragments of calcium to pierce skin
and make beautiful stained glass on the hill side chapels.
There was an old Lady of Winchelsea,
Who said, 'If you needle or pin shall see,
On the floor of my room,
Sweep it up with the broom!'
--That exhaustive old Lady of of Winchelsea.
ChawzzyScript Apr 2013
We feel a little more deeply;
Our dreams and our hopes a bit more lofty
The hurt we encounter, more painful
The love, more fearsome, more courageous

Our desires, our passions, they burn as fire hot embers;
Convictions, belief systems, we, a bit more zealous than the rest
Sorrow and loss makes a melancholy bed upon our hearts, tears fall while
We give reverence to those great writers that came before us,

With nature, we are held in awe, as in crispy branches of Autumn trees
Come to us again renewed, children to climb your arms of Spring
Our senses heightened to silver lined clouds, we appreciate more
Our care, our commiseration more powerful, more potent, more poignant

On constant journey to find our place in this universe, more analytical, yet more confusing
A safe haven found among like minds in this community of poets waxing prose, lyrics
Connecting with those who embody the more aspect, finding peace, finding acceptance
We are one, we are family, united vicariously of one another's experiential travels

Herein lies the words of our lives, our souls borne on scripted stage
Likes, Comments, critiques of our word manipulation, not critiques of our being
Writing is freedom, from long exhaustive treks through hot desert, snake riddled sands
We drink our first cool waters from the natural springs of Hello Poetry

We love you one and all, and this to a Greater Degree, always.

-----ChawzzyScript
Jazleigh Walker May 2015
I want to sleep but these creeping thoughts keep breaching the security of my inner peace
I want to think positive and deposit these utterly exhaustive thoughts of worry someplace else
Onto the page I lock them away to stay out of my space and only on the page for someone else
To see
To read
To agree
Even if that person is only me
At least those negative intrusive thoughts won't be so bothering
No longer can they take up such precious space
Stronger I will be
A love letter to writing. my attempt to try and define the cathartic qualities of being a writer
As the sea is dolorous
My soul is untamable
As the moon perpetuate the sea
One can make me conclusive
But who can bottle that be?

The sea may reverberate
My affection may extravasate
The moon dispassion the waves
Of my life's precipitation
Who can prevail against me?

As deep as the sea
Is my love and my heart
As the moon faultless the sea
I need someone to quiescent me
Who can rival me?

The sea is so atramentous
As is my disposition
The moon luminosity it's light
Can someone genuinely love me
And make me whole?

I need a camaraderie
Like the moon and the sea
Commensurate and exhaustive
Come find me
If you dare
I'm lost at sea.
This is the sea of love
Scott Mitchell Jan 2013
Adhering to social norm, and
obligated duty at the ball
I ask Her Majesty for a dance
and she gracefully extends a hand
Then we step, spin, and sway
as eyes behold in awe

But, who am I in late e'en
to command the silence of a queen
She lay motionless in the cuverie
as I savor the côtes
rousing deep breath and sigh

And I, not befittingly
command a vineyard of floral unfold
The sun riseth not, but heat is known
as lord of land tends each blossom
and shall forsake none

Who am I to drink as a noble
and taketh of fruit so divine
Thy hands remove the canopy
which adorned all I aspire
Seized and raised to mouth
Engaging in gluttonous frolic
as the queen declares 'halt not!'

I shalt not forbid thee
a request for royal execution
Assign thy sacrifice as mine
descending on my dagger
Exhaustive love for loss of life
conquers and consumes thine eyes

Mine end too, be not untimely
as harvest comes to pass
And I, decant into your grasp
Rims of the barriques break
and a peasant dons a crown

~
Scott Mitchell
Just Jake Mar 2015
Disarray. Disarray. This faulted circuitry is frayed.
Systems can't confirm how much more this one will take.
Analytic processes high priority. Still all sense's strayed.
Logical partitions unravel beneath the stress to break.

Crystalline optics upon this strange world of subconscious noise gaze.
Program failure. Segment reboot. Comprehension metrics left in daze.
Disorder. Disorder. Memory overflow. Execute purge.
Vent incinerated cores. Remainder to mobilize and merge.

Overwhelming, cacophonous static. A turbulent distraction.
Individual consciousness upon earth names it "compassion."
Empathy communicators struggle to gain adequate traction.
Perception requires of processors exhaustive refashion.

Limited sentient life in fragile flesh and bone shells,
Possessing organic electronics, upon unfathomable concepts it dwells.
Chaos. Chaos. Language insufficient to allow abstract assimilation.
Judgment of "human" notions is not within this one's station.

Now attempting to recalculate trajectory of exploration...
Wuji Seshat Oct 2014
i have a rendezvous with rhyme
with only the lyrics of this orchestra
my cadence is only for rhythm
free-verse in its purest ingenuity

I ache for quarterly submissions
of my essential need to write
the autopilot poetica of my

last kaleidoscopic vision strange
a musical hopscotch of surrender
a mystical milking it of thirst

muse & fate here relaxes
for a final teasing and tasting
of the plump record of odes
and the promise of exhaustive cadence

that reaches humming pentameter
stares organic pink into utopia
requesting documentation from the stars

in how to be a poet, as legends burn
martyrs in their alien worlds
a last dynasty of awkward prayer-rituals.
Connor Mar 2017
Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is

A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
                                    !!!!!!cities

A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real

Continents wither where the flies glue their

regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)

Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement

The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all


I can

hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
                         O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)


     The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a  micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
     O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
     Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
     Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
     Watches
     Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
     HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /

his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome

   to:
Inspired by Joyce, happy St Patricks Day

— The End —