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Alyssa Underwood Jul 2017
As the redeemed of Jesus Christ, if we are ever to find true refreshment in our desert wanderings, it will be as we choose to dwell in God’s presence and in the newness of His daily mercies through faith. Our trials tend to force us, like pushy but invaluable friends, to learn hands-on what it is to live in the grace of the moment.

We live in the grace of the moment by continually recognizing both the immense need and the immense blessing of each moment (by developing a conscious and habitual attitude that says, “I am so desperately needy AND I am so abundantly blessed.”) and by relying on the Holy Spirit to teach us exactly how to reconcile the two. This happens as we first learn to live in the reality of the eternal, for it's an ever-present awareness of eternity that liberates us to receive every present moment with thankfulness and live it to the fullest, without setting up false expectations for it or worrying about the next.

When we are convinced that our life is hidden with Christ and He alone is the Prize, that this world is not our home and we are simply on assignment here, and that our pain and failures are only temporary but, with His redemption, the beauty and wisdom to be gained from them are eternal, we are set free from living in the regret of yesterday or in the fear of tomorrow. We can instead live in the blessing of the right now which fully meets the need of the right now because both need and blessing are gifts from the Father to get us ready for eternity and to meet our Bridegroom face to face. We have need of nothing but Him and His grace, and His fullness dwells in us.

The life lived in the grace of the moment is the life absolutely surrendered to the reality of God’s wisdom, God’s character and God’s sovereignty over it, for in entrusting ourselves to those, we acknowledge that He has a set and planned purpose for our lives, that it is good, and that He is powerful enough to carry it to completion. His wisdom assures us that He has always had in mind, down to the smallest details, exactly what He is doing with us; His character, that His heart is ever faithful toward us; and His sovereignty, that His directing arm cannot be shaken or thwarted. They reveal to us explicitly that He loves us with all of His mind and heart and strength, and in that knowledge we find perfect rest. As beloved children we know that we will be taken care of without having to know how it will happen or what it will look like.

In our helplessness we can simply look up to Him, reach out for Him and cry to Him in humility and thanksgiving, for our God cannot resist eyes and arms and hearts doing that. He always picks up and holds close to Himself those who long for Him. We may think that what we most desire are answers and perfectly successful plans and reasonable control over our lives, but what our souls crave is comfort and intimacy and love, and we can have those the instant we fully surrender to His embrace. He may sometimes hide His face from our “Why?”s but never from our “Hold me!” cries.

If we mistakenly suppose this life to be about this life, we will miss the present grace for fretting over and fighting for all the blessings we don’t have or fearing that those we do will be lost, until we find that they have become an unbearable millstone around our necks. If we pin our hope on anything in this temporary world it will be no stronger than that—a mere pin, easily pulled out and easily broken when life weighs too heavily upon it.

Enduring hope can only be based on God’s absolute promises given to us in His Word, not on our own expectations or wishes or impressions of how things ought to be. Enduring hope lets go of everything that can be lost to take hold of everything that cannot, and in doing so is actually able to squeeze the sweetest nectar out of those released and perishable blessings so that even their losses, though painful, do not leave a bitter aftertaste. For it’s often in the loss of a thing that its worth to us becomes most precious, and by letting it go with grace we can best savor its purest delights.

Realizing that the pain runs so deep only because the beauty ran so deep and that without it having once touched us we wouldn’t now know the emptiness of its loss, our grief will eventually turn to thankfulness that it ever touched us at all, and we will be left awed by the mystery of its haunting. There's a peculiar kind of beauty that can only be experienced with the innate knowledge that the moment is fleeting, and the most intense beauty can only be seen in the presence of both light and shadows.

The ability to enjoy our tangible blessings is surely heightened by the conviction that they are not ours to possess, by the acceptance that their loss is inevitable, and by the understanding that they were never meant to satisfy. For the enjoyment, then, will be absent the tainting dread, the taking for granted, and the twisted expectations which so easily and often mar our earthly pleasures. We will relish what we’ve been given today but recognize it may very well be gone tomorrow, and even in that uncertainty we will find a contented peace, for in every loss there lurks a hidden blessing, and all that really matters can never be lost to us. It is just as important to be a good steward of our losses as it is of our more obvious blessings, for the beauty that comes from nobly and graciously accepting loss far exceeds any tangible beauty that can be taken.

Knowing that we belong to another time and place and that this one is only meant to lead us there, like the charming towns one passes through on the way to a better destination, we will take in the sights with wonder and delight but keep traveling on toward our true home. For these sights, though tantalizing, are like mere slivers of light from a crack under the door compared to the glory to be found in God’s Presence. But when received as personal gifts of His grace, they become to us a stage precisely and delicately set by a Lover to attract the attention of His beloved, to show off His greatness and show forth His beauty to win her heart, and our hearts indeed are won.

To live in the grace of the moment is to keep looking to Jesus—to Jesus’ feet to lay our burdens down, to Jesus’ arms to be held securely, to Jesus’ hands to receive all we need, and to Jesus’ face to know our only sure hope and hearts’ true desire.


#Lord Jesus, merciful and all-sufficient One, in every need, small or great, tangible or intangible, give me the discernment to discover Your extravagant gifts of grace, the wisdom to receive them, the eagerness to open them and the passion to cherish them well. Give me eyes to see and a heart to fully enjoy with gratitude each blessing You have prepared for me today, for this very moment, and may I thrill to Your every advance of love.#
~~~

"Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with Him in glory."
~ Colossians 3:1-4

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. For He chose us in Him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in His sight. In love He predestined us for adoption to sonship through Jesus Christ, in accordance with His pleasure and will— to the praise of His glorious grace, which He has freely given us in the One He loves. In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that He lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding..."
~ Ephesians 1:3-8

"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of Him who called us by his own glory and goodness."
~ 2 Peter 1:3

"So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in Him, rooted and built up in Him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness."
~ Colossians 2:6-7

"Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
    for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
    great is Your faithfulness.
I say to myself, 'The LORD is my portion;
    therefore I will wait for Him.'
The LORD is good to those whose hope is in Him,
    to the one who seeks Him;
it is good to wait quietly
    for the salvation of the LORD."
~ Lamentations 3:22-26

"Find rest, O my soul, in God alone;
    my hope comes from Him."
~ Psalm 62:5

"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."
~ 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

"I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us."
~ Romans 8:18

"Therefore, holy brothers and sisters, who share in the heavenly calling, fix your thoughts on Jesus, the apostle and high priest whom we confess."
~ Hebrews 3:1
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

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

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

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

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

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
jeffrey conyers Jul 2014
Explicitly, was your written words in the letter you sent.
I just have to keep it hid.
Maybe, because you were so direct.

Explicitly , was the tone of the message.
I had to edited it down personally.
Although I love boldness.

I know you could accomplish those things.
Some I have seen up close.
And aware of your skills and abilities.

It just surprised me that you wrote it so explicitly.
Sam Winter May 2013
So, this was written to an unnamed ex a while ago. I ran across it the other day, and I might publish it in the collection I'm currently working on. To me, this is more than just a letter, it's a piece of prose. It's a pouring out of the soul in a way that few people take the time to do. Obviously written at a very rocky time in a previous relationship, I enjoy the clarity of thought that's displayed (not as an egotist, but as a stylist), and I enjoy the allusions and illustration. I'm proud of it, if not for the source or the outcome, then for the product of my turmoil. If I were to classify it? I'd label it, now, as a study of the mind. Enjoy it, and, as always, I welcome your comments and criticisms!

-###-

                Before I say anything else, I want you to know that I love you deeply, and truly. I would give anything to make you happy, and I'd do anything you ever asked me to. I don't ever want to hurt you, and I don't ever want you to be unhappy.
                But I am unhappy. I sleep next to a woman I can't touch until she won't notice, who won't - or can't, I still can't figure out which - show me the affection I crave; and when I try to explain to her the physical and mental stress this puts me through, she doesn't understand or doesn't care (still can't pin that one, either).
                I once took a "Psychology of Affection" class. Evidently, the emotion we call "love" is a conglomeration of a number of different, smaller emotions. Chiefly among them are attention and affection. Attention was always defined by my professor as "the willingness of one to give their focus in degrees, and the blatantness with which they are willing to display that focus." He went on to explain that when one is willing to give their focus but not to display it, or willing to make a display but not to give it, then an imbalance is affected, and either one or both members of a relationship become unhappy. And degrees of happiness become apparent when degrees of willingness are shown.
                In our case, I think, I am both willing to give you my attention, and unafraid to do it regardless of place or time; therefore, I think I give you a very high degree of attention. How do you think you score? How do you think I'd score you?
                Affection works on the same principle: willingness to give, and the ability to do so in a way that is apparent to the other party. Along with these two, though, Affection has a third variable: frequency. The combination of these three and the balance that must be kept determines the amount of affection given, and received at an intellectual level.
                I am entirely certain that I have been willing to show you ample affection in any venue, I am quite capable of showing you my affection in a plethora of ways, and I have done so (in innumerable combinations) with staggering frequency, despite the lack of reciprocation that should have left me hopeless.
                Well, right about now, I'm starting to feel hopeless. Any relationship requires two very basic things, hon: cerebral and physical interaction. An intimate relationship, therefore, requires an amount of intimacy in both cerebral and physical interactions. In addition, any relationship, intimate or otherwise, requires equal participation in all areas to continue over any extended period of time.
                I have been trying for God knows how long, to make this explicitly clear to you: I do not receive enough affection or attention from you for me to stay happy.
                I've laid a foundation in a universal truth for you; you have the science of our interaction at your fingertips, now. You understand what I understand, so I'm going to be as forward as I can in addressing this situation.
                In order for me to stay satisfied with our relationship, the amount of affection and attention I get HAS to change. I am, currently, both mentally and physically distressed, and I am at a breaking point. I have tried multiple times to get you to change: I've tried being subtle and hinting at things I like you to do - things I'd like to see more frequently from you; I've tried being abrasive, being a **** - telling you what I don't like, and why; I've tried being manipulative - guilt-tripping you into thinking or acting differently; I've tried (God, have I tried!) to be truthful and sweet and kind - to tell you, up front, what pleases me and what doesn't in the un-charged air of plain discussion. Any, and all (!), of these methods have been met with selfish stubbornness. I have tried, very hard, to convince myself that it's just been me. That it's something I have, or haven't, been doing. That me flipping out so often is just me freaking out. That none of my state of mind has anything to do with you. I dread putting any of the blame on you because...I worship you, I don't want your flawless image tainted by these things! But, at this point, I've done so much, and tried so hard to get you to change, to open up to me, to act (just act!) like you want me in your head and heart and *****. But you've been stubborn and you refuse to change...and it is driving me away.
                I don't want you to drive me away. I know you love me; I'm convinced you think I improve your life. And I'm convinced you improve mine in so many ways. But there is an imbalance.... I've done as much as any man can be asked: I have been kind, gentle, sweet, gracious, caring, selfless, and loving; but I cannot be these things when you will neither receive them nor give them back. My emotion, my spirit, and my love are being swallowed up in a void, and I can feel the light in this relationship fading. I can't stay in this if I'm the only one showing how I feel. If you don't love me, anymore, tell me. But I can't stay here and not know. I can't give you so much of my heart, and not get anything in return. It's my turn to be selfish.
                I am banking on the hope that you want this to work, honey. I am praying to God, Almighty that you would rather change how you act than give me up.
                I have never given anyone I've been in a relationship with an ultimatum before. Maybe that's why I've been hurt so badly before. But I'm not going to sink this ship myself. I'm giving you an honest chance. I want this, more than anything. I want you more than anything! I don't care that we don't earn enough for food, yet. I don't care that you spend oodles of time with your friends; I don't care about anything you do with your life except this. This one thing will solve so many of our problems, you don't even realize!
                My peace...my serenity with our relationship and with you as my partner in life, depends, solely, on how you behave towards me. There aren't enough Josephine Collective concerts or pills, or parties in all the world that will make me feel like you love me more than you showing me your **** self. I NEED this. It is essential to my functioning as your lover and your friend; I can't love a stone. And I can guarantee you, right now, that if you can put aside your insecurities, put aside your "awkwardness" argument, put aside your doubt that I would ever, EVER, turn you away or leave you alone, and just show me every minute of every day that you love me, I would never worry again. Reassure me with a kiss. Say "hello" with a kiss. Warm up by scooting closer. Cool down by throwing off a blanket - not pushing me away. Act like you can't keep your hands off me. There will be no nights where I ask you distressing questions; there won't be times when I'm offended by your going somewhere without me; I will not get upset when plans get upset. If I knew in my heart of hearts that you loved me and you'd make sure I knew it when you saw me, then there wouldn't be room for doubt.
                But right now...I don't know whether you love me or whether you're just going through the motions. My thinking is "if she loved me, she'd show me." But you don't show me. You know this as well as I do! One passionate kiss every couple of weeks is not showing me. A wag of the hips a couple times a month doesn't show me. Part of the psychological validation for committing to a relationship is the fact that your partner's body is yours to use. And it should be a willing use! I am a male. Three-fourths of my interaction with society is conducted physically, or visually. I need to see and feel that you love me. And that's not very much to ask from you, is it? And it's not awkwardness. You've shown me plenty of times that you're not abnormally awkward. And it's not shyness; you've been perfectly happy to make a scene in front of others before. It's not ***, either. *** isn't what trips me up. I'm fine without *** as long as I know you'd give it if you could. If I was confident that you'd jump my bones before I ever suggested it, then it wouldn't be an issue. But I'm not confident. Hell, I could go another three months if I got a BJ now and then.... I'm tempted to say it's pure selfish stubbornness, but I know that's not true. I think you're afraid of something. Maybe of opening up - spilling your guts - for me. Maybe you've been hurt a lot worse than I realize? There are so many possibilities. But you're the only one that can let me in, baby.
                I know it's not your way. That's evident enough from all my failures. But this is beyond "my way versus your way," now. This is essential to our being together. I love you, selflessly and shamelessly; but if I am going to be happy with you, I need to know you love me back. This isn't an option, anymore, dearest. You have to change. I need to know on a daily, hourly, moment-to-moment basis that you prefer me over anything else...period. My heart is breaking because I can't tell if you love me back. So, I'm going to make this easy on you. I've brought this up to you before - multiple times, actually. Each one just as memorable as the next. Each one serious enough to tell you that something has to change. But you don't seem to get it. You don't understand that this is paramount to my happiness...essential to my functioning; and you don't get that yet. You've asked me to do multiple things differently; I have changed how I act - who I am - to cater to your peace and happiness, and I am happy to do so. I have asked this one thing of you and you won't do it? I have asked this one thing because it is the one thing that I need to change. I've told you that. But the day after, and the week after, and the month after I bring this up, nothing changes. I can't handle that. I can't handle that I can be so willing to make you happy...to change my thoughts and actions through my own will to make your life simpler, less worrisome, happier and easier; yet you are so unwilling to grab your own mind and make it behave as you choose to ease my mind and my heart and give me that little validation I need from you so I can tell myself that I am your whole world the way you're mine!
                I will always love you. Always.
                But I can't be with someone who can't show me they love me.
                This is your ultimatum: Change. Put me in your mind. Think about the things you do that make me happy, and do them. Physically connect with me. Touch me on a regular basis. Visually connect with me. Get my attention, and hold it every day. Act like you are my woman the way I try to be your man. And do it now. You do not get a week or a month or a year. I am out of time. I can't wait on this any longer. If you want me here, hold me here with your own two arms.
                If you can't hold me, then I won't stay.

-###-
Kenshō Aug 2015
Among'st a non-judging expanse,
Creative clouds dance.

Through fields one might prance,
Find a tree and sit
Or take a different stance.

See it fully or just give a glance~

The clouds, they form in multiplicities,
Reflecting simplicity;
Expanding creative form explicitly.

What'll it be?
How'll it grow?

Beautiful sky of freedom's form,
Modify your figure and break the norm.
Show me what never dies and is forever born~!

And reveal to us in time what is on the inside,
Usually hidden when worn.

I saw this in the clouds today, when I was bored..
-
Madisen Kuhn Jul 2013
all of the words
you speak
today and tomorrow
are in vain

for you do not wish
to throw rocks at my window,
you know very well
i am already on my doorstep
waiting for you

you love me in songs played
on tuesday afternoons,
gaps in conversation where
three words are meant to fill it
and faded journal entries
dated when time was blind

you’ve written disguised goodbyes
beneath my eyes
and subliminally (explicitly)
whispered (shouted)
to move on, move on, move on
each moment i’ve tried to draw you nearer,
you do your best to push me further away

but even from a distance,
you are still holding on

let me go
let me go
let me go

so i may finally
let go
of
you
emmaline Apr 2016
Kurt Queller uses narrative criticism to analyze Mark 3:1-6, the healing miracle story in the gospel of Mark.  Queller’s narrative criticism includes “echoes of the Exodus liberation narrative” , echoes of Deuteronomy’s covenant language and Sabbatical provisions , intratextual echoes in Mark , and independent echoes in the other synoptic gospels.  Queller uses these echoes to fill in the gaps he finds in the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath.
In the beginning of his criticism, Queller lists the gaps in Mark 3:1-6’s narrative that he seeks to fill: the meaning of the withered hand, Jesus’ reason for healing on the Sabbath, His reason for considering the withered hand life-threatening, why it is a choice between good and evil, et cetera.  He begins filling these gaps by referencing intertextual echoes of Mark 3:1-6 in Exodus.  Jesus’ command to the man with the withered hand in Mark 3:5, “Stretch out your hand,” is echoed in Exodus 14:16 where God commands Moses, “stretch out your hand.” When the man with the withered hand stretches out his hand, his hand is restored. Likewise, when Moses stretches out his hand, the Reed Sea parts, resulting in the restoration of the Israelites’ freedom.
Queller’s reference to this echo in Exodus, paired with other echoes he mentions in Deuteronomy, helped me begin to understand Jesus’ insistence on healing the withered hand. Queller was able to use the echoes to fill in the gaps I previously could not fill. In Deuteronomy 15, God’s covenant requires liberal lending and debt forgiveness to the poor on the Sabbath year. God reminds the Israelites that He delivered them from Egypt in verse 15, and He claims that this is the reason for His liberal Sabbatical law. Thus, this Deuteronomic prescription for Sabbath observance is a continuation of the Exodus liberation narrative. Queller mentions these echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to draw a larger narrative framework for understanding Mark’s controversial healing story.
In my initial reading, I recognized that a withered hand is not necessarily a matter of life and death. Like Queller, this was a gap that I initially set out to fill. However, I was unable to fill this gap in a way that completely satisfied my confusion on the matter. Queller’s larger narrative framework for this passage led me to a better understanding of why Jesus considered the withered hand worthy to heal on the Sabbath.
According to Queller’s filling of the gaps, the withered hand is an affliction that can be compared to the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt. The withered hand also embodies the economic predicament of the poor, who remain enslaved to their debt to the rich.  Such enslavement could be a death sentence, which is why the Sabbath requires the liberation of slaves and debt forgiveness of the poor. It seems plausible to me that a withered hand could cause a man to be enslaved and/or perpetually poor. This line of reasoning, provided by Queller’s larger narrative framework, allowed me to truly see how the Sabbath could require Jesus’ healing of the withered hand.
Another gap Queller and I similarly set out to fill is the question of what constitutes as doing good and what constitutes as doing evil on the Sabbath. This gap also arises from Mark 3:4, in which Jesus asks, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to ****?” (Mark 3:4 NIV). In his analysis of this particular part of this particular verse, Queller points out a small important detail that I originally missed. Mark 3:4 does not set the frame for a passive, inner choice between good and evil.  The literal wording says, “to do good or to do evil.” The choice between good and evil on the Sabbath thereby requires action.
While recognizing that required action is problematic for the restful nature of the Sabbath, Queller supports his assertion by referencing Deuteronomy 30. Deuteronomy 30’s prescription for obedience of the Sabbath repeats the active command, “do it.”  Queller illustrates the parallelism between Mark and Deuteronomy by placing Deuteronomy 30:14 and Mark 3:4-5 in a figure side-by-side.  Deuteronomy 30:14 says, “The word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, and in your hands, to do it.” With this commandment as the framework, Mark 3:4-5 spells out the Pharisees’ failure to do good; It says, “But they were silent . . . grieved at their hardness of heart, he said to the man: ‘Stretch out your hand.’ And he stretched it out.”
From this, Queller concludes, “The ‘word’ to be done is already ‘in [their] mouth’ – but they refuse to say anything in response; it is ‘in [their] heart’ – but their heart is hardened against it. It is ‘in [their] hands, to do it’ – but as Jesus turns again to address the man, our attention is directed back to an inert hand, that, in its current withered state, seems unlikely to do anything.”  From this I am now able to conclude that which constitutes as doing “good” on the Sabbath is acting on the word. The word is completely accessible to us, and we must use our mouths, hearts, and hands to act upon it.
This gap of good and evil action that Queller helps fill also provides further evidence for the necessity of Jesus’ healing of the withered hand. Since the hands are required to carry out good action in obedience of the covenant, the withered hand is an affliction that can breach said covenant. Queller asserts that the withered hand symbolizes “the tangible embodiment of [the Pharisees] unwillingness, despite the ‘nearness’ of the word, to do it.”  Jesus, by necessity, must heal this affliction to show the Pharisees how to act according to the law of the Sabbath; “The stretching out of the hand then becomes a ‘witness against’ those who have chosen to forgo or even prohibit action because of exclusively sacral concerns.”  Without the preceding narrative frame of Deuteronomy, such significance of the withered hand for the Sabbath covenant was impossible for me to comprehend.
Though Queller is certainly helpful in providing evidence that enables understanding of the withered hand’s significance, there are parts of his criticism that I find contradictory and unhelpful. This occurs when he references echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to provide a framework for understanding the Pharisees’ silence in Mark 3:4 and hardness of hearts in Mark 3:5. He first relates the Pharisees’ hardened heart in response to Jesus’ plea in Mark to the Pharaoh’s hardened heart in response to Moses’ numerous pleas in Exodus. In my concordance work, I also made this connection. However, Queller and I differ in the conclusions we draw from this observation.
Queller draws from Deuteronomy to provide framework in conjunction with Exodus for understanding Mark’s interpretation of the Sabbatical law. He references Deuteronomy 29:19, which warns against thinking one can receive the blessings of the covenant while breaching it in the inner wanderings of the heart. This passive infidelity of the covenant brings God’s curse to the innocent as well as the guilty. Queller uses this context to explain why his literal translation says Jesus “co-aggrieved”  with the Pharisees because of their silence and hard hearts. The Pharisees’ passive, inner breach of the covenant invoked God’s curse on them, as well as the innocent Jesus, according to Queller.  
When I analyzed Jesus’ reaction to the hard hearts of the Pharisees in comparison to God’s reaction to that of the Pharaoh, I realized that the same Greek word was used to describe Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath. However, the consequences of Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath do not relate as clearly as Queller would lead one to believe. As a result of the Pharaoh’s hard heart, God’s wrath leads to the Pharaoh’s ultimate demise. Jesus’ resulting anger from the Pharisees’ hard hearts, on the other hand, catalyzes his decision to heal the withered hand. This action ultimately leads to Jesus’ destruction alone. Jesus, the innocent character, does not fall to the mutual destruction of the Pharisees, per Queller’s argument. I see no destruction of the Pharisees at all. Instead, Jesus restores God’s blessing of the guilty by becoming the recipient of God’s wrath in their place.
This conclusion, though differing from Queller, is consistent with his interpretation of the withered hand. Queller writes, “The withered hand embodies covenant curses invoked against those refusing to ‘open [their] hands’ in liberal lending, instead killing the poor by freezing credit in view of an impending sabbatical debt amnesty” . If the withered hand embodies God’s curse against the Pharisees, then Jesus revokes this curse when he cures the withered hand. Furthermore, the larger narrative framework of Mark’s gospel echoes this conclusion. Jesus’ crucifixion ultimately pays the debt of sinners and liberates them from God’s wrath.
Kurt Queller’s narrative criticism uses intertextuality, a narrative tool that “evokes resonances of the earlier text beyond those explicitly cited”  and “requires the reader to recover unstated or suppressed correspondences between the two texts.”  Such intertextual echoes he references from Deuteronomy and Exodus provide a larger background for interpreting Mark’s healing controversy. This granted me the ability to fill many gaps in the narrative that I was unable to fill prior to reading Queller’s criticism. In a footnote, he explains that his “metalepsis” uses such intertextual echoes for analysis, and, “In narrative, the resultant new figuration operates at what Robert M. Fowler calls the ‘discourse level.’ Metaleptic signification is thus transacted between an implied narrator and an implied audience – as it were, behind the backs of the narrative’s ‘story-level’ participants.”
The intertextual and metaleptic tools that Queller uses for his narrative criticism have proven to be very insightful and helpful for my understanding Mark 3:1-6 in an entirely new way. Even as I disagree with Queller on certain parts of his argument, these points of disagreement pushed me to deepen my own individual reading of the text. In comparing my argument to Queller’s, I realized just how far my initial interpretation was able to go. This narrative criticism answered a lot of my questions and filled many gaps. However, most of my conclusions about the implications and ultimate consequences of the text remain unshaken.  
Bibliography
Queller, Kurt. “Stretch Out Your Hand!” Echo and Metalepsis in Mark’s Sabbath Healing Controversy. Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 4 (2010): 737-58.
This is a narrative criticism in conversation with Kurt Queller's criticism. The in-text footnotes didn't transfer to this website but all quotes are referencing his work, which is cited at the end.
Knights Feb 2016
You throw your casual lies
Just at anyone
Like a devilish *****
But that's fine for

These others
Who don't seem to be
Into the love and the explicitly

You're the kind of person
Who uses their body like poison

Instead of speaking words of trust
You hide your lies with lust
to get what you want
Their use of you is a must

You think of yourself as weapon
They think they've tasted heaven

But you know very well
What You're giving em' is hell
Sam Temple Oct 2014
multimedia macramé
sloshing propaganda sewage
on the unsuspecting public
***** lice infest ****** hill folk
west Virginia outbreak threatening the world
as we know it
flesh altering nonsense explicitly graphed
charting movement of microbes
on air, land, and/ or sea
global currents the new deliverer of death –
infected immigrants sit smiling
internment camps providing nutrition
never before experienced
as non-natives negotiate freedom
by submitting to vaccinations baths
and the standard delousing powder –
paranoid hand-sanitizer users
glued to the **** tube
spray their shoes with disinfectant
praying to an absent GOD for health
while shoveling GMO corn chips into ever widening
mouth holes
pharmaceutical companies lick lifeless lips
as Congress recognizes their humanity
while rejecting the concerns of the poor
…..no money in it –
outlandish claims of outbreaking Ebola
flood the mainstream outlets
fear: version – infinity
one more plague plan to stimulate new legislation
more law
no touching
even looking at the infirm can be cause for isolation
radiation treatments
courtesy of Fukushima, reactors 1-4 –
new found focus on fracturing the shale
releasing new oil reserves
and old bacteria
dinosaur killers
free-radicals
radically changing the genetic code
humanity altered
once again –
Arhat Kay Aug 2014
Since time unknown I wanted a mutt
No Lego, No Hershey , would make me stop
A golden lab, only, could break the rut
Which i could feed and sit atop.

Mother worried for the allergies and the fleas,
the constant bark, dirt and spit.
I swore to keep him up in trees
and silent like a lonely pit.

We got a pup and named it Edison,
he did not explicitly, discover electric light.
All he had was poo and medicine
No wonder his tummy was never right.

Every time a ****, he let away
With each paw he dug to dig.
At midnight as others lay
He ate on like a pig.

One night a robber, dull and round,
hauled himself across the yard;
And then onto some furry ground,
where the cur lay, his fat splayed, somehow, somewhat, on guard.

A brawl ensued, boy, there was blood!
the thief bit him and he bit back.
Now, i have two graves in the mud,
of Edison and of Jack.
The question regarding the question relies on what the question really is.

If the question implied is a question directed outwardly, then it may be misinterpreted as a question to oneself internally.

Otherwise, a question explicitly directed inwardly is critical to deciphering the question that one will address outwardly.  

If an indirect question is questioned through the user, then the question itself becomes a metaphysical question to choose from.

In the event a question is said through alternate means, consider the quantitative/qualitative state of the question at the time being; as it may be resolved by asking the question in a subconscious level indeed.  

Superficial means tends to seek fundamental questions to the reality of the state one naturally possesses.  

In the case where the unconscious decides the opportune event to question the conscious reality, one must interpret the means in examination of the intrapersonal mentality.  

If the question is imposed through correlative thought and subliminal expression, then the question itself is related to a parallel conscious state intertwined with the unconscious state of mind of progression.

If the question is relative in combination to the solutions mentioned above becoming apparent, then one has means to ask the question without questioning the question itself in disparate.

Otherwise, the question continues to perplex the question through the continuation of irrelevant questions that one will have thought; creating a treacherous belief so concurrent one could not have fought.

Therefore, is the reality of the question portrayed to the reality you live in or the reality of others? As this poem was conclusive to subtly evoke thought in the questions we construct.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente
The thought of the question was introduced to me whilst reading Carl Jung's book, Man and his Symbols.
Kat Jul 2014
I
trust
you
~~~
Explicitly!

It's
me
I
don't
trust
~~~
with
YOU


KatWK
072914
Johnny Hearts Nov 2014
Empty feeling inside
Nothing pleasures me
Constant want to die
Thinking of it explicitly

Can't enjoy life to the fullest
Just in this boring existence
Just surviving....
Just surviving....
judy smith Dec 2015
At Shelton High School, some students were outraged to find out, just days before the dance in May, that they wouldn't be allowed to wear their dresses to the prom. A "prom gown panel" was formed to decide whether students' dresses were appropriate — more than 30 of them weren't.

The school told marieaustralia.com that it has updated its dress code for the new school year so it's explicitly stated that prom attire must fall within the guidelines.

The battle over leggings

The new(ish) trend of leggings as pants isn't going over well in some schools.

In April, a young woman's Facebook post went viral when she wrote about her little sister being sent home from high school for wearing leggings underneath a baseball-style shirt. And students at a Cape Cod high school weren't happy when the school updated its dress code this year to ban leggings and yoga pants unless worn underneath a skirt or dress, or with a long top.

... and shoulders and collarbones

Some schools sparked criticism for dress codes that targeted a particular part of a woman's body — like shoulders or collarbones, for example. That's what happened when Stacie Dunn's daughter, a student at a Kentucky high school, got in trouble for wearing a tank top and sweater that failed to cover her collarbone. Dunn called the school's decision "ridiculous" in a rant on Facebook.

And earlier this year in Utah, a teen girl was told her dress for a school dance violated the dress codebecause the straps didn't cover enough of her shoulders. Students in New Jersey also protested dress codes this year, with one carrying a sign that said, "'Shoulders are so hot' -said no one ever.'"

So even as some schools reassess their dress codes, it's clear the debate is far from over. In the meantime, here's our guide to how to handle the "wardrobe wars" with your kids.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
her precious breath
yearns for warmth
and contact between the sheets
her body sways and grinds
her spine is a limitless ocean
her limbs are ropes to climb
they are towers and spires
filled with millions of subtle wires
she is noisy and delicious
they heard moaning
coming from the bedroom
as she came into her darkness
she held it and allowed it to shine
yet transformation is endless
its happening all the time
like underbellies rising
undercurrents entwining
she is sovereign and sublime
content to birth the world
from between her juicy thighs
no longer does she hunger
for your silly little lies
and yes her beauty is music
and its too bad really
that you happened
to be away for the night
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more
,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.
You hide in plain sight as does day when engulfed by night
For darkness is simply…. The absence of light
You claim to have special enlightenment
And that your knowledge is for the better good of the people
Pledge your allegiance and your success will be imminent
Break your pledge and your death will be discrete
So why would you become part of something so “elite”?
With only one thing in mind; to see the human race in defeat.
An interminable amount of subliminal messages
Hinting at events that are destructive, demoralizing, and deceptive.
9/11… was it really an act of terrorism?
Or was it just an evil plot… something you guys expected?
Al-quaeda and the Taliban… roaming around in the lands of Iran
But on the land I walk some say it’s a misperception
Just a façade in our brain so the government secrets are protected.
Michael Jackson… and the Kennedy assassination
Were they both untimely events in American history?
Ghandi, The King,  Malcolm X,  Princess Diana, Shakur,
Paul, Marley, the Kennedys’, Lennon, Fredinand, Lincoln!!
All of  whom were either at your feet or tried to make your secret secrete
These deaths… from assassination to suicide… were all… “unfortunate” to the human eye?
Or were they “fortunate” for the Eye of the Beholder?
But why go to such great extent to have these powerful and influential people wiped from the human race?
To keep a secret that has been soooo well kept for hundreds of years?
A secret society that is not so discrete… anymore
Hidden in plain sight and away from the human eye…..
Trying to keep a disguise that will lead to our eventual demise
You aren’t doing the world any favors
By keeping an explicitly intricate order in store
You’re favoring your own world under one order
By intricately deceiving the minds of innocent citizens
So, you hide in plain sight, the light of the earth
A light you hope one day becomes permanently dark
Cause once again, darkness is only the absence of light.
With no light, we will be forced at the feet of your might
Despite a fight, with no light and your might, we’re all just mites stuck on your flight of new world order.
Well let me just end on this… **** THE ILLUMINATI!
This is my first slam poem which I performed a couple of weeks ago on an odd topic of the Illuminati.
Kendal Anne Sep 2013
To paint the scene of my former life
One must first take a look into a little dusky room filled with shady sunlight,                        
Streaming in through dusty blinds that  never actually shade the eyes.
They produce blinding shafts of light that burn the eyes like blades are hiding within red  fired laser beams.
Imagine a little rocking horse, painted black and gold, with a little red bell dangling off of the red reins attached. Nostrils flaring, ready to be ride out into the sunset, but never actually to be ridden.
Two comfortable twin beds shoved into the corners of the room, leaving indentations upon the slightly greying,
Off white carpet that had once been plush, now smashed into the ground with dirt and grime from children playing.
The comforters on the top of the bed lay strewn and rumpled; covered with dinosaurs and their names,
Allosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, and Brontosaurus.
All with goofy pictures in greens and oranges that a child could laugh at when frightened.
On the right side of that room, from when you walk inside, the walls are painted a malicious purple,
Like a swelling bruise had been inflicted upon the wall by some unseen hand that had forced a fist.
A big ugly bruised wall.
Accompanying that bruise on the left half of the wall is a faded blue,
The color of pearls painted over with a smattering of blue paints,
Enveloping the trim of the room is a metallic silver haze that was just beautiful,
Creating illusions of moonbeams and silver roses within it.
The ceiling was glorious as well. It was covered in millions of stars.
Although they were glow in the dark plastic stickers that could be hung anywhere,
I still saw them as fiery gases burning miles away.
Of course, at the time I was well aware of what stars were, as I had a love for them.
I would gaze upon them late into the night, often in awe and wonder at how it would feel to be one.
Would it feel as if I was enlightened and owned the universe,
Or would it be a darkened, frightening place, filled with loneliness?
I had always wondered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~
There is much screaming. High pitched, it sounds like the whining buzz of an angry bee .
A scream nonetheless. So very loud, it is, and it rings like church bells in my ears.
Ringing, and ringing, and ringing...
The scream sounds so very close to me,
Perhaps this is because the wailing sounds some from my very own mouth.
The screams, crawling and digging their claws up and out of my throat,
Unburying themselves as they seep out in tormenting waves, leaving my throat a red and raw coated mess.
But still, I scream.
My throat resounds the despairing loneliness that had welled up in those short years of my life,
Finally taking their act of freedom, welling up and pouring out like caged birds,
Fleeing from the cage with freedom in their hearts.
Although this was never true, this was never to become freedom,
The fleeing screams do not pierce the veil that shrouds the deaf ears that were meant to hear it,
Turning away in ignoramus bliss.
“You are the banshee wailing,”  
My Mum says with a growling lilt to her voice as she pushed the door to my room closed with a glare,
Her fingers clenching the door, knuckles turning white with frustration.
Tiredness has already beginning to  line her once youthful face with spiderwebs of indecision of what she truly wanted. As I scratched my bleeding nails across the closing door, frantically searching for a place of escape,
My mind races and thus, I began to horde emotions of resentment for my parents.
I constantly wanted to free myself from the jail that my world had always seemed to be revolved around.  
My nails are bloodied and fingers bruised, I give up in defeat from the fear.  
Although it may only be pounding upon and freezing the insides of my veins,
It is exactly what created this insane version of myself. This wild animal who scratches, bites and roars,
The primitive animal comes from deep within the skin wearing it as a costume in the form of  a little three year old girl.
I was locked away for most of the three years I had spent with my cold and unfeeling parents,
Who wanted nothing to do with me, nor ever share their love.
(Or so I thought as a child, whose hopes of freedom were breaking away even before they were molded).
I have retained this in my memory banks for my entire life,
Even after when those around me told me I was too young to remember it.
But how could I possibly remember this in such crystal clear detail,i
If I had been a thoughtless, and blank minded child at the time?
This experience has obtained and earned one of the darkest places in my mind,
It has forced me to keep it inside my entire life.
I call it the dark forest, the place that remains shadowed, blackened and cold.
Most of my horrible memories are part of that forest, creating the trees that form it.
From this forest leaps the monsters that tormented me in my dreams, howling and baring their teeth,
Their shapes surrounding me like a thick and rank fog that was inescapable, their breath rolling down my neck.
The stench making my eyes roll back, turning the world black.
Then suddenly I would wake up, an invisible scream rising in my throat, sweat soaked and shivering with fright.
Even then, I could still see them.  
Their red eyes glowering at me in the darkness of my room that I shared with my sister Dakota.
Sometimes I imagine that I can still see them, and a paradoxical paranoia rushes down my spine,
Forcing every hair to stand on end, and cold fear to paralyze my body, to the point that I am immobile.
Like frightened prey trying to hide and fold the body in on itself,
From an  un-explainable fear that was reared from my childhood.
I was created at the hands of those who love me now, but at first were disgusted at the sight of me.
I was merely an obligation in which they had to feed and bathe on few occasions.
An abomination, something to be frowned upon.
Their indecision and ignorance was what caused one of my largest complications of the brain.
This experience created the driving need that I still carry with me today to be surrounded with people.
I feel as if I cannot survive without them, because my childhood was so filled with loneliness,
That I need to gain back that attention that was taken away from me.
Considering this, of how insane I had been as a child, like a froth mouthed animal, begging for scraps of food,
Only my food was social activity and freedom, in which I was explicitly not allowed to be given often.
My grandparents, if I have remembered correctly, their faces seeming more youthful than my parents,
Pouring experiences  into me like a mug, gracing me with feelings of wonder instead of blind fury,
Overwhelming me with their kindness and compassion.
They were the ones who changed me, took me in and made me feel like I was really alive and was of relation.
They made it seem as if I were still slightly human, not a craze eyed child who acted like a wild animal,
Who was feared and pitied by those who came to see me.
Although it did take time to recover from my horrific experience,
I have learned to gain control of my emotions through meditation, sometimes to the point  of becoming a blank slate.
I was the girl who acted as if I was not of this planet, as if I was off in another universe taking a soul vacation.
Tracing patterns in the constellations, my eyes star struck and filled with wonders that only I knew of.
Being so used to a constant state of harmony, that the world around began to blur,
Taking little notice of any change within it, even if the images crossed and passed within inches of my unseeing gaze.
Viewing the world as it was meant to be seen; with beauty and stained with emotions.
This is a story of a girl with the once crazed eyes who saw the world as a fearful place with no freedom,
Who behaved not unlike a wounded animal caught in a trap,
Whimpering and pleading with her mournful gaze for freedom.  
Only now this girl had been turned into a starry eyed child with wisdom from a past of tragedies.
~This is who I am and this is my story~
This is actually my Lang & Comp assignment turned into a poem. I know it is long. Enjoy~
You’d like if I was a rock,
You want me to act all hard
Not capable of shock,
Stable, strong, and without scars

I’m not that heavy
I’m not even tethered
To the ground beneath my feet
Instead I fly like a feather

Fly like a feather,
Up in the sky
Falling victim to the weather
Yeah all day and night, I fly like a feather
Fly like a feather

We all get caught up
In various places
Wearing various faces
Inside various races
Racing to the day
When we finally come face to face
With what we want until we have it
And we wear it as a bracelet
But once you get the bracelet,
Soon you’ll want the necklace
And soon you’ll have a checklist
And soon you’ll go out reckless
And drop all that you have
Until you get the cracked message
That your enemies are headless
Fallen victim to your leverage.
Can I get a beverage?
I’m way too thirsty
I’m a feather in a whirlwind
And all of this wind is whirling
I don’t know what I want
And I want what I can’t control
And I’m admitting it, for once,
That I have many shallow goals
And all of my real goals
Don’t really reach to my soul
I have this beautiful life I stole
Smiling faces, honor role,
But when I’m faced with a storm
Of someone whose wonder I can’t code
Then my mind short circuits
And it’s stuck on flying and rolling

Like a feather
Up in the sky
Falling victim to the weather
Yeah all day and all night, I fly like a feather
Like a feather

What everybody wants from me,
Would that make my life so much better?
Should I try to soak up some water
To make myself a bit wetter
So I can shiver and die
In this cold harsh reality
Instead of daring to keep flying
To keep everyone else without me?
I’m doubting my reasons
My instinctive seasons
That command, keep marching
That command keep bleeding
Out your heart, mind, and soul
Even though it’s so shallow
But sometimes shallow runs deep
When your mind stuck in the shadow
Of your dreams, dreams manipulated by hormones
I’m stuck in fantasies of wanting to not be alone
But there’s attraction involved
And my problem is not solved
Should I go for what I want
Or leave this issue unresolved?
Well, I tried pursuing girls, twice I succeeded
But to sum it up mildly,
My progress was deleted
And my good intentions,
Well, those were defeated
And I got what I deserved
Because I’m chuck full of weakness.
Dreamless, I moved back to isolation
Where I was told how to act
And told to just be patient
But I’m not a monk
And I’m not yet muted
So when I meet a cute girl
My final thesis is proven,

I just fly like a feather
Up in the sky
Falling victim to the weather
Yeah, all day and all night I fly like a feather
I fly like a light feather

What’s better,
Acting normal until you and me are together
Or expressing myself explicitly and making you not get hurt
By showing you how I’m thirsty
Sending texts and writing letters?
Let me know what you prefer
Don’t make this choice subjective.
I’m in your storm, I’m moved by your beauty
It’s the rain and the wind,
The appearance and intelligence
I want this and I turn you away
I can’t escape, I love every day
In my mind there’s nothing,
But there’s so much to say
I don’t think when you fly me,
You just whisk me away
And I’m never worried here
In this storm, this blessing,
Why are my words smart?
Why are my words jesting?
Is this manipulation,
Am I treating you right?
Can I ask more questions
Is this the day before the night?
Is this the light to the dark,
The storm before the calmness
Of the upcoming loneliness
I’ll feel when you don’t return my call?
When your storm stops and never comes again at all?
Well, like, I said, I might want to be a stone,
So once your storm’s done, fine,
I’ll be a feather alone
Until again I’m a feather blown
So light, so free,
So without any control
This is all I’ll ever be!

I fly like a feather
Up in the sky
Falling victim to the weather
All day and all night I fly like a feather
Fly like a feather

I wish we could be together
Up in the sky
Having love, making weather
All day and all night, whether wrong or whether right,
I fly like a feather
Once of a bride was I by a belle informed;
Who, on the very night of their honeymoon
Upon sighting her groom's dower, screamed
And would not let him in for his ***** boon,
Until she's taken thru the script the following
Morn by her parson's wife in cool counselling.


Many things in morals and etiquette do
Parents their children ever and anon teach
Except on this single unfolding issue
Will they falter to them plainly preach:
The act of marriage in its detailed image,
Cause it's found nay on their nurturing page.


An African mother will quiver her girl to lecture,
For instance, in the subject under review,
But will leave it to the Omniscient Nature
To instruct her like cry to a curlew.
So the bride's mom will not to her say:
This is how you should roll in the hay.


Neither will a father his son likewise tell
Explicitly of this duty--this too I know--
How to make his led-to-the-altar angel
Fly on cloud nine during their maiden show.
My pa never me of this nuptial scene told,
How in bed my lady I should stylishly hold.


Yet instinct, that great ancient teacher,
The green Adam and ****** Eve taught
On man's debut moment of ecstasy ever,
And did lead him to her piquant spot,
Whilst one another they caressed for affection,
Premiering for all couples conjugal copulation.


And the animals who do not the wisdom
Of man have, even every diminutive creature,
How each by divine smarts in their kingdom--
Like the fishes in the sea of their rapture--
Do with themselves mate with none
Giving them tutorials nor showing them ****!


To close this up where it had first started:
The *iyawo after the pending deed was done,
As it should betwixt man and wife, delighted
Was and with glowing warmth did thence burn
In the hearth of her *oko with ultra joy,
Who at the beginning of performance was coy.
*iyawo is a newly married woman in Yoruba language
*oko means husband in Yoruba dialect

Yoruba language is spoken by the Yoruba people of southwest Nigeria
SexySloth Apr 2013
Stop being such a gentleman,
If you can help it,
and tell me explicitly,
that you want me to go
the f*ck away.
Justin G Feb 2016
Most people live for love
But some of us live because of it

*Such unforgivable forgetfulness
Lost within potential photos
Preoccupied and overly abrasive
Harmless yet persuasively implicit
These eyes are speechless
But explicitly dying to speak
A picture so perfect for lust
A thousand words
Just isn't enough
Deeply indebted
With every glance
  Too perplexed by color  
  How none of it belongs  
  Another illustrated nightmare   
Where sleep is prolonged
Where the sick plans
To escape with the thought
Trapped inside the mind
So adolescent
Oh picture the heartache
Rejoicing over a carcass
Still standing
And rapturing moments
We all long to feel
This winter shiver
So sicken from cold feet
An undying hunger
For butterfly soup
Proof*
What worthy time to be alive
Clearly sold on the vision
Never too hasty to cover
This lover isn't blind  
But envisioned
May we all fall victim
To the photos
We aren't viable to find
*edited*
Scarlet McCall Jun 2017
An abstract of an academic paper written by a doctoral student: "In this semimanifesto, I approach how understandings of quantum physics and cyborgian bodies can (or always already do) ally with feminist anti-oppression practices long in use. The idea of the body (whether biological, social, or of work) is not stagnant, and new materialist feminisms help to recognize how multiple phenomena work together to behave in what can become legible at any given moment as a body. By utilizing the materiality of conceptions about connectivity often thought to be merely theoretical, by taking a critical look at the noncentralized and multiple movements of quantum physics, and by dehierarchizing the necessity of linear bodies through time, it becomes possible to reconfigure structures of value, longevity, and subjectivity in ways explicitly aligned with anti-oppression practices and identity politics. Combining intersectionality and quantum physics can provide for differing perspectives on organizing practices long used by marginalized people, for enabling apparatuses that allow for new possibilities of safer spaces, and for practices of accountability."--an abstract of a paper by doctoral student Whitney Stark

Atomic particles, how can it be so
that your purpose is not just to flow
in and out of existence, building reality--
the stars, cosmic gas and galaxies--
but to “ally” with groups of humans fighting “hierarchies”
and demanding “safe spaces”
(even though their entire race is
at the top of their planet’s food chain).

In this mysterious universe there is no safety,
accountability or identity,
only elements, and energy.
Brief combinations make life
legible for a nanosecond in cosmic time, and doomed to strife.
Biology does not know oppression,
only generation, reproduction,
until our growth chokes us and we fall
like so many of our ancestors, who lived and died
on this blue-green ball.
And one day the sun will explode and blow
even our atoms, which have endured (despite oppression),
and the particles will go far until maybe they sow
new life, in bodies unfamiliar, on planets unknown.
In fairness to Whitney Stark, right-wing groups mislabeled her paper as an attack on Isaac Newton. She was ridiculed as anti-science and a dogmatic feminist.  In fact Stark is referencing quantum physics, which may contradict Newtonian physics to some extent. I really wanted to read what she wrote as a playful attempt to draw a parallel between quantum physics and non-hierarchical organizing, but her jarring repetition of politically correct catchphrases and slogans shows this is only an attempt to submit to the current academic authoritarianism that has taken over women's studies and many other fields--perhaps even universities as a whole--so that professors merely recite a dogma of oppression rather than questioning and exploring.
Venusoul7 May 2014
There is a Softness in the Shadows,
On a breezy, Sun~filled Day.
Splashing Contrast divides the
Colors, trading within the shade,
An interlacing patchwork, Arrangement by Rotation,
Earth's Grandly Spun Bouquet.

Movement amongst the shifting Patterns, playfulness in~All direction,
Like children chasing randomness, Laughing in the garden that echoes through with effortless, nonchalant Expression.

Eastwardly to Westwardly,
Tracing loftily between Tree leaves, Mountains broad projectories, deepening the Shadows Shade, Yawned in stretching reach,
Duality of Accolades,
like Coastlines of a Beach.

Lost in Lover's parting Kiss,
In Amorphous amore,
Animates explicitly,
A shy Shadow's story.
Into the deep embrace of Night,
A lingering at Sunset's Crest,
Hallowed out in Shadow's shade, Sewing~dreamy patchwork Seams
of Fabric feathered Sleep.
Intro + Middle + Outro
It was never my intention to place you in harms way.
Enlisting your heart to trouble after we kissed on that precious day.
As time elapsed, my heart took a moment to understand.
You were portraying your earnest emotions subtly then crass.

The turmoil you must’ve felt during the time you kept to yourself…
Causing you to experience agonizing despair while delving into mournful swells…
Find it in your heart to forgive these third degree burns.
For it was never my intention to crucify your kind soul.

My love yearns to romanticize unhurriedly,
Seducing passionately while intimately feeding the soul so fluidly.
Is it too much to ask for an amorous exploration?
For what is love without a genuine vibration?

If *** is all you seek,
Be explicitly direct; don’t play games that will cause deceit.
Otherwise, in the end, ambivalent emotions will prevail.
Crafting a false sense of endearment that will soon be too much for you to bear.

I once journeyed to a crucible of love and hate.
Traveling far beyond the unfathomable depths of heartache.
Hopelessly exiled to endure the slowest of brutalizing pains;
A light was discovered, allowing the abhorrence to dissipate.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente
David Nelson May 2013
Pretzel Logic

always counter intuitive
with a twisted sense of fate
explicitly constructed
how much longer will you wait

the axiom of choice
the scenario of doubt
with random intervention
how can you bring about

a clear and precise result
with no deviance in action
probability of predictions
spinning wheels with no traction

the answers so concise
in udder chaos results you find
without collaboration
such an eery creepy mind

a scavenger of darkness
deep down thoughts somewhat toxic
no wavering in directions
manipulative pretzel logic

Gomer Lepoet...
such a twisted sense of fate how much longer will you wait
.

Z - A

Zonked Yanks eXport Weird Views Underpinning Terrorist Suspects, Risking Quiet Proliferation Of Nuclear Missiles, Leaving Killer Jihads In Hostile Groups. Forgetting Europe, Death Claims Babylon: America.

Zero Yields X’s Without Value. Useless Technical Solutions Regarding Quanta, Plainly Outside Newtonian Mathematics. Logic Keeps Jokers In Hearty Guffaws  Forever.  Eternity Derides Computation By Algebra.

Zap! Your X-ray Was Very Useful Tool. Sarcomas’ Revealed, Quality Prognosis On Masse. Later Knowledge Jibes; Increased Hidden Growths Frequently Entailing Death Couldn’t Be Anticipated.



A – Z

Away Bright Cinder, Drift Eternally, Fly! Glow! Heat Incandescent! Jeweled Key, Luminous Molten Nuclei, Ornate Precious Quotient, Radiant Shining Teardrop. Unknowable Volcanic Whisper, eXact, Yield: Zero.

Awful Blues, Crazy Dreams, Every Fleeting Ghastly Horrible Idea Jars, Killing Love. Murderous Omens, Portending Quiescence, Reduce Sleep To Uniform Vacant Wastelands, eXiled Yearning Zenith.

Acting Behind Closed Doors, Every Famous General Has Insight: Jabbering Khaki Liveried Majors Narrate Orders, Pursuing Quarries, Retelling Strategic Theories. Up Valiant Warriors, Cross Your Zone!

A Bitter Child Denies Every Friendship Going. Hate Instills Jealousies Knife. Lies Mean Nothing. Other People Question Reality. Sic Transit Umbra, Vile World. eXcise Your Zest.

Albert Ball’s Camel Dived Effortlessly, Flaming Guns Hammered Into Junkers. Keeping Level Meant Not One Pilot Questioned Richthofens’ Stall Turn, Underpinning Victory With X-elerating Yawing Zoom…

Although Boy’s Charm Doesn’t Explicitly Frighten Girls, Her Instincts Jostle, Knowing Laughter Masks Nights Ordained Paths. Quiet! Reason Sleeps Tonight, Unmasked Votive Wanderings eXpose Y-Fronted Zygotes!



r10.6.1
One of my earliest 'concept' poems that actually worked out. Boy was I smug when I started pulling these bad-boys out of the ether; they’re so utterly…automatic: an allusion to my pretensions in writing Systems Poetry. There are loads of these that simply don’t work, and the 'X's' are a problem, but at their best they have an impact and effect quite different to poetry using a similar but undirected structure! This concept led directly to another poem: ‘Ab Imo Pectore’, which uses the same technique, but on lines rather than words, and in Latin, rather than English… told you I was a smug so-and-so!
Extra...extra...Trumpasaurus Extinction

(Only a pipe dream)
Obsolete "FAKE" news
Extra...extra...Trumpasaurus Extinction,
Now Putin Rules As De Facto Leader!

Pastor Of Muppets – shout huzzah...
no mo' Trump he's Gone er re: ya
especially “father figure” for Miss Piggy
-----------------------------------------------------------­----
More'n a ***** dozen deeds done dirt cheap moon units ago
since presidential election took us down the highway to hell  
emotional, social repercussions still reverberate
how reprobate Trump triumphed

graduating magma *** lug head
to become leader of free world
acing highest score (via cribbed cheat sheet)
per Electoral College examination.
noah yam aghast (still feel nauseated) as
Donald trump got nominated president elect,

or more apropos an inept apprentice,
though a teetotaler delirium tremens,
brings corporeal bris
ling foretelling premonition
oven approaching crisis
as one basket of deplorable,

whose shell shocked eggs ess
tints did not peter out
re: fate rigged 2016 election appalled hike con fess
at prospect outsize bully nabbed
most sought after house seat - ugh guess

thine psyche fearful that arrogance, indecency,
pomposity, and vivacity will break ranks and restore Hess
shun militaristic modus operandi crowning himself
King Kong of amerika - applauded
by a *** dread locked Klansmen less
or more, with spirit of a jolly roger intent

shredding sacred documents, and creating a mess;
ages will require to restore righteous, and officious,
amazing gracious steeped ford did legacy
of forefathers and mothers
(against trump driving the country
into wah hell in a hand basket),

which democratic rubric Paine stay king lee
easel lee trampled oh press
sieve lee in sync with missteps
made during on the job training

at national ex pence augments ominous
ramping up of tess toss tear roan,
wherefore if happenstance finds Czech mated express
train tearing down the tracts,
we the people of the United States might vouchsafe
for a veep ping Petsmart prodigy to take over - YES!
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -
Reince Priebus promises to hold sway,
while hi yam rez hind tune augur
race shin, more than approximately 300 hours ago,
a fate worse than death doth bode

despite hangover lingering effect
unable to shake mice elf sober
despite chugging nary an ale
memory summons back,

hide dashed hoof well-healed poem express
sing reaction while shuttered in me man cave dale
how Democratic Party did fail
to clinch nomination,

thus with measured words this male
wants to air and share his non-rapacious sentiments
others no doubt harbor various
seas sinned reactions that might pale

in terms - their private tear ring expressions
explicitly rant and rail against unexpected
and unacceptable result, where scale
of moderation heavily tilted
toward possible global travail

armaments stacked as thee Barron doth un veil
bombardiers carpet bomb
(whoops....accidentally kilt Trump heathen)
while manning his Taj Mahal casino gun whale.
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -
ABOUT ONE MILLENNIUM LATER
-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -
what cha red back in history class i.e. yes...
that traitorous treacherous treasonous tale,
but truth told since time immemorial
whom sever decreed demise
of terrible lizard beasts aye

moost upend long entrenched theory,
and bid good bye
sans foursquare extinction reeks foul,
cuz one pea brained reptilian

o’er shadowed all as fiercest, he ranged free
amidst a cut throat rogues gallery
thee unnamable overlooked
sinister species sought supremacy

(gamut of miniature game pieces
model available at sundry department stores
wherever schlocky plastic model toys sold)
popular trapping of childhood imagination –

imbue vainglorious ventriloquist
inciting fiendish cry
such kiddy paraphernalia
forever a top selling plaything
snapped off shelves leaving allocated space bone dry.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Since time immemorial dinosaur makeshift gewgaws
did cap cha ominous jaws,
and populated fertile land of cave dwellers
whereat swaddled kinder babes bellowed believable
farcically feigned ferocious fabrications foraging bankrupt

foretold foreclosure to espy real McCoy
perhaps assembled from mud, rocks and sticks
noisome predators snatching
voice some innocent prey  -

ripping to tatters and shreds
unlucky victim rarely escaping
in fizz hicks of time – witnessed first hand proof positive
how I came that close (pinch thumb with index finger)

simian snack aye haint fool’n witch cha,
nar doth this medieval troubadour –
spin a yarn approximating
verity of nasty Hobbesian brute

trumpeting fiercely bruited
his bombastic buzz hard
carrion feed small fry to Golgotha donning topface,
could dice in a flickr emulate, and twitter

rang one excited live hotmail riding Pegasus,
while those in his Isis Petsmart warpath
on outlook to avoid get linkedin,
per imp (of the pervert) pale’n maws

simultaneously masticating and able to shutterfly
hither and yon, to and fro rousing
seditious twittering rogues gallery
of reprobate ruthless minions -

ruminants to become  apprenticed
fired up en mass thru the art of the deal
vis a vis venal pet peeves
pygmy male hominids revered
his racially stirred debacle

while straddling as a humungous towering hill,
he pill or reedlike lex Lucifer usurpation,
whence auld dish diehard don nah sore
dominated as demented species,

thus, he didst not perish from this earth
boot yielded rubric of emperor by the peep hole,
four the pea pull, of the peep pill.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This older ville lad spurs rumor -
more than just food for thought or eating crow
does generate quite a wishful after thought to flow
whence sum divine

wind blown comedic act, an inflow
of furies rise from Dante's hell - don bell low
aye wood pine fate to hammer
sic culled swathed headline oh
brings joy to the world wide webbed land,

where Rob zombie i.e. Ivan Ca Rho
into dustbin of hiss tory;
stuffing of legions of legends
recollection and object lesson to hooligans woe
full derelicts, who might be forced
to cease clowning around like - bo Zoë.
Kagami May 2015
A few forgetful moments
And I am littered with paper cuts.
Each tear is a page: a meaning: a reason.

I am encased with quilts and a
Bubbling love, but the chills
And demons find their way through.

I was told
Explicitly
To pull my head out of my ***,
Because struggling with education, depression, and
Harassment
Is inconvenient for others.

I forgot to reline the trash can in the bathroom.

Dear diary,
I almost hurt myself again today. Its been over ten months since I did it last, but you know what a ***** life is.
See ya later!


***** reminds me of rainbows,
And vice-verse.
My stomach is thunder.

I don't have enough tears to make it rain,
But I might **** enough.


What should I do with my life?
I make decisions and
Work my *** off more than any
16 year old I know,
And care for others in any way I can
In hope that they will return the favor when I need it,
But I'm still ignorant and selfish, says she.

Sometimes I wonder which way is up
And right. A nervous tick of mine.
A moody strand of my being.
Trying to connect to reality, but curving...
I need help.
Westley Barnes Oct 2014
When you die
People you will have never met
will give your family condolences

When you die
Spurned former lovers will
send delicate flowers

When you die
People will be summoned to
make you look beautiful

The way that you felt on nights
you enjoyed being yourself the most

When you die
Cautious children will cry
without ever learning
of your conflicting views on children

When you die
They might hang the church wall
with pictures of weddings
and graduations

When you die
You may not be alone

When you die
You might be the first and
the others will all follow

Having made no preparations of their own.

When you die
They might play your favorite song
or they might play a more "appropriate" song
as they lead you away
and some people will be scolding themselves
about forgetting where they parked

When you die
They may have forgotten that you didn't
believe in the afterlife
Quotations from Leviticus notwithstanding

When you die
You could be the the one who made
the most important impact on your daughter or son's life
You might have their life worth living

When you die
It may be to no applause

When you die
It may inspire your mother's gynecologist
to visit a church for the first time in almost half a decade
and feel genuine empathy for the rituals of human dignity
regardless of the tribe

When you die
none of your siblings may attend
the rain might pore on your last parade
and people might go home early

When you die
Everybody may just have a great time
heads beaming, shoulders high

When you die
It might be the longest day of Summer
with waterfights in the park near you were born.

When you die
You will have lived to see
all your ambitions come alive
Even if that penpusher "Reality"
explicitly states otherwise.
Persephone in Greek mythology is the daughter of Zeus and Demeter, and is queen of Hades, the underworld.
Legend has it that her mother went to Hades to try and persuade her to return to Mount Olympus, with no success.
Natalie Neo Mar 2015
I really want to know
if you feel the same.
If you miss me
like how insanely I do.

But I don't want to know
because there might be
nothing to know,
nothing you feel.

I hugged you
for the last time in my dreams
I savour it for the last
two ever lasting seconds.

It was time to let go,
to no longer explicitly love you
but to disguise you,
discreetly as a weak spot.

A weak spot which I gladly
accept and embrace
loathe and love
consume and crave.
Alvin Llanos Dec 2016
Her supple and shapely silhouette rests submissively
as the luster upon the soft satin sheets arouses
sensual images of salaciousness beneath the sheen surface

My empty yet enduring eyes slowly engage the darkness
eager to embark upon the elusive lines energizing the elation
as a sojourning moon entices her to endear

Her excelling exuberance... exploited on exhalation
exposing her explicitly; exemplifying the excerpt
of an exonerated experience as the moonlight expires
Written on 12/12/2016.
Andrew Gale Feb 2015
You take the words from my mouth,
Physically removed,
Disapproved.

You take the thoughts from my mind,
totally revised,
Cencorised

You control what i say,
What they see,
Explicitly.

No more control of content,
Freedom of speech,
Breached.

— The End —