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Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker.  I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames.  Nothing burns

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little ****** skirts!

There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep! -
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless.  Colorless.
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
There are times in life
when a man needs change,
And I don't mean,
dimes and quarters.

Remember when you
were just sixteen,
Driving all alone, solo,
in your old man's Buick?
All the windows down,
radio music blaring,
Your bare arm draped
out over the side of the door.
to better exhibit your bicep.

Hell mister, no doubt,
you were ten feet tall,
the king of the road.
Ever wish you had,
that feeling back again?

Cars were always my thing.
I owned some Detroit
Muscle, Full blown Chevy,
Firebird 400, Chrysler Hemi.
Smoked some tires and
went to Court a time or two.
Of course all that was long
ago in my fitter youth.

When I became a Yuppie
I acquired a Poodle Puppy,
a Porsche and a MGB.

But the ***** does turn.
and so then, did I,
And my road got,
a little bumpy.

Along came marriage,
then a baby carriage.
And a big house
In the Burbs.

Then came a progression
Of Volvo Station Wagons,
to Soccer Dad Mini Vans,
to large SUV's.
All for hauling,
any number of things.
Kids and dogs, strollers,
bikes, kites and scooters,
Fellow car poolers,

And less we forget,
"Pulling" things too.
Boats, RV's, Utility trailers,
and all nature of landscape,
gardening, and general
shopping paraphernalia.
Little League Teams,
Drooling big dogs,
Papier Mache Volcanos.
Home Coming Floats,
Once even a Goat
You name it, I hauled it,
Or pulled it!

Years rolled by,
eventually the Kids
flew the nest, got married.
And low and behold,
The wife and I split,
Each going our separate way.
No one's fault, just grew apart.
The thinly veiled allegorical
Previous Patriarchal
arrangement became,
A whole new start,
A workable self allegiance
to just one.

Soon once more, I was the MAN.
I ran out, bought a **** boat
But not having the kids around,
Soon sold it, having found out,
that alone, I was not a water sport.

I caroused around, dated women,
got my pockets picked,
learned a few lessons.
Fell in love, fell out again,
Took a few pretty good blows,
Right on the chin,
Even some down lower.

Round about then,
An Epiphany kicked in.
Remembered my most,
ennobling, happy events,
behind the wheel,
driving Dad's Buick.

As I stepped on the lot.
There was never doubt,
There was only one choice,
I just had to have that,
Little VW Bug Red Racer.

Nothing like your Mother's
Beetle, the engine's up front,
Not stuck in the trunk,
And man it produces over,
200 Big Time Horsepower
Not to mention,
Lays rubber in three,
Of six gears.
Getting all the while,
33 miles per gallon.

Receiving additional help,
from a sweet Turbo Booster,
Just like a big, Indy Track Bruiser.

There's 19 inch racing
tires and alloy wheels,
They look so cool,
Spinning in motion.

Dual stainless steel exhausts,
And best of all,
a cool collapsible,
Convertible top.

Rack and Pinion steering,
Handles like a sports car,
Yet still offers a backseat
To take my Grandkids,
out for a spin.

Dude, it's got,
All the bows
and whistles!

Top Down Driving is such a thrill,
Makes me feel sixteen again.
The open road, the sky above,
The wind blowing thru my hair,
what there is of it.

Perhaps the only thing that
Could possibly make this
Driving experience greater,
Would be to speed down,
The road, going eighty,
Behind the wheel of my
Little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course all the while,
Feel the wind in my hair.

I don't know, I'm too old,
To call this a mid life crisis.
But on the other hand,
Maybe the acquiring of
This little red sporty car,
Has something to do with,
Those Testosterone shots I'm taking.
I'm even thinking, of dying my hair,
naw, lets not get crazy!
andy fardell Apr 2014
Dont you ever get tired
Tired of this day and last night
Tired of drinking coffee made from the gravy of a cows ****
Or tired from the vile armpits plastered in your face on the tube

I get tired
Tired of drivers that try and cut me in two like their scissors or something
Tired of so called men in cars with big exhausts and white vests parking in A disabled bay or parent and child when they are by themselves

I get tired too
Tired of all the fake news on the tv about a failed pop star loosening their Clothes whilst kids around the world starve
Tired of politicians telling me how much better off I am than i was 5 years Ago ....really !!!

Tiring aint it
Tired of people always moaning yet seeing them never take a step to Change their life's
Tired of the world in debt to itself from this so called money that doesn't Even exist
I'm tired of all this

Why cant we live together
Why do we do such harm
I want to live in heavens eyes
I want to live the land

Why do we fight for dusty tracks
Such evils are not born
It's time for us to change our rights
I'm tired of all this harm

So tired
Umi Mar 2018
Dear life, what is it that makes you take on a journey which always leads towards an unavoidable, devestating yet resenting death ?
Since I cannot understand it fully I wander upon this world without finding any clear answers to satisfy the curiousity my heart bears.
In the realm of dreams I find rest, as my mind engages into this illusion and frees me from this reality for as long as my body pleases.
Awakened by loitering darkness, these questions are repeating themselves on a path of recurrance, without decreasing in strengh.
As my breath dies while feeling the agony, flames of hatred are seeping through my fragile, delicate existence, giving energy.
Rumbling, boiling in sadness I tell myself that anyone's forgiveness is not neccesary, losing control over this riot of pure fury without heart.
Looking back a thousand times, it remains as my very best choice.
Letting these emotions race, rage and rampage uncontrollably
Whilst losing ones self within a lunatic laughter to release pressure
I cannot stop these tears, pitying the past long gone rolling down my cheeks, moistening the very soil I am growing on, as a pure lily
Until the moment comes in which my body exhausts itself and allows me to enter the world of dreams, where despair fades into happiness.
Until the sun rises once again

~ Umi
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i (am) giddity giddity getting it... lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment in reality.

blow backs and...
i've never heard so much
politics on the citizenry level of
implementing the discovery
of politics...
    i love Tuesday nights in
these parts of the world...
German army jacket, hood...
walking really slow,
drinking a beer,
smoking a cigarette...
tense upper-body frame,
not moving my hands
that much,
intimidating posture...

  passing cars don't count...
**** me...
like a scene fro the Vanilla Sky
in Times Sq.....
but this is Romford,
the outback that somehow
constitutes London...
i made a count...
how many people did i spot?
3... and that includes me...

i love Tuesday nights...
and then making lunch
for my father going to work...

next time i hear the following...
all these internet bums
imploring for donations...
making ******* videos?!
that's work?!
  that's work?!
and me writing is what...
Stephen King ***
David Koontz?!

they're working?!
right... making existentialist
with a return of: how else
to be a consumer?!
that's work?!
    work... come to think of it...
what's work?
low unemployment levels...
yeah... go figure...
but the jobs on offer...
aren't they, just a tad bit
         the sort of work that
is summarized by ctrl + c
              and a cntrl + p?
if there is so much work available,
sure as **** the work is "work",
i.e. it's *******...
it's not a plumbing spot...
it's... the sort of work
that... could also come with
a contraceptive message,
a ****** career...
            why even bother doing this,
this... "job" when you can align
yourself to making contraceptive
so... you want me...
to do this, "job"...
this waste of time bollocking of
the lesser actor?
        no ******* chance...

unemployment is down...
well of course it is...
more meaningless jobs
have been re-imagined!
    no wonder!

i'd understand a cinema cashier,
there was a sense of aura,
notably with the popcorn scent...
but now?

no... over-population isn't
a problem...
but meaningless jobs are...
a ******* problem...
    ******* attempting to suffice
my escapism with a meaningless
function that is...
about as much a trade
as a peanut is a watermelon...

i'll huff... and i'll puff...
and... ****... forgot the cucumber...
make my father
the sort of lunch that
kings dream of...
   yeah... but just sandwiches?
and only sandwiches?
  ****... forgot the cucumber...
      a thai cucumber pineapple salad...
oh no... you little ***** bank donation
******* and *******...
you get to rent...
       you get to rent a flat...
coughing up money to the most
deplorable people... your landlords...
should have thought about your
teenage tantrums...
   and thought about
  talking to your parents differently...
i dated a Russian girl once...
and she told me...
that her grandmother was her mother,
and that her mother was her sister...
a ******* confusing relationship...
**** yeah that it ended!

well... evidently the retards coughing
up money into strangers' coffers
will deem me ******...
    then again...
only in the west there's the parental thesis
of being a child, and subsequently
an adult... only if: you are ashamed
of having parents to begin with;

hello, test-tube Dan,
frozen egg Hilary,
           IVF... Peaches?!

counter argument: well...
i could live in a shack in a forest,
or call my shadow a roof,
lingering on the paved streets...
then again...
my neighbors lied that
they bought a house,
and they're... what... 30 something?
saying they're renting it out...
and yet...
  they have house parties
under their parents' roof...
and smoke **** in their car...

lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment by reality;
i do not find lying
to be a moral encompass,
more an economic bypass...
      lying, simply doesn't make any
economic sense...
  "morally" (in question)
      advantageous in
the short term...
   but economically...
lying is exhausting...
            given that it's a lived
fiction... rather than
a non-lived fiction of a book...
i don't lie...
              what one cannot love,
one better be ashamed of...
****... does that even make sense?!
to be denied a love,
     one can at least bask in the shame,
that the truth of denial entails...
yeah... that sounds better.
RedD Sep 2018
The hardest part is letting you walk out the door
Back to your life
That I know hurts you
That I know exhausts you
That consumes you

I want to be there for you
To take away the hurt
I want you to be yourself again
To be happy
To be free
To say and do what makes you content
Without regret

I adore touching you
Kissing you
Loving you
The taste of your lips on mine
The touch of your tongue on mine
Every caress carves with such intensity
Sometimes too unbearable
Because I want this so much
With you
Your touches
Your closeness
Your warmth
Makes me whole again

I will wait for you
My door remains open
I will let you in
There is a pear above me
hovering reluctantly.
It's skin firm,
the colour of meadows in the midst
of spring.

Tightly it clung
to that little stem on the branch
which exerted much effort
to keep it away from the ground.

It looked down on me
wanting badly to be picked.
To be kept inside my pocket
safe - and could be taken out
in dark moments for company.

It could also be tossed roughly in the sack
to migle with other pears.
Scratched pears.
Battered pears.
Broken pears.
Happy pears.
Wounded pears.
Rotten pears.
Abandoned pears.
Neglected pears.
Hate pears.

Love pears.

But it clings, above me
completely out of reach.
It sways in the wind,
impossible to be climbed.

And all I can do
is wait here,
down here, down below
until time exhausts the branch
until it decides to push my pear away
in moments when I am most unprepared.

It will fall on the ground
and I won't be there to catch it - like people execute to people.
Its flesh will cover the pavement
the soil will sap its juice.

It will kiss the soles of my shoes when I passed by
Its remnants will knock, then eventually pound.
And I will see that my untouchable pear
has been reassembled to be a ruin
that shelters history
that homes the history people
with historical names
and historical nails
and historical breath.

That house will contain the smell of oil lamps
lost letters, burnt maps and scarred love
and my pear will accompany the parchment
that human thoughts choose to abandon.

Until then,
I will not be writing for a while.
~Lacus Crystalthorn
st64 Sep 2013
collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond

little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut
the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
not only by them

next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty

no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be

supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .

S T, 1 September
Happy Spring Day!
And . . . er . . . catch some sun-rays . . . while ye can :)

Sub – entry : 'empty chairs'

Songwriter: Don McLean

I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night
Creep through my fingers and the moon is bright
Beams of blue come flickering through my window pane
Like gypsy moths that dance around a candle flame

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Moonlight used to bathe the contours of your face
While chestnut hair fell all around the pillow case
And the fragrance of your flowers rest beneath my head
A sympathy bouquet left with the love that's dead

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would

Never thought the words you said were true
Never thought you said just what you meant
Never knew how much I needed you
Never thought you'd leave, until you went

Morning comes and morning goes with no regret
And evening brings the memories I can't forget
Empty rooms that echo as I climb the stairs
And empty clothes that drape and fall on empty chairs

And I wonder if you know
That I never understood
That although you said you'd go
Until you did I never thought you would
adele horn Jan 2010
we share this space
we share this union
but i cannot be further away from you.
your faults make me cringe
your dependancy on praise exhausts me.
the narcissist is in you
feeds the bitterness in me.

i had hoped that you would come to take me away
and now i am sailing this boat alone.
i hate it when people ask
how i am.
cause i cant tell them,
the infinity of depair
you bring upon me.

they all bask in your glorious smile,
and your casual demeanor.
but they never see
the insecurity
the neediness
the demands
the dissapointments
the sulking
the depression
the anger
the violence
the fear i feel around you.

so i fight against a ghost,
lash out at the wind.
and i grow ever more lonely.
cause you are too stuck in your own pain,
to see me slipping away.
raw with love Dec 2014
i bought a pack of cigarettes tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i sat on the stairs in the yard of the old house with its walls crumbling,
with its facade turned to dust.
the air was so cold it stung my fingers, frost licking my face,
turning my cheeks blood-red but nothing hurt
as much as you do.

i smoked a cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the smoke filled me up and i feared
it would leak out of all the holes you punched in me.
it didn't. i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like drowning.
like your mouth on my mouth, like your teeth on my neck.
i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like you
so i liked it.
who cares i almost died.

i smoked a second cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
nicotine ran in my veins,
blue rivers along my pale skin and it felt, it really felt
a lot like love. a lot like you. a lot like us.
galaxies scattered across my skin, poison running in my blood,
yes, it felt a lot like us.
i didn't choke this time, but i think you would have laughed
at the way i ******
on the cigarette ****.

i smoked a third cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i swallowed cancer like a drug and it stung
at the back of my throat, and it burned and it burned and it burned
as ash gathered at the burning end
and fell to the ground like snowflakes,
little flakes of ash on my sneakers
and it reminded me of your kisses a little, i didn't choke this time.
i laughed. a bitter laugh.
you hurt at the back of my mind as i put
the cigarette out and i thought about the way
you'd look at me, boldness in your eyes, hair a little all over
the place and your mouth
shaped in a little "o"
as you blew circles of smoke out.

i smoked a fourth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the cold stung but not as much as my lungs burnt and my brain burned
and you hurt.
i blew smoke out but never quite like you did,
and i thought it looked and was a little
ridiculous maybe
to burn the leaves of a plant wrapped in paper
and fill our fragile bodies with the exhausts
we breathe out smoke like broken steam engines,
ain't it funny, haha.
you'd laugh, harshly, you'd bite me, you were always
a little rough.

i smoked a fifth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
it's not half as venomous as you were, i decided.
i put it out.
cigarettes are so not worth the hype.
you were.
you are.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
for any of my work to have any meaning, i can only suggested browsing Empedocles (of Acragas), in saying that, i suggest the name, primarily it's a form of philosophy, written in poetic form... in that it exhausts the need for poetic technique: i.e., there's more to see, than actually hear.

- just like i don't understand people who fake doing the maestro whenever they listen to classical music, in the same vein: your greengroccer... your plumber... your electricians.... god forbid you t.v. guy....  don't translate that oddity in, modern music and imitating drummers... i get air guitar, i get air maestro... no one really bother the drumming brigade, when i listen to classical music, i am looking for a maestro, when i listen to contemporary music i, want a drummer, bad; ****! St. Thomas' gospel is becoming real... like i really, really, need a *** change.... never mind the 50cl of whiskey waiting for me, or sasha foxxx's eyes... the job? hammer in a thousand nails... industrialise ***, what do you get? a **** economy... why would god enter the equation if all the problems are theological self-made-heresy? it's not even that *** sells, and god gives gives rise to stampedes... what with the Koran and oil, are we counting to state the same arithmetic... i mean: the industrialisation of ***... nothing that hurts, nothing but a quip... that sorta of definition belongs in China or India with a billion participants... what we have is a case of mouthing off the competitors, when you're actually chihuahua in the Sahara of expectation.... i'm as mad as the numbers say i am... personal stories are non-essential.... i included mine for added effect... or a presumtpion that i might: acknowledged as having said anything in total....counter to english existentialism, so wholly preoccpupied with zoos and biology as the only scientific resource... i can't agree to it making sense, in the standard item-basis-list of following-up an argument... that dire, fake or indeed couch-sloth desert-prune is only half of *σ
... i mean there's a tendency of a natural disparity, to ensure a dialectical health of any if all argument... σ = per se... it's because there no single, identifiable argument, the one current is a vogue argument, in the realm of zeitgeist parameters... it's not the only one... the world will move on... it's only that at the zenith of civilisation, we are only bound to industrialise ***, and art is, as according to W. Benjamin, in a state of: ditto, in the age of machanical, reproduction... easier said than... and so done... i feel the anaesthetic needle doing the suggested thing, of numbing me... it's not when art is given onto this Moloch-like altar... it's when *** is industrially-scaled to require cinema... and the quickie-dip of dimension having repertoire in threes... i have no care to ensure there's a narrative and a frenzy... i just care to say: there's a narrative, and a frenzy.... that one has no insurance, and that the other has all the resources that would otherwise invole a familial life... which now, evidently, is prone to same-*** affiliations than compliment-*** affiliations... meaning less art from the **** realm, and more art from the hetero or h-quasi realm (origin ****)... you need to talk about the cushions, if you're going to sleep in the bed, ****'s sake! -

to really live by the "rules" of existentialism,
to live an existential doctrine,
is to really: live an uneventful life,
or should i say: rather ordinary?
  well... i wouldn't go as far as saying it
might be boring, just... un-spectacular.

and all it takes it five beers and, oh, about
6 miles of wet wintry cement,
   and o.t.t.'s album blumenkraft,
with the crescendo song: billy the kid strikes back...

walk 6 or 7 miles in winter
and you come back into a warm abode
and you have skeleton hands...
numb from the cold...
but in england winter is different
than on the continent...
a wet winter (which is very english)
is worse than a dry winter (which is
  as honesty goes... -18C in a dry winter
is probably not as bad as -1C in a wet
    so there's me, completely
****-faced watching the t.v. series
this is us, and one of the characters is
a black kid that gets adopted by
a white family when
    one of the triplets of the white family
dies in child-birth,
and he finds his biological father...
and also a mid-life crisis:
white folks told me to excell,
so he does,
   black daddy was a poet and played
the piano...
and he experiences a mild
schizophrenia... see, it's not a scary word,
i mean: without the extreme symptoms...
   a split-mind...
thankfully i cushioned mine on bilingualism...
and i have been ever since: bilingual -
nothing to be proud of,
   after all: there's the genius polymath...
but it's not about that: it's about winter...
winters in england are so different to
winters on the continent...
the grey skies? oh, that's here all year...
    talk about being a weather man
in Saudi Arabia, most of them moved to England:
where the action is...
but really, i can't imagine why existentialism
as a movement, culminated in the zenith
it achieved (precursor movement?
        oh yah yah: were nieche, very Kensington,
very, Chiswick...

but to really appreciate an existentialist
dogma, a truly uneventful life...
   and given that existentialism in the French
vein akin to Kant but not so much Heidegger
lends itself to the cartesian maxim...
well... that's because it kinda has to,
but not really...

  Kant took out i think and merely focused on that,
his biography goes along the lines of:
a ritual walker, stayed in one place,
    a rook of the clock, i couldn't exactly call him
a pawn... nonetheless...
             a very uneventful life...
why? thought.
    what's the most interesting thing i've done today?
i thought, or, i had a thought (a / the article scissors
cutting off the -ism)...
and that's about it...
    had a thought...
                   i hit the gong that thus translates into
the post ergo / therefore of i am,
   and then i realised: i wasn't motivated enough
by my thought: to do much!
historically speaking, my writing can only be placed
into a dynamic of being called post-existentialism,
it's not boasting, it's just a plain fact,
   like Monday will be St. Valentine's day, 2017...
and some men collect stamps,
   and some men like fishing,
    and some men have the habit of writing about
things that are, a bit like Avogardo's constant,
meaning they'd love to speak about these things
over, and over again, and never get bored of them,
or for that matter: start families.

strange how it works, have it all...
       or have none of it, to later only have that one
vector that's opposite of mortal, ******...
        or have both, in a way,
and be later traced to some Shakespearean controversy
about a mistaken identity...
well... there's that too.

that must be it, existentialism, and the most,
ordinary life...
         pause for what, akin to something else i wrote
about beginning the thought catching
up to the walk a few days earlier which began
with z and i and diacritical marks,
how northern slavs wouldn't necessarily disrespect
the already present diacritical mark
on the ι (iota), i.e. regarding acute z (ź),
and how if z & i appear together, i.e.
    z and immediately after it, i... you don't bother
writing an acute version of z,
   as a southern slav (balkan) might,
with his caron (ž)...

or a bit like stating the old chestnut of universals
vs. particulars...
   well... they can say what they like about
the cheapness of writing in this medium
but there is nothing so gut-wrenching as a deleted
passage, that will never return...
    immediate heartache... there on the screen,
the computer decides to "have a mind of its own"
moment by either your carelessness
          or the computer's defects and: ****!
gone, a shift+ and suddenly... writing while not
looking at the keyboard, as you do... ****!
gone... gone baby... gone...
    and if that's not analogy of: a lesson
in placing your hands correctly onto the computer
does me: you're looking at the keyboard
and not at the screen...

  how about writing with my eyes closed?
  haven't seen anyone attempt that...

here goes:

    and with that i give you hades...

not bad, i should try it more often... it's not believable
because it's actually correct and has no mistakes....

alternative? and with that i give you sheol...
   still the same... double *******.

((   ((
and that's all it takes... the part where you let go,
because you have to:
  the regret can be there, but soon has to
be overruled...
   it mattered at the zenith of logic,
it was really there, for such a brief moment,
i could call it a study in how you can ****
a very lucid moment, and then have to "resort",
but, rather: merely accepting it as having no place
in the overall composition...
    so to the windowsill, finishing off
blackbeard (whiskey and coca cola and
a cigarette)... changing the aura from
o.t.t.'s album taken home from the "marathon"
(yes, the prime existential tool is the transcendence
of synonyms, encouraging misnomers
or: how to not build dams, or become custard
beavers, looking for words...
    the river, every time, always looking at a river...
the sea and the people and time...
   rivers occupy an infinite concept of space
and the change within such a Thermopylae,
as it might give you indigestion,
or the highest serving rank of memory...
the sea and the people don't scare me,
and it's hardly a thing of admiration...
its just a sight of pulverisation, a headache...
the river, the solitude, and the fact that local
newspapers have adverts of only lonely women...
sure, read a national newspaper and there
are women seeking men, women seeking women,
men seeking women, men seeking men...
but look at a local, a local newspaper: only women
advertising themselves for candles and firecrackers...
it seams men were always programmed (a priori)
        into the gravitas of solitude...
what i really meant to say: existentialistic writings
can appear foreboding with the ditto...
with the perception that there's this ulterior,
dark-seeded motive...
      i just thought about bypassing the thesaurus,
like some writers do,
    you can spot it when they do,
a word they looked up from their labour
of lumberjacking the keyboard
sticks out like a modern statue, or a broken finger,
a word: right off the pages of a thesaurus...
   i just mean that there's nothing sinister enclosed in
the said "brackets"...  there's nothing additional about it,
but as narratives go... you sometimes want to bypass
Sherlock Holmes and write a synonym-antonym,
you want to bypass the thesaurus, content with your
own vocab riches, but too "lazy" / engrossed in
what's actually coming...
say, that interlude, a cigarette, finishing off the whiskey,
with the glass freezing and having a layer of ice
around it... and: why i'll never be part of the nirvana's
or the doors' cult...
     pearl jam's indifference, from their second album.

so it's sometimes thereuputic letting go,
  after all, no one built a house on the summit of Everest,
if i wrote something of such clarifying quality,
and lost it... i can only apply an imagery of having seen it,
the best i can suggest that i wrote something
akin to 1 + 1 = 2, and then accidently deleted it...
and that's the sad part,
universals as vowels, particulars like consonants,
    even numbers akin to 2 and odd numbers akin to 1
(divided into decimals, or the wormhole of 0.123456 etc.) -
it was a beautiful sight, and then, again: ****!
gone... like a magician doing a trick
   and then... the sadness of having lost the technique
to recreate it...
well, the best i can do to recreate it is based
on a short argument...
   if universals and particulars (relying on the fact
that both have a plural form,
  i.e. so not 1 in 1, but the many of 1,
   and akin to: the 1 in many, and the many in many,
and the 1 in 1 / focus, something identifiable) -
or loosely universals like vowels, and particulars like consonants,
but given the two experience diacritical distinction /
additions... i could best remember what i wrote
as: 1 e.g. particular, if divided: fractions, and after
fractions: decimals...
                2 e.g. universal, if divided: whole numbers,
and after whole numbers fractions, and later decimals...
   so on and so forth with 3 (particular), 4 (universal),
     5 (p.), 6 (u.)...
                 a bit like having your own telescope
and microscope, just looking at what we make silence
of, our two ways of encoding what could have,
or should have been said, that was nonetheless said,
transcending our contemporaries as, what can only
be described as... an echo, lost in the caves of aeons...

this promenade begun with something to z & i...
or z, i, ι, ź and ž (what a nice pentagram,
i was watching the six nation's match
between wales and england,
and lo! behold... a goat at the fore!
  mind you, i took a cigarette break when they scored
their two tries).
Cardiff? yeah, been there once...
         Poland v Wales qualifying match,
donning a polish football shirt, got approached
by two young welsh girls saying: your team is ****...
started giving it the local... how fast they ran away...
and they say we laugh more than we cry,
   and i could be the one to snigger a sly laugh at
that memory, but cinema memory says to me:
time to usher in the reverse-psychology,
calling white black, and laughter crying...
        or as i like to call it, the paradox marriage
that has, literally not tentacle hold on the world,
   the bilingual marriage,
             lodged deep inside my head,
most recognisable by my theory study of diacritical
marks, or actually having noticed them,
and having no real, authentic accent to remind me
that i belong in either geography...
         whether from beginning, or toward an end...
some call it acting, some call it faking,
  i call it: just what i was given, or, more precisely:
what i earned... and that was to no good use...
        unless... this is the best expression of what the foundations
look like.

what was i thinking of? ah!

   it just involved the σ                       ς roundabout...
the aesthetic variation for one,
but on another investigation, well, sigma, total, sum,
and how be obey it like a golden ratio or pi,
   it's just auto-suggestive of how we are never truly
synchronised in our arguments...
   but, "paradoxically", or should i say: by a miracle,
make up the greatest potent to have an argument...
  we can never truly really synchronises ourselves
to fill the boots of expressing an utopian dream,
otherwise we wouldn't dream... period...
  so bye bye Freud and that method of escapism...
     we already ensured that, if they be our creation,
the gods are already at war with the Titans...
      i'll actually acknowledge that in an age of
pop philosophy in that Greece was, a place of allowing
a fertility of thought and later popularising it
(we don't live in times where there's a fertility consecrated
on the altar of thought, or what philosophy is, thinking per se /
for itself... innovators! scientists! up-starts!
or as some might say, the other pronoun battle,
the one without genitals involved,
as could only be sooner said:
  per se, or per per...
                       in in...
nothing sexualised... it's only that there's a limit in pronouns,
per se / in itself must come across the muddle
regarding the moment when people lose their
identity and begin their life with: ? thought
rather than i think,
       i can't place it anywhere else than inside my head,
better there than in the genitals,
   or wasn't Jesus circumcised and the zeitgeist
of St. Thomas' gospel and the transgender movment?
    the church is old, and counter-authoritarian,
it's just a tired institution, so it has no actual authenticity
over the current changes in society,
    might as well call onto Islam to move the chess pieces...
or that's what i'm currently seeing...
   i was just thinking about a logical limit in language,
e.g. timbaland's song the way i are...
   there really is a logical limit on how far you can
suddenly just forget grammar...
            so why begin with per se?
                 at best described as a cogitans (
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth—
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.
In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast Savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.

Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.

Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.

If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.
2tentacletashed chrome Cthulhu's shrunkenhead of an engine
shrunkenheadlocked by said 2 exhausts like chrome tentacles
Leatherette saddle toasty as a witch's familiar in hot tin coven.
Panniers of jetblack fibreglass, some shrouded Schrodinger's
catcarriers ebon.
Sycamores overhang the courtyard walls, primaestival leaves
Sanctum sanctorum of the canopy a penumbral hunter's green.
Prima facie: Buddhist biker parkedup for a guidedmeditation.
Or p'haps he (or she) is not proverbial easyrider, karmadumping
Stereotypes scream readily to mind like silvermachines of
fancy; maybe this hog's a trendy vicar's, parishioner riding pillion
to the heathen Wellbeing Centre for acupuncture crown of ferns?
Whether Hell's Angel of Mercy, Pirsig reader or swami as the
                                          Stig, mystery remains
for visor on the skid lid stayed down tho' 3rd eye chakra might be
                                                                ­     open.
Where cross cliches of the open road & path to innerpeace,
a ***** has been riven
thru which a stranger's authenticity outstretches,
revving my imagination.
I am tired.
I am tired of not sleeping. Tired of trying to stay awake, because each time I try to sleep every bad thought and guilty feeling consumes my mind’s fatigue and internalises the stress into energy. My anxiety can keep my mind running all night long. I am tired of running without crossing any distance. Running without moving is an exercise my mind is too out of shape to survive. I’m tired of running away. Each step pounds the point home that I am a coward. Each pound pushes the earth down until it reaches the other-side, causing another step along the way. The eternal footrace soldiers on thanks to the anxiety engine.
I’m tired of fear. Repetitive worry exhausts every other thought from existing, so fear becomes the constant state. I’m so fluent in fear that I twitch at every sound and grip at every surface. My mouth is so prepared to scream that simple phrases of love and compassion, or even pleasantries and common courtesy involve intense concentration to untie my tongue.
I am tired of the silence. Silence from those who don’t have the seconds to spare to consider these issues, silence from the loved ones who refuse to understand, silence from the health professionals who seem to know more about pushing drugs then pushing information. I am tried of the silence I am shackled to by a condition that hides in thousands of names and symptoms.
I am tired of crying. I am tired of being unable to control a torrent of pointless salt and shame every time I need to ask a question in a train station or a bank. Countless scenarios with incalculable varying outcomes drain me, I cannot prepare for technology to fail, for accidents, for unhinged passers by or the end of the world. I cannot prepare for anything. I cannot control anything. Not even tears.
I am tired of not sleeping, I am tired of not waking, I am tired of running and running away, I am tired of crying, I am tired of caring, I am tired of dreaming, I am tired of trying… I am tired of being tired.

So ******* tired.
Edward Coles Feb 2013
A thin white dust of snow littered the concrete path like an overspill of Styrofoam *****. Summer had her hands buried deep into the lining of her coat pockets and her chin pressed tightly within her pashmina scarf. It was the first bite of wind she’d felt in a while. She had been holed up with her friends for several days and the concept of loneliness was already foreign to her, much in the same way as privacy. She could feel the cheap red wine rust in her veins as her body told her “too much” and in truth she was ready for the crackle of vinyl and the promise of fresh sheets and a shower. The week had been fun, she guessed, she’d certainly felt closer to her friends than ever before, even though they all went back for as far as it was worth remembering.  ‘She guessed’. She’d been guessing for a while now, living in absences with everything held at an emotionless distance – whether or not this was deliberate she could not decide.
It wasn’t a particularly long walk back to her house, enough to take the bus - but she guessed she wanted the walk. The cold air made her eyes glassy and occasionally she had to blink furiously to catch the water forming along her lids. The din of distant inner city traffic consumed the airwaves around her but the path that lay ahead of her was surrounded by parkland, and within eyeshot there was a lazy brook where children would often be seen playing, though they’d be at school at this time of day. She guessed. She wasn’t quite sure of the time, but she knew it was the 15th of February. She couldn’t always be sure of what year it was though, her head was often stuck back in the 1960’s, before she was even born.
Summer could feel the claustrophobia of youthfulness shedding from her every angle and with every insipid step she took, the world took on a more familiar feeling and she took her first real breath of air for days. From out of nowhere she felt overwhelmed at the breathless ease of the faint snowfall and the slate grey of the sky. The clench in her stomach – Summer often found herself weeping for no real reason, and she could never quite work out whether she would be weeping for beauty, or for sorrow…she guessed that there was some compromise between the two. All she knew is that she was very sorry when she reached her front door that her walk was over and that she must again disappear into the walls.
The heating had been off for almost an entire week now and Summer could hear the house groan into action as the radiators cracked back into life, and she felt much the same. The kettle jittered on the spot as the water steamed and bubbled welcomingly and soon the kitchen was greeted with the smell of tea. Summer retreated to her room upstairs. A wide room with white walls meant that it was often brighter than the world outside and it often appeared to unadjusted eyes to have a ghostly glow about it. Summer thumbed through her proud collection of second-hand LP records until she settled on listening through Pink Moon for what was now an uncountable time. “Saw it written and I saw it say, pink moon is on its way”. She let out an exhausted but contented smile and fell onto her bed. The sheets were cold from privation of use but the coolness on her cheek was welcome and she closed her eyes and imagined she was still outside on an effortless walk, with the sounds of Nick Drake overpowering that of the exhausts of one thousand cars.
After several moments of another world, she reluctantly sat back up and began to take off her clothes to get a little bit more comfortable. It felt good to get out of her clothes, she’d only meant to stay for one night so she had not been able to change her clothes for days and she’d appreciated the idea of clean underwear in a way she never considered worth noticing before. She unclasped her bra and felt it fall clumsily to the floor and just sat there for a moment, bare-breasted in the pearl white of the chilly room. She couldn’t help but feel like an illustration, of pastels or watercolours. Her mind was still a convoluted collage of the past few day’s events – the haze of alcohol and **** still occupied a small corner of her being, despite the cleansing walk and the wonderful clunk of a familiar guitar bouncing across her walls. Her ******* were hard from the cold so she threw on an extra large male t-shirt that fell to just below her upper thigh.
She slid off her skirt and underwear, which fell limp at her pale thin ankles. Looking at her thighs, she could still make out the small thumb-sized bruises scattered across them from the distant and removed *** she’d had at some point last week. At least she guessed, it could have happened back in the 60’s for all she knew. It felt as if the past week was not real, a familiar feeling. She was almost certain that man who had shared her bed did not really exist and her bruises contested her own existence. At least that’s how it felt.
She turned over the vinyl and remembering her tea, slid between the covers and warmed her hands against the steaming ceramic. The tea was perhaps the most wonderful and delicious thing she had ever tasted and she felt it nourish her metaphysically. In a way beyond words, she felt herself heal with the rush of warm past her lips and the sweetness on her tongue. The room was slowly warming as she skimmed her legs back and forth against the mattress in complete comfort. Once the last of her tea had been drunk, she let the empty mug rest on the bedside counter and almost immediately fell into a dreamless sleep.
nick drake
Maggie Emmett Jul 2014
Hot boys express emotion  
in the resonance and width  of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and *****-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.  

Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.

Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.
A black humorous poem about so many young men who believe they are invincible and who sadly, are not.
N E Waters Jan 2014
Your smug
exhausts me.  
under desert skies by
stagnant waters reflected
in your shades, and--
I had to shake you.
And whence the dust had loosened
from cracks
like earth
beneath your skin,
I was afraid
and fled from mine.
J Harris Jun 2015
Do not leave me
not even for a day.

For a day is long,
difficult to understand

and one without you
exhausts me.
Kitty Prr Dec 2013
Poem a day, day 12*

Heat radiates through me.
the heat of summer
The heat of an unventilated apartment
The heat of passion

And I love it
And I hate it
The powerful burning
Intense and overwhelming

the strength of the heat excites me.
No release from it exhausts me.
But if I had to choose
I would choose the heat.

It stifles the mind
and intensifies the body
Enhancing every sensation
Making me aware of every part of me.

Rather overwhelming heat
Than cold death
Where sensation is drained
As your body goes numb.

In this heat I am truly in my body
I honour it as I search for relief
Trying to escape it and revel in it
At the same time

But it's ok
The heat will come again.
Mitchell Duran Sep 2012
Upscale informants the Hats
Colored black with neck break
Speed colored sand with Heavy
Metal helmet tendencies nonsense
Rent being too high for love or
Life files in minds of man and women
In near to death relations that push
Their souls to a break point still birth

Addiction to laughing near you and
By you where the black is a class that
Annoys penetrates informs tells all
The magazines a burning in their racks
As the clouds spheres make the near to
Them closer to them the hot suit with
The restaurant girl in the ***** jean pants
Makes you turn your head guilt leans
On your temples and up there in the rafters
The ceiling is no longer - each baseball of the
Bell has its so and how about you and I go
For a ride that neither of us will come back from?

The fact of that of being alright will make Peter
Wince because the leak inside the bed of theirs
Will take us to a place whose soot is red and
Whose boots are covered in a mud that will be
Impossible to get off let the apology tear through
Fabrics in speechlessness marooned on each desert
Palms waving in the near sighted pirates of myth let
Me not make my soul a fool but my own body in mourning

I grew up too early or I grew up in the sheets
Of a place that were not my own home childhood
Is wavy like the heat strokes upon the highway
Dust settling on the dining chairs of forgotten families
Their picture frames cracked from lack of love and too
Much sun, the bushes outside wave back and forth from
A warm wind and a whisper that starts at the closet,
Trembles toward the trenches of the World War I dead and
Onward ongoing and unknown to where the weird work
For pennies without faces making them worth nothing

Here the lazy learn that life doesn't a give a **** about them
In turn their eyes collide corode from unpolished moonlight
Lain in graves un-watered and uncared for by the undertaker's
Son so soon He was forgotten by a broken family near to death
For the money was just never coming in the sunlight no longer
Favored their breathing nor their eyesight nor their feet that
Were always walking, working, and fretting over things they
Just couldn't control the cold never left them, only when they died
Were they allowed the fortune of rest, though they did not feel
It whence it came for the dead feel nothing, for the dead feel nothing ever,
For the dead feel nothing when the time has come for them to be

Heat exhausts itself like we do like humans do like people try not to
Effort affronts reverses the hill steep in incline reminds all who accept
Death's challenge snowfall makes the means to the end possible, justified
Benches wooden in their making remind me as I climb where the stuff
Comes from so in the chimes the monks bow their heads, never once
Thinking of women, or drink, or work, or food, or what despair life has
Thrown at them, they seem to only think of their God and the slow, vibrating
Hum of their vocal chords and their breath that journeys through their body
Like their life did through the world once like all of ours has done as well that
Magic wet with the tears of the forgiven youth at the jailhouse or the grieving
Murderer who was never caught but whose guilt and remorse weighs down
Their soul until the final call is made or the final toss out into the gutter from a
Bar who knows what they are, alone now with only their deed in life that has
No feeling of reward or satisfaction, only emptiness with a dream no longer with face

I hear the echoes

They taste
Metallic and golden

Like icicles of the
First rays of Fall sunlight
Through cracked translucent leaves
Chilled with a foreign wind
That is still with a sameness I
Would only associate with
A home drenched with
Childhood memories turned recollections

How the world
Turns and turns

Yet all seems the
Same everywhere


No more

Present or

None are
Young or
Old or
Growing Old

As they are

For as long
As they wish

To Be.

In Dreams,
In Dreams,

We Dream
Of But Only

One Dream
Paul Mackenzie Oct 2009
Through a wet night,
And beside an ancient moon,
Came the wolfs howling croon,
Sacred trees breath,
And fire exhausts the soft air,
True Leopards lair.

Lying with eyes of beauty,
And the quiet stillness of perfection,
Silent and soothing,
The velvet wind,
As she licks and teases,
Flicks and breezes under my skin,
And again I'm within her secret layer,
Easing, breathing,
United duelation,
The birth of a nation swims silently in the dark,
Probing sublimation,
Soft and smooth,
To the end of the groove,
And still no more to move,
For sweat speaks exhausted talk,
And pleasure retires to reincarnate,
We've breached the gate,
Coupled warmth smothers,
The light fades,
Woven bodies beneath the moon,
Sleep now for we will awake soon.
Tyler Nicholas Jan 2014
I recall the rustic leaves,
and the sound they made when crushed
under skateboard wheels,
as they settled around the half-pipe
and the worn rails of Peter Pan Park.

with their colorful helmets and their
better-safe-than-sorry knee pads,
kicked and pushed their way across the pavement
and pumped their fists in the air
as their boards reached the other side.  
In this Neverland, the kids wanted adventure first -
the tea could wait at home for a little longer.

But, as dusk settles,
the pirates emerge upon the asphalt shores
in fleets of tinted windows and loud exhausts.
These pirates, still adolescent in their own age,
bicker and fight until a hook pierces skin,
blood spills upon the crisp leaves,
and a boy - with naiveness still glistening in his eyes -
becomes another boy who would not grow up
in the Never Never of Peter Pan Park.
David W Clare Feb 2015
“Democracy… while it lasts is more ****** than either aristocracy or monarchy. Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There is never a democracy that did not commit suicide.”

– John Adams
There you jolly well have it folks!
Delaney Jun 2015
Prolonged social exposure
exhausts me.
It sets my mind on fire,
but in all the wrong places.
I lose interest too quickly
for small talk,
and lack of intellectual conversation.
A little is fine, beleive me,
But I can't stress it enough,
prolonged social exposure
exhausts me.

meg Jul 2017
Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist.
Wait for what she will tell us.

True, our breath echoes the sea’s
sweeping tide. The inky bleeding
of saltwater that calms and soaks.
Drenched, this collective exhale.
I’ve always preferred silk over velvet;
that’s what the sea is. Silk over velvet.

The moon has seen every unholy rite,
her glare is cast cold. Over the Mysteries,
over me. Every pulse of her is lapped
up by the sea beneath. This shared breath
is echoed in the sea is echoed in the moon;
the universe folds itself. Lives inside a gasp.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
by her own rules.

Our stars are fading like so many discarded
loves. The world is tired, she crumbles
our castles. Crumbles our convent,
exhausts our goddesses. Daughter of life,
who slipped through Death’s doorway;
she sinks below. A seasonal existence.

Sunset spills red on the horizon, dedicates
her evenings to us. We exist by her signal
and her permission. She stretches her skin
for the moon. Lays herself as a blanket
on which night may sleep, cradled and safe;
a nest of stars. We all seek Dawn’s relief.

Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
in anger, in yellow, in rain.
inspired by the French phrase, 'il faut laisser aller le monde comme il va', which I saw floating around on the internet a while ago.
Bob B Sep 2018
We hobble along with outrage fatigue
And watch as nothing ever exhausts
Our Machiavellian leaders' use
Of the media to win at all costs.

False story lines prevail.
To hell with accuracy and precision.
Sowing distrust of higher learning
Solidifies their paranoid vision.

Watch how their destructive disdain
For expertise gains vitality
As people's opinions and feelings stomp
On any form of objective reality.

Watch as they rewrite history;
Notice how data can be erased
As they become suspicious of much
Information that's science-based.

Language becomes weaponized:
Hyperbole, salacious lies,
And slippery superlatives
Celebrate truth's demise.

Party loyalty: that is key.
All that matters is the sale.
Hijacking democracy
Becomes the goal: the holy grail.

Mobilized by grievance, they
Inflame fear and anger. They hope
That we will find scapegoats to blame
When we are at the end of our rope.

A general illiteracy
On issues that affect our lives
Keeps us all in doubt while they
Create fake news and sharpen their knives.

Ah, how they want you to fear
Government, which is ironic,
For they themselves are government.
Look at their smiles, cold and sardonic.

Give equal weight to both
Sides of arguments, they say.
That's how they can justify
Bigotry and lead us astray.

While extremist views go mainstream,
Blurred lines make life hazy.
Keep watering narcissism,
And you will see it grow like crazy.

Their careful manipulation of language
Proves how much their rhetoric's swollen.
The people find it hard to accept
That basic freedoms are being stolen.

As we lament the death of truth
And wonder how it came to pass,
Before we cast blame we must
Peer into the looking glass.

-by Bob B (9-28-18)

°Inspired by "The Death of Truth" by Michiko Kakutani
stargazer Sep 2019
i am so tired
everything that
exhausts me
keeps me
at night
having a hard time sleeping
Julie Butler Jan 2015
I've lost my grace tonight with whiskey
& sitting patient on a plane
I'm driven crazy by your face
& how it's swallowing my brain
I feel so
i n a p p r o p r i a t e
with the things I want to say
my hands are idle with intention
& your spine's calling my name
who do I blame this on tonight
for wanting you so bad
my nails are living for the day
they trace the inside of your back
I cannot focus now at all
I've got these i d e a s like scripture
I'm drawing down the halls I've fallen on
to make a perfect picture
the thought of you exhausts me
& I'm not ready for your swoon
for this my hands they do profess
under your dress
in your bedroom
I'm gonna motivate my love tractor
From the east coast to the west
Feel it's horsepower beneath my ***
The scorching heat from the exhausts
Blistering my legs
Throwing back rock and gravel
Scattering anything in my way
I want to see the ocean before I die
I want to stop at the Grand Canyon on the way
And a dozen greasy spoons
And a dozen more biker bars
It all leads my ***** *** to the beach
Might as well be the Ganges
Baptise me in that great body of water
I love huge bodies of water
Lakes, rivers, seas...but never seen the ocean
I could make it on a Harley
Overcome my fear
Do it by myself
Biker clubs are insane
They're where I need to be
I've been listening to Steppenwolf
All my life
Get that hog out on the road
The highway and the hog is all that exists
It's another of those "becoming One" situations
I can handle it
Stay on the state highways
Avoid interstates
Maybe I should start getting high again every day
Smoking **** at least 3 times a day
Why don't I think that would still make  me happy?
But it's cut into my short term memory
It's been cruel and even driven me to my knees
I have a healthy fear of what it's capable of
But if I could ride a Harley cross country
Surely I could handle doing it high as a kite
Biker girls, sorry to break your hearts
I got a respectable old lady who won't sit on the seat of a Harley
We have discussed parameters
But the sum total is you won't be getting what you want
That doesn't mean you might not get something and something valuable and life-changing at that
It's all at my discretion
Because biker girls sweep me off my feet
And the "look but you better not touch" rule is a little too strict
Especially when we make it to the ocean
Our naked bodies like a school of shark in shallow Pacific liquid
Just a **** or two before jumping in the water
Feel in good, like singing with John Kaye
******* the pusher man
My Harley-Davidson's caked with mud and sea salt, dripping gooey red dirt
Watch over 'em for me
Cuz we gonna be here for awhile
No lie. I wanna be a biker and I wanna ride to the beach.
Mitchell Duran Oct 2011
There are so many
Ways to live by

Numerous routes
One could
Take in their

It exhausts me
Just to
Think about it

There are so many
Quotations to
Memorize and
Organize and
Believe in

People forget those
Never followed

Their vice of
Self - fulfillment or
Self - worth or
Self - righteousness or
Self - obsession
Left them alone and
Most of the time

But that's
The way
It goes...

There are so many
Lifestyles around me

They dilute people
That live it
To have a strange
Glaze across their eyes

As if they were
Robots or
The Undead or

-even worse-

Brimming with illusory
Finiteness or
Settling with the

As if
This were

All this
Has been happening
Since the dawn

Cavemen opted for
Deer fur
Rather then
Bear fur

Harder to **** a bear

It is those
Tiny things that
Mother Nature

-The *****-

Leads us to
As if we were
Blind right
From the

Powerless against
Shackled at the

Make do
With what you've got

Sit back and
Let life
Reveal itself

Day in
Day out
Jasmine Aug 2017
No use to fight the bloodshot eyes
Stained from the tears I cry
And Your love that is seeming to die

I sit

I need none,  just wanna feel a buzz

Yet nobody kills the high of your lust better than you
That pedestal I put you on has sky scraped my heart raw
Yet the pain keeps me wanting fix
Fistfuls of tears and hate we ****** at each other
Burning our trust
Til the smoke exhausts us
Time stops and forgiveness is brought
I love you’s and fantasies are from silent thoughts to passionate exchanges
We seal our soon to be broken promises with a kiss
A pattern so sweet my tongue can’t seem to keep itself off of you

The rain could never drown me, for I stand beneath you
My umbrella
Beholding patches
Exposing the brisk to my lips
Cheeks would be stained red if I was a shade of pale
To be seen trapped within this thing of sorts which you call love
A poem about being emotionally trapped in a toxic relationship
Tyler Nicholas Sep 2011
My joints ache and my back is broken.
My lips are parched and my throat is decaying come on and hydrate my being.
Because I know one thing is for sure -
Heaven and Hell both long for my soul,
and this dense and gyrating battle
exhausts me immensely.

My eyes are sore.
With one blink, the dawn returns to dusk
and the owls start to call out to each other
No sound of the morning songbird
or the church bells signaling the Seraphs to flight.
I am always in the night,
and always in transit with the nocturnal

Let us hold each other to sleep.
No liquor will drown the moon away.
Sense my brokenness and fill this empty vessel.

We are shipwrecks needing rescue.
Cinnam Muscat May 2011
It's never ending,
The drains overflow,
Cars bathe pedestrians
Who are already drenched.

There's a cool breeze
Blowing in this city of wind.
It would be perfect,
If I didn't live in the city.

Take me to the moors
Where the grouse nest
And the choughs graze.
To the sea of heather.

The smell of wet earth,
Pummeled by car exhausts
Poisons the streets and
Like me, the trees try to escape.

I could wander the moors
Till I reach the cliffs
Where the salt of the Atlantic
Makes love to the gorse.

The shelter given
By a rotting house
Cannot be compared.
I would rather roam the moors.
GALOOTS, you hairy, hankering,
Snousle on the bones you eat, chew at the gristle and lick the last of it.
Grab off the bones in the paws of other galoots-hook your claws in their ****** mouths-snap and run.
If long-necks sit on their rumps and sing wild cries to the winter moon, chasing their tails to the flickers of foolish stars ... let 'em howl.
Galoots fat with too much, galoots lean with too little, galoot millions and millions, snousle and snicker on, plug your exhausts, hunt your snacks of fat and lean, grab off yours.
kayla morrison Mar 2014


Caarpe Diem

Keating whispered
He whispered.

in Delay there lies no plenty
Shakespeare warned,

gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Herrick advised.

We don’t
whisper, warn or advise

Generation Y

We shout, strong, sure and proud

We chant, graffiti, hastag

We get
one shot one opportunity
to seize everything in we ever wanted in one moment

**** the romantics,.
The critics, the experts, the analyzers too.

Who says we can’t be prophetic,

This is us,
Our time
our chance,

let’s make the most of the night like we’re gunna die young.

It is our excuse.

The reason I hit the gas
rev the engine and slam it to the floor.
With squealing tires,
loud exhausts and smoky exits
You can hear me
we are young so lets set the world on fire we can burn brighter than the sun.

We need to do this now,
before the light in our eyes,
light of our lives,
go out.


The reason we face mountains
of debt with a smile.

The face we put on
brave, ready, awake
when the bill collectors call,
the healthcare goes into reform
and the government shuts down.


This moment, we own it
this second in a catalogue
of years.
The months we spend crashing cars, bars and acting like stars.


The reason we apply for jobs,
we’ll never get.
Taking rejection with a grin
we will always try again.


it is the reason I joined the race.
After all,


-Kayla Morrison

— The End —