"facilitate" poems
Come on.
Come on baby.
Don't be selfish tonight.
Let's be lovers.
Let's be more generous.
Let's be more nurturing and caring to each other
As we taste and explore each other's bodies
Open your legs.
Let me extend my generosity
To the legends within your hidden temple
An abundance of *** in the air
Is the sound of your voice
As you moan without care
I get so ***** thinking of you kissing my neck
and touching me in the sexiest places the way you know that I like.
I just need you on top of me right now.
My body yearns for you constantly.
It has grown so deeply attached to you that it craves your ***
and needs it to facilitate a healthy, ****** release
So come on baby
Don't be selfish, it's alright
Give me all of you
Focus.
You'll be moaning with delight.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
Sometimes
There are too many things
To follow up
To update
To study
To research upon
To refer to others
To show solidarity
To argue upon
To fight with
To put our stand on
To stand up against
To support
To facilitate
To enable
..
..
..
Or
To just pass off
To ignore
.
.
.
.
and
To
Blissfully
Forget..
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
Is one type of friendship
people cooperating
to facilitate each other’s
joy and happiness?
Like friends
who play tennis together:
Tennis-Friends?
Like friends
who help each other study:
Study-friends?
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 2:37 AM UTC
The pharmacist is not your friend
He may put you up in a high hotel
With slip streams of ****** pills
Paxil and Wellbutrin
Designed to defeat depression
To facilitate a fog like
Fugues of perfected moods
With drugs made to create
The perfect drone state
So you can pay your bills
So you can **** and sleep well
So you can keep your health
But it is poison
Kidney killing swill
And while you are under the influence
Perfectly sedated so you forget how to feel
One hand is in your pocket
Thinning your wallet draining dollar bills
While the other hand holds your heart
Crushing what is left of your already weakened will
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
I deal in death, the reaper stated.
I am the debt collector,
The gatherer of souls.
I am the Grim
I deal in life, the god replied.
I am the light giver,
The soul rescuer.
I am god
In neither death nor life,
I deal, remarked Cupid.
I merely facilitate.
I neither give nor take,
I barter only in Love.
Take it or leave it.
I am Cupid.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Rarely had my vision been focused in the past
and maybe for this reason the passage of time
felt as if it was little more than a forgotten dream.
I often found my eyes on an icy reflection
of a naked man standing before a fogged mirror,
fresh with the haze of a hot shower.
I would gaze upon him and he back into me,
pondering to myself "who are you stranger?"
I could only assume he thought the same of me.
I would wonder when he walked away
from that tooth paste stained portrait
if he ventured into the world with that familiar vigor,
that naive sensibility to battle
the demons,
the contradictors
and the liars.
If he too would laugh at these same fallacies in himself
with a certain kind of madness that could only touch
the ears of the few free men among us.
Those tragic spirits who dared to dance,
to transcend ancient genetics and modern culture
in hopes of touching a god they had long forsaken.
We may have given it a different name
but we were no better then the theologians before us,
we clung to our most primal desire.
It weighed upon us with such force
that hunger,
thirst
or even lust
felt like a pestering annoyance in the shadow of its glory.
Our appetite for connection far surpassed our need
to facilitate our biological deficiencies
and in those moments of understanding we reveled in the irony
of being minds trapped in fleshy bodies.
A smile crept across my face and one grew upon him.
I knew this man who stand before me,
unafraid,
bare in body
with a dastardly grin.
He was my oldest friend,
the ghost who spoke to me
in my most vulnerable moments
when no others did.
He cried for me when I could not,
would not cry for myself.
He had always been there
for me and for the first time
when I turned away from his reflection
I felt him follow too.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
It’s hard to intervene when people fight.
Recall being thumped for “bullying” a lad
Who’d harassed ME.
So hard to tell
Who’s right or wrong.
Who made the first jibe
Or struck the first blow?
The same with global conflicts too:
Irish Catholic or Protestant?
Israel or Palestine?
Communist Country or Capitalist?
The list goes on…
Best keep out of it if you can.
Do not make judgement,
Just mediate as best you can.
Preach fairness and conciliation:
Do your best to facilitate
Peace.
Paul Butters
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:33 AM UTC
Have you ever heard those flat harmonies of death, where operatic assertions resound throughout damp and ancient crypts of macabre folklore?
Time is slowly running out, and the flame of life is flickering in the winds of captivating finality.
Although haunting screams are like echoes which transcend fatty spreads of digestive mediocrity, the stalagmites and stalactites of gothic caverns display their ***** features which defy rational explanation.
Feel the depths of soulless forests as they chant messages of reconciliation amidst tangled weeds and branches of self-stimulation.
Amitriptyline can facilitate sleep at the end of an indulgent evening.
S
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
Today I was accused to being a bad influence yet again,
Simply because I facilitate the forbidden wants/needs of the people I love,
Simply because I give them a place to get high and vent without being judged,
Simply because I create an aura where they feel free to express themselves in whatever ways they like- modest, humble even ******
And simply because the ones they love refuse to facilitate their haram (forbidden).
Haram is bad – we all know this
But being human is about passing through all things good and all things bad.
Being a Muslim, most of my choices are haram;
Not properly attired to the laws of my religion,
My speech is not of a young lady with modesty- rather it is defined with sheer profanity,
I rather laugh from my heart even though it’s supposedly a ****** act,
I refuse to lower my gaze around men; the same men that stole from me
The same men that refused to lower their gaze from me.
I deny myself the potential for love because of the expectation of great dismay
And I drown myself with the 34000 thoughts of what if??!
This poem is becoming a disaster; my thoughts aren’t flowing straight,
I went from bad influence to haram to rebellious to depressing;
What the **** is this **** going on inside my head- it aches with great displeasure.
How do I contain my contradicting self?
Someone help me please, my soul is crying and sobbing for something to fill this void-
The void that is desperately trying to full itself with the acceptance of the people who are hell bent on not accepting me.
Why am I like this? A contradicting ******* disaster
-fir.m
Sep 22, 2020
Sep 22, 2020 at 3:12 PM UTC
I watched her lips get wet, as she took a drag from her cigarette. I held her close when I heard her shout, because she finally knew, I had her figured out. Don’t be so pretty, don’t be so coy. Don’t walk away, don’t act like a boy. Don’t question my feelings or make me sore. Don’t, just please don’t, walk out of that door. I want to be the only person, in. Your. room. I want to feel your eyes on me. I want to be the one that you can only, desire. Kissed by a moment. And if you can convince me I am pretty, I will marry you.
So many rules, too many ways to be right. Oh, but please, don’t get me so wrong. Don’t interrupt, don’t guess who I am, or come on too strong. You may not understand that I am myself. Please don’t let my deficit be your burden of wealth. I just want you. To love yourself. Too much to ask? Too much to grasp. I want to feel your arms around me, feel your heart against me. And know, that you are there. No two bit stamp on the back of my hand, a fleeting night under the sheets. No, convince me I am pretty, and I will walk with your shadow til the sunsets.
I am not your buddy, I don’t facilitate second-hand-emotion. I do David Bowie, I do listening to the rain, I do dancing drinking, I do living without shame. And of these words that have been said before, keep gett-ing, left behind with the close of a door. Isn’t it shame you tried so very hard? Clouded, misjudged, may be a bit plus-tard? I hate apologies, or the shame of self defeat, where is your fight? Please ground your feet. I am getting bored of myself; the intricacies of freedom hidden in a secret box. Convince me I am pretty, for your are the one who only would know.
I watched her eyes drift to the side, as she held back tears she could never cry. I held her closest when she pushed me away, and when she told me to leave, I made myself stay. Do be you, do smile when you can, do hold my hand, do act like the man. Do make me talk, don’t make me talk **** just make me realise, you love me just even a little bit. And when I convince myself I am pretty, I’ll be fine, just fine.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
I'd like to mention that my city Karnal was once the bastion of the armed forces.
Close to my house in NDRI campus until half-a-decade ago stood remnants of the old British Barracks - an irksome reminder of the colonial period.
But we went inside the rickety ruins of an olden period to play hide and seek and sometimes just for fun as an adventure.
I had seen them - the erstwhile barracks in that dilapidated state only, carrying the Union Jack painted at some places, and I had seen the ruins crash to ground - a reinstated taste of Indian freedom.
The Colonial army camped here until the occupying British chose to shift the army camp to Ambala due to high occurrence of mosquitoes in the city of Karnal and found this place fit only for a great cattle yard.
Karnal has seen negligence & side-lining ever-since along the course of history.
The Indian Oil Corporation's petroleum refinery was decided to be built in the neighbouring Panipat city & so was the National Fertilizers Limited's manufacturing plant built there and not in Karnal.
In Karnal they built research institutes, filled with greenery these make the city a comfortable place to relax at ease.
But ****** shameless people don't realize the value of plants & trees and keep removing them off the face of Karnal & even where I live, in the NDRI campus - acronym for the National Dairy Research Institute campus.
****** blood sucker stupid human beings are sometimes more irritating than the malarial mosquitoes.
They cut trees assuming trees shelter mosquitoes!
True they might be but I keep wondering what about the potholes dug by them into the coal-tar & gravel roads to facilitate the installing of religious & marriage tents.
But nothing can be done to change the people whose mindset has been falsely ligated with the thought of we are the best & we won't change.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
I feel this inhuman suffocation
when I step out into
that officially sponsored
fog machine artificial haze
to start the music blaring from
speakers that don't say a thing
Spitting throat lumps and grinds
lurching like scary monsters
controlled by raving mad super creeps
hiding behind walls of
electronic lies
and vinyl appropriations
committed to automation
in
beats making stage cages swing like
stray lanterns filled with
questionable electrocuties -
wild tarts that can't be broken
but you can stare all you want
at
Black-light-blemish-broken-razor-testimony
obscured with slashed fishnet and
splashed neon body paint
Move to the wavelengths
going to grave lengths
as
my dead beats facilitate this
Deja Vu machine world
of
backdoor audition submission
courtesy of half massed scrubstep poser pseudo-players
and maneaters planted on dance floors
Wearing short skirts low cut shirts
high heels long hair and plenty of
emotional baggage
and
I find myself feeling somewhat sorry
and guiltily enticed by the decadent
conspicuous consumption and sinister
seduction I cannot escape
until
The song crescendos and I slam an invisible hand
into the wreck chords
from now until the end of rhyme
I want to stop the whole thing
but this is what I signed up for
this is my punishment
so
with reluctant crossfader switchblade hands
I scratch the noise back into the air
and out of my head
because
the
beatings
must
go
on
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
We are like bread.
Bread has three irreversible modes:
dough, bread, and toast.
many things in life, if not
everything in life
have many different forms.
we are all in the different stages of bread
and yet
we criticise and judge ourselves
for moving and changing
and needing a new environment.
The suitable storage for dough
differs vastly to the suitable storage
for bread
and yet
we do not mock it
but facilitate it.
We could learn a thing or two
from bread.
Oct 25, 2024
Oct 25, 2024 at 2:56 PM UTC
*Scordatura refers to the tuning of a stringed instrument in other than the usual way to facilitate the playing of certain compositions. A scordatura (literally Italian for "mistuning"), also called cross-tuning, is an alternative tuning used for the open strings of a string instrument.
Use of alternative tunings allows the playing of otherwise impossible note sequences or note combinations or can be used to create unusual timbres. The technique can be described as an extended technique.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scordatura*
~~~~~~~~~~~
no, non parlano italiano,
né ** conoscenza della musica!
no, I don't speak Italian,
nor do I have knowledge of music
but words, words I know how to love,
how to let them roll off my tongue,
onto yours, seducing you helpless...
Scordatura,
slow say,
you can't help it,
as you spoke it aloud
your hand opens,,
your mouth too,
irresistible, irrepressible.
wet finger petals of the flowering hand.
I want you.
I want you,
in my mouth.
I want our mouths
to make
Scordatura.
speak impossible note creations,
speak in unusual timbres,
but, as one instrument.
I want our
mistunings
to be the
tune of us.
Scordatura,
admit it, my seduction,
accomplished,
our tongues interwoven,
strings, X crossed,
and our tune,
extended.
I want our mouths to make
Scordatura,
speak impossible note creations,
speak in unusual timbres,
as one instrument,
tune combinato.
Scordatura!
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
He’d been close to the big time,
If not a god of the fight game, perhaps a demigod;
He’d been possessed of considerable brute strength
And the ability to shut out concern for the well-being of others,
But there had been the odd ***** in his armor:
An overhand right which announced itself too early,
And arrived just a smidgen too late,
Plus an unhappy tendency to lose focus,
To stray from those plans his corner had set up chapter and verse,
Choosing the forbidden fruit of the quick knockout.
He had, after losing a bout to a top-ranked fighter
(He was eighth in the world, he would chuckle ruefully,
And I fought him like I was eight years old.)
Decided to chuck it all in,
Enrolling in a scruffy little bible college
Sitting just off an interstate on-ramp,
Cheek-to-jowl with a Wendy’s and 7-11,
In order to facilitate the transition from mayhem to ministry.
He’d soured on the process in fairly short order;
He understood instinctually that he, like all men,
Was a sinner, and likely unworthy of salvation,
And the faculty accentuated the notion daily, if not hourly,
Like so many jabs to the midsection.
He’d inquired, gently, as to the approach one should take
To addressing the worrisome paradox
That all men were imperfect beings
Marooned on an imperfect world,
Yet their fallibility was all they had to build on,
(A rickety ladder to scramble upwards, for sure,
But the only way to reach that golden fruit
Held out for him, though just beyond his grasp.)
The responses varied, from sputtering and vague parries
To the suggestion that such notions were heresy,
And so he’d returned to the club-and-casino circuit
Makin’ the best use of the gifts I have, he would sigh,
Before heading out once more,
Hoping there was one more short right at least one more time.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
Ditty This, Little Boy: Venerable Auntie
My Gf's nephew came for a visit,
Teased her that night,
Bowing ceremoniously,
In the Chinese manner,
Addressing her slyly, impishly,
Oh hell, teasingly, as,
Venerable Auntie
She smiled, but said little,
The next night,
When to Argentine Tango dance she must,
In the Chinese manner,
Wore a dress tight fitting,
Her poem, she called it,
With slits up the sides,
To facilitate her swoons and slides,
Leaving the imagination to take care of the rest
As she left, o'er shoulder she called out,
(To me)
Good night little boy,
Don't wait up for my return,
Auntie has gone to play
she won't be back till
Her bad boys have venerated her,
Sufficiently...
6:10 AM
June 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
Will everyday hurt just a little bit less,
until one day its just a memory?
Gathering dust in the back of your mind,
is this what its like in recovery? .
All of the stress the drama and crime,
that goes with the lifestyle of ****
What do you do with yourself anymore,
now that none of those things are left?
No more 3 am bedtime and hating your life,
no more walking the streets day and night.
No more wishing that you could for once just relax,
and not worry that there'd be a fight.
No more people pretending to be your best friend,
just to turn 'round and steal all your stuff.
No more doing anything you possibly could,
to get money so you could buy drugs.
No more silently screaming inside your own mind,
wishing that all of this would just stop.
No more hiding in fear when you hear a siren,
cuz you'll no longer worry its cops.
No more crying yourself to sleep every night,
because somebody else has your kids.
No more spending the days just lost in your thoughts,
about every single milestone missed.
No more trying to think of an answer to give, to your 5 year old child when they ask.
"Mommy and daddy why dont I live with you?
Because YOU'RE my REAL mom and dad."
I've got some advice if you need some help,
so please listen closly my friend.
There is a few things I think you should try,
If you really want your addiction to end.
Boredom is dangerous so don't be alone,
but dont hang out with your old friends.
Find some new people to surround yourself with,
you've got to force this addiction to end.
Its not going to work if you don't give all you've got,
addicts don't want you to get clean at all.
Misery loves company they'll just drag you down,
cuz they would rather facilitate your fall.
So keep to yourself and some new sober friends,
and always believe you'll succeed.
Just keep on going one day at a time,
and from this addiction you'll see you've been freed.
Jan 21, 2022
Jan 21, 2022 at 1:06 PM UTC
I realise and appreciate that my joy and happiness
depends not on my work alone
but also depends on the work of thousands of people
in a well-functioning society surrounding me.
For example:
When I’m using the internet
I appreciate that thousands of workers at the internet company
are working to bring me internet.
When I’m using water
I appreciate that thousands of workers at the water company
are working to bring me water.
When I’m using electricity
I appreciate that thousands of workers at the electricity company
are working to bring me electricity.
When I’m shopping at the supermarket
I appreciate that thousands of workers at the supermarket-company
are working to bring me groceries.
When I need my garbage collected
I appreciate that thousands of workers in the government
are working to collect my garbage.
I wonder
what are all the social-processes working
to support and facilitate my joy and happiness?
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 12:00 AM UTC
More.
More.
More.
The smooth and shiny toothbrush with the sea foam green stripes on it,
The toothbrush that she used to facilitate the tooth decay and destruction of enamel. Ironic, huh.
The toothbrush that she carried around with her at the bottom of her purse everywhere she went. Just in case.
The object of shame.
The object of disappointment.
The most important object she brought with her.
The object that tickled the back of her throat until it hit the right spot, and once it did, relieved her of her sins, of her mistakes, of her worries.
The time-turner.
Bulimics can travel through time, take things back.
Purge until they black out, break into cold sweats, with tears streaming down their face. More, more, more.
There’s more in there, get out. Get dizzy. Sit down. Give it 5 minutes. Try again.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
The sun sempiternal shepherds its flock life-longly. Repetition be its brother, night be its foe. As regurgitation fumes, funneling heinous broth of decay and hostility, the tedium drips ashore, clenching its claws, raising the congregation of lunatics hellwards and in a moment of inseparable divisionism, bursts out loud, hardening the ground with desecration. Outbegotten and throughbrought, the once ****** ******* feral sons to the demented deity all above and none below, in turning, swirling and the ever-prying agony, facilitate themselves a house atop a hill. After the cacophony concludes, The Fool finds himself standing, thrice woven, wolfmeadow thrown, fistlike tenacity hit, once beholden to each beast of coppered glow. Up he reaches, but finding nought and disillusioned with disinterest he breaks down in acid tears and horrid shrieks for mercy. The inward calibre reciprocates and bursts out a tubular noise of contradiction. In all still-standing, the Queen, she of the all-overseeing, turns to The Fool and parlours him a wisdom: "I am unto you as a universe is unto itself. I am within you as this earth is within me. I am you and you I shall stay. And when you at once turn dust-wards, I shall, bereft but forthlooking, beget you again." Aghast with sudden agonising fragility and from the cosmic incantation a ghost arisen, The Fool in all his momentarily found glory and happiness conjectures himself a vessel to venture upon. What he once missed he now resides in. He found it and now he rejoices. To Youth, at long once and at once forever.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
What is it
within the realm of
my Self
that has the nerve
to question the divinity
of this current, fleeting moment?
Is it not the vessel of Life, itself,
that is used to navigate
these, the occluded
Seas of Death?
Could it not be
that a Mind and Body
are the very salvation
over which we so toil?
Would it not be an act of pure mercy
to have the capacity to look around
and to think, and create
while, all the time,
being pulled under
by the inevitable tide of change
we, in English, chose to call
"Death?"
That, in itself,
should inspire me to carry on
and to turn an eye
up from the ground, back from the past;
to within my self; this current moment;
and on, upward:
to the skies and, likewise,
the future.
What is it about my Mind
that so enjoys, or perhaps requires
some selfish sense of 'overlooking'
for the sake of ephemeral comfort?
Alas,
I know what word I would use,
but I dare yet not to use it;
for, t'is that a word, itself,
isn't the concept, itself;
and it's use would be to misdirect
from the nature of the experience,
and to mistranslate what I feel.
I realize the necessity
for names; for words:
we use them to facilitate communication.
I also understand their limit:
there is a great realm
beyond the transparent restraints
of our Languages.
I would identify the culprit
as either "Ego," or "Id."
But, better yet, I would argue
"both and neither."
Freud had some great ideas,
but I tend towards Jung-
I could sooner call it the Shadow,
or at least one aspect of it.
The Shadow is semi-subconscious.
It is an amalgam of fears and repression.
It can only hold so much pressure
before it erupts.
So,
I implore you
to study your Shadow.
It has great potential for change.
Failing to utilize it
is to be utilized by it.
Make it work for you
or you will work for it.
Use your Shadow
to your advantage,
or it will use you
to that of it's own.
Pick apart your Self;
put it back together.
Sometimes that's easier said than done,
but, with a proper mindset,
it'll come and leave
before you even know it.
It happens all the time.
Refuse the shackles
of thy Shadow;
break the chains
and share with the world
the fleeting feeling
of self-liberation.
That is,
if someone doesn't misinterpret what you've said;
looking through the Shadow,
everything looks darker.
Realize where you're going.
Realize what you're doing.
Heed what you feed,
external or internal.
Seek Balance.
Explore Ideas.
Gain Understanding
no matter how slow:
at all
is far better
than so many.
No one may escape these Seas;
but you can start some ripples
that will propagate ad infinitum.
Ask. Practice. Learn. Grow.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
Remember when I saw the good in life?
Remember when I saw through the haze?
Remember when I hated sitting idly for days?
Those times are over. Done.
All I want to do is float, coast
Painless, without feeling
Numb is fine
Numb is safe
Numbness is mine
To have and to hold
Always reliable and guaranteed
Never let me down, no need
I can’t explain it.
A dream deferred:
Forced to observe,
Live vicariously through people
For the rest of my life.
Watch, facilitate, no thanks.
What can you do in life
If you can’t do all that you’ve dreamed?
Sit and swallow it?
Try to believe?
I’m just coasting through,
Trying to find my way,
But my way is filled with potholes,
***** traps, and rattlesnakes.
Doesn’t my head realize-
It’s my heart that’s at stake?
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC