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"filing" poems
This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife's extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant's rancid jam and the bottles of empty glitters ---- Sir So-and-so's gin. This is the room I have never been in This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects ---- Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I've taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it. The cold sets in. Now they ball in a mass, Black Mind against all that white. The smile of the snow is white. It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen, Into which, on warm days, They can only carry their dead. The bees are all women, Maids and the long royal lady. They have got rid of the men, The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors. Winter is for women ---- The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanis walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
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40.8k
Sylvia Plath
Wintering
This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife's extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant's rancid jam and the bottles of empty glitters ---- Sir So-and-so's gin. This is the room I have never been in This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects ---- Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I've taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it. The cold sets in. Now they ball in a mass, Black Mind against all that white. The smile of the snow is white. It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen, Into which, on warm days, They can only carry their dead. The bees are all women, Maids and the long royal lady. They have got rid of the men, The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors. Winter is for women ---- The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanis walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
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50
We wear this city on our feet Planting our roots with each step Our shadows cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak We grow here with the spirit of buildings past, present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance, the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense, spires for steeples, the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles of our feet pounding the pavement, Our congregation seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage They march downtown toward Capitol holding signs for disarmament They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance They move in a blur of faces that become us, Rush at all hours through our veins Cross our hearts and keep us breathing, Moving wearing the city on our minds like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads We assume monk-like appearances in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, We'll wear their dreams at night like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour We'll keep walking and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders under the watch of their heavens, the skyline a glowing testament of every step taken toward someplace higher.
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Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
Antinoart
Becoming Raleigh
We wear this city on our feet Planting our roots with each step Our shadows cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak We grow here with the spirit of buildings past, present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance, the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense, spires for steeples, the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles of our feet pounding the pavement, Our congregation seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage They march downtown toward Capitol holding signs for disarmament They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance They move in a blur of faces that become us, Rush at all hours through our veins Cross our hearts and keep us breathing, Moving wearing the city on our minds like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads We assume monk-like appearances in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, We'll wear their dreams at night like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour We'll keep walking and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders under the watch of their heavens, the skyline a glowing testament of every step taken toward someplace higher.
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37
So darling, In the moments You turn around And catch me staring at you Wide eyed, Know that I’m drinking you up. Carefully filing everything you do in my memory So I can pull it out On lonely walks in the park and down the street, So I can think of you On cold nights laying in bed. Because it won’t last, But I want to remember Every second.
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Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 3:59 PM UTC
AnonymousFreak
We Won’t Work
So darling, In the moments You turn around And catch me staring at you Wide eyed, Know that I’m drinking you up. Carefully filing everything you do in my memory So I can pull it out On lonely walks in the park and down the street, So I can think of you On cold nights laying in bed. Because it won’t last, But I want to remember Every second.
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14
happy **** day, **** me **** you, humpback **** front don't stop, follow dotted lines until you find the little treasure spot get a little wierd with love get a little wierd with me you aren't safe out there, kiddo just stick with me, too much talk in the office about us make out behind a filing cabinet stuck on the phone all day telling everybody we're going to be alright, happy hunting
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Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
lauraaaaa
camel man
happy **** day, **** me **** you, humpback **** front don't stop, follow dotted lines until you find the little treasure spot get a little wierd with love get a little wierd with me you aren't safe out there, kiddo just stick with me, too much talk in the office about us make out behind a filing cabinet stuck on the phone all day telling everybody we're going to be alright, happy hunting
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13
*filing for a restraining order, you won't stop trespassing through my dreams*
0
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
ignatius-hosiana
I'm
*filing for a restraining order, you won't stop trespassing through my dreams*
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12
Society is a clay mold Taking every newborn into its fold Kissing each brow with insecurity, shame Releasing it's victims, carbon-copies, all the same Society is a line graph's slope Plotting point ever upwards in hope Shunning those who are different, who fight Loving only those who are "normal", all outliers denied Society is a disease, nipping at the soul Filing and wearing down on the young and old Breaking every innocent into a pessimistic, jaded mess Rending, tearing, stomping, destroying whatever is left
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Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
QSaint
Society Is
Society is a clay mold Taking every newborn into its fold Kissing each brow with insecurity, shame Releasing it's victims, carbon-copies, all the same Society is a line graph's slope Plotting point ever upwards in hope Shunning those who are different, who fight Loving only those who are "normal", all outliers denied Society is a disease, nipping at the soul Filing and wearing down on the young and old Breaking every innocent into a pessimistic, jaded mess Rending, tearing, stomping, destroying whatever is left
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12
My body is the training ground for All of the reject demons My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight To match with any worthwhile struggles so My inner demons are over dramatic children      They do not wage wars      They throw tantrums      They stand inside my temples and pound the walls      When they do not get what they want      And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue      Then fall asleep when they get tired      Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset My inner demons are pretentious      They call themselves demons      When they are more like imps      They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack      And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that      They broke something      Then press on my heart      Daring to call it an ache My inner demons are clumsy      They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes      And slip and spill their handfuls of tears      At inopportune moments As I tremble due to the ones      That have tripped and tangled themselves      In my heartstrings and vocal cords      Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them      And tear apart the inconveniences My inner demons are shy      They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse      With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky      Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin      They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue      With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises      And hold themselves still against my capillaries      As if their presence might distract my blood from      Its daily circulation My inner demons are hoarders      They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain      With reports and analysis of too many situations      And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses      Of each ventricle and aorta      Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas      Then pack extra breaths into my lungs      Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs      They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes      Hiding until they can forget themselves My inner demons are moody      They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses      And pry open old ones with feathers      They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks      They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton      They tie my tongue with other tongues      And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings      They are self depreciating and they know that they      Are not worthy of their title My inner demons are pathetic      I suppose they're right where they belong
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May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
theatreceilings
Reject Demons
My body is the training ground for All of the reject demons My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight To match with any worthwhile struggles so My inner demons are over dramatic children      They do not wage wars      They throw tantrums      They stand inside my temples and pound the walls      When they do not get what they want      And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue      Then fall asleep when they get tired      Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset My inner demons are pretentious      They call themselves demons      When they are more like imps      They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack      And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that      They broke something      Then press on my heart      Daring to call it an ache My inner demons are clumsy      They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes      And slip and spill their handfuls of tears      At inopportune moments As I tremble due to the ones      That have tripped and tangled themselves      In my heartstrings and vocal cords      Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them      And tear apart the inconveniences My inner demons are shy      They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse      With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky      Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin      They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue      With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises      And hold themselves still against my capillaries      As if their presence might distract my blood from      Its daily circulation My inner demons are hoarders      They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain      With reports and analysis of too many situations      And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses      Of each ventricle and aorta      Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas      Then pack extra breaths into my lungs      Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs      They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes      Hiding until they can forget themselves My inner demons are moody      They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses      And pry open old ones with feathers      They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks      They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton      They tie my tongue with other tongues      And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings      They are self depreciating and they know that they      Are not worthy of their title My inner demons are pathetic      I suppose they're right where they belong
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59
It hits me in moments    sometimes in the silence of the night    sometimes in the bustle of the day    others in the middle of a laugh The truth?           She's dead                    gone She won't hear about the long list of firsts that will eventually happen                                    first kiss                                    first date                                    first love My only sister is gone and I am alone That word, suicide, has been forever changed         Every time I hear it I flash to that cold December night                                                 to everything I saw I have no questions My day goes on         but I know there's that little empty hole hidden behind a filing cabinet in my mind Should it be bigger? It will never be filled If I could ask one thing,      It wouldn't be why or even comeback It would be...                      Are you happy where you are?
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Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:42 AM UTC
Izzy24
Are you happy?
It hits me in moments    sometimes in the silence of the night    sometimes in the bustle of the day    others in the middle of a laugh The truth?           She's dead                    gone She won't hear about the long list of firsts that will eventually happen                                    first kiss                                    first date                                    first love My only sister is gone and I am alone That word, suicide, has been forever changed         Every time I hear it I flash to that cold December night                                                 to everything I saw I have no questions My day goes on         but I know there's that little empty hole hidden behind a filing cabinet in my mind Should it be bigger? It will never be filled If I could ask one thing,      It wouldn't be why or even comeback It would be...                      Are you happy where you are?
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24
Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious. The tube dampens your senses. The highrises make you feel down. Your values are re-prioritised. You become the binmen’s ***** but all is not charred. You have the chance to remember before, and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips. The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial. The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.
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Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 7:52 PM UTC
nja
London's magic deficit
Filing errands makes you drowsy and nautious. The tube dampens your senses. The highrises make you feel down. Your values are re-prioritised. You become the binmen’s ***** but all is not charred. You have the chance to remember before, and you grasp redemption as sand now sifts through your fingertips. The stars awaken the you beneath the superficial. The water nourishes your ignored thirstiness for passion.
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10
We started out with Armistead from the shelter of the trees. A jackrabbit raced past to the rear, no dumb bunny was he The heat rose up to meet us As we started up the rise- The prospect of the copse of trees Before us was the prize. The flower of Virginia here displayed upon Parade We must have looked magnificent Just before the cannonade They piled on Double Cannister and tore holes in our line We staggered from the weight of shot that fearful hissing whine.. Then enfilading fire came From the Yanks behind stone walls Just then post fences six feet high briefly caused our charge to stall Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed Upon this very spot Kemper, wounded mortally, Was retrieved from shell and shot We made it past the final fence And up the grassy knoll Defiant in the cannons mouth "Turn those guns!" I'm told. But at that very Moment General Armistead was downed The attack lost its momentum Our wave crested on high ground.. The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg As the Crimson tide retraced Half in Anger, Half in relief that the challenge had been faced. The hill before the copse of trees Pocked with our dead and dying While the remnants of Picketts men Towards Longstreets line were filing Matthew Brady took my photograph before I was led away My face a study in defiance A true man of the gray.
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Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
john-f-mccullagh
Pickett's Charge
We started out with Armistead from the shelter of the trees. A jackrabbit raced past to the rear, no dumb bunny was he The heat rose up to meet us As we started up the rise- The prospect of the copse of trees Before us was the prize. The flower of Virginia here displayed upon Parade We must have looked magnificent Just before the cannonade They piled on Double Cannister and tore holes in our line We staggered from the weight of shot that fearful hissing whine.. Then enfilading fire came From the Yanks behind stone walls Just then post fences six feet high briefly caused our charge to stall Brave **** Gannett was unhorsed Upon this very spot Kemper, wounded mortally, Was retrieved from shell and shot We made it past the final fence And up the grassy knoll Defiant in the cannons mouth "Turn those guns!" I'm told. But at that very Moment General Armistead was downed The attack lost its momentum Our wave crested on high ground.. The blue bellies yelled Fredericksburg As the Crimson tide retraced Half in Anger, Half in relief that the challenge had been faced. The hill before the copse of trees Pocked with our dead and dying While the remnants of Picketts men Towards Longstreets line were filing Matthew Brady took my photograph before I was led away My face a study in defiance A true man of the gray.
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44
Grinding.... Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered Clawing for the scraps left over Predicament I found myself in Or, towards the end of it Slipping from the edges Forager focused on finding any way back home Sidetracked by some apparition left crying Alone, in the corner Grinding... Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air I can feel my lips turning blue and Twitching It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm Hangs motionless in the air The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces Grinding... Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous Anti holy Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the New root My lips still moving No sound produced And my mind Grinding... I still pray to god for you Beset on all sides by the same wickedness Still afflicted by myself Argue for arguments sake ****** up on the uptake I thought that you might want it I guess I forgot all the subtle ways The fires spring to life at night Arguably the wrong choice is Looking at him I try not to Catch that glimpse in his eye Already my mind races And my bones are shivering At the thought alone Brickwork backing Still swells maggots And filing paperwork For entrapment habits Grinding
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Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Boggy
Anti
Grinding.... Leaving it silenced, drawn and quartered Clawing for the scraps left over Predicament I found myself in Or, towards the end of it Slipping from the edges Forager focused on finding any way back home Sidetracked by some apparition left crying Alone, in the corner Grinding... Paused, with rain drops weighted, heavy sense in the air I can feel my lips turning blue and Twitching It's more literal than I would dare dream in a waking nightmare The smell of every molecule tantamount to another realm Hangs motionless in the air The stone transposed becomes a rooftop asylum, overlooking such uncouth misanthropic parcels, self absorbed in this grotesque imagery, a veritable wall of self hate puzzle pieces Grinding... Low, on an almost ominous note, still grows colder in my ears Blowing on winds filled with the spite and righteous Anti holy Fully rupturing sound of far off laughter of the New root My lips still moving No sound produced And my mind Grinding... I still pray to god for you Beset on all sides by the same wickedness Still afflicted by myself Argue for arguments sake ****** up on the uptake I thought that you might want it I guess I forgot all the subtle ways The fires spring to life at night Arguably the wrong choice is Looking at him I try not to Catch that glimpse in his eye Already my mind races And my bones are shivering At the thought alone Brickwork backing Still swells maggots And filing paperwork For entrapment habits Grinding
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47
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone. Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram. Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush, toothpaste, temperature, and time. Shaving cream, razor, running water, advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts. Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie, missing shirt buttons, beating the clock, wallet, briefcase, and car keys. Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers, loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes, CDs, and napkins. Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people, newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage. Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room, prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights, filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate. Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars, and home. Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
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May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
christopher-cizek
Nine to Five Thoughts
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone. Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram. Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush, toothpaste, temperature, and time. Shaving cream, razor, running water, advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts. Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie, missing shirt buttons, beating the clock, wallet, briefcase, and car keys. Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers, loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes, CDs, and napkins. Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people, newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage. Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room, prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights, filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate. Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars, and home. Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
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21
Filing robotically Smiling like a million (fake) Mona Lisas In a portrait that has violently painted them violently painted us decided our landscape (colors design) painted violently smile smile smile Mona Lisa smile It demands that we smile But This is not art Smile smile smile But are you happy Smile smile smile But are you happy Fall fall fall crack the smile serene Mona Lisa is cursed like us.
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Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
sweet-ridicule
Don' Be Mona Lisa
Filing robotically Smiling like a million (fake) Mona Lisas In a portrait that has violently painted them violently painted us decided our landscape (colors design) painted violently smile smile smile Mona Lisa smile It demands that we smile But This is not art Smile smile smile But are you happy Smile smile smile But are you happy Fall fall fall crack the smile serene Mona Lisa is cursed like us.
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25
Hunger and Desire grew 'til bellies everywhere were ruined for sustenance, so in went the troops to wage war against ideas and when they arrived there were no soldiers to speak of so they set up tents and didn't go away they sang drunken war-songs until the moan of starvation bellies sang louder and more terribly "That must have been them the whole time!" they said, and suited up for the charge. So they trained their shells at the city excited to see if target practice had done them any good but all they did was mortar themselves to bits squadrons of video-game experts sent drones overhead to drop Hallmark cards titled "Why it's your fault" and coupon booklets for American chain shopping outlets to come but they only marginalized and condescended themselves "Bring in the reinforcements!" they cried, even conscripting their hapless targets. This mob, too, was a hungry belly bellowing for satisfaction, a cannibal *** simmering So they set up tables and stacked boring paperwork, filing away spirits broken by shrapnel and white phosphorus but they only resigned themselves to imaginary lines and the plunder of Control, insensibly ****** themselves to death while they watched, perplexed.
0
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
misadventuresofcrow
Hubris
Hunger and Desire grew 'til bellies everywhere were ruined for sustenance, so in went the troops to wage war against ideas and when they arrived there were no soldiers to speak of so they set up tents and didn't go away they sang drunken war-songs until the moan of starvation bellies sang louder and more terribly "That must have been them the whole time!" they said, and suited up for the charge. So they trained their shells at the city excited to see if target practice had done them any good but all they did was mortar themselves to bits squadrons of video-game experts sent drones overhead to drop Hallmark cards titled "Why it's your fault" and coupon booklets for American chain shopping outlets to come but they only marginalized and condescended themselves "Bring in the reinforcements!" they cried, even conscripting their hapless targets. This mob, too, was a hungry belly bellowing for satisfaction, a cannibal *** simmering So they set up tables and stacked boring paperwork, filing away spirits broken by shrapnel and white phosphorus but they only resigned themselves to imaginary lines and the plunder of Control, insensibly ****** themselves to death while they watched, perplexed.
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43
I guess executives like people major in excuses. Everytime something drastic happens. We know the comment or generalization is coming. We know when gas prices arises. That an excuse is coming our way. Do they think we were born yesterday. If a forest fire happens. If rain never comes. We know prices of fruit will be like a track runner. Excuses. Some legit. Some just given. We constantly aware of that late employee. Where you're just waiting to hear that one news. Traffic was bad. Or something else given to cover up being late. Excuses. Some confirmed. Others unconfirmed. A honest days work for your boss. Just to hear them say get out. Because we filing bankruptcy's today. Excuses. We all can't say we hadn't used one. Because we are only human. Late for a date. You better have a good reason. And, we complain about the lateness of the seasons Excuses. Something we never get use too.
0
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
jeffrey-conyers
Excuses
I guess executives like people major in excuses. Everytime something drastic happens. We know the comment or generalization is coming. We know when gas prices arises. That an excuse is coming our way. Do they think we were born yesterday. If a forest fire happens. If rain never comes. We know prices of fruit will be like a track runner. Excuses. Some legit. Some just given. We constantly aware of that late employee. Where you're just waiting to hear that one news. Traffic was bad. Or something else given to cover up being late. Excuses. Some confirmed. Others unconfirmed. A honest days work for your boss. Just to hear them say get out. Because we filing bankruptcy's today. Excuses. We all can't say we hadn't used one. Because we are only human. Late for a date. You better have a good reason. And, we complain about the lateness of the seasons Excuses. Something we never get use too.
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30
*to further my point, as an eager reader in a catholic school, reading about the gnostic heretics, wondering with my theology tutor upon the question asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics influenced mohammad on the sly? i mean, they too believed a phantom walked among men, and a phantom was crucified?* my confirmation didn't take place in a cathedral, as was due course for all of us in being schooled, by a bishop in brentwood cathedral, i opted out... my confirmation came in a russian orthodox cathedral, in st. petersburg, when i watched people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm, with the priest mumbling toward a golden altar, as typical in the tradition, buttocks towards the people or as in the western tradition reciting in latin, before the nationalists came and spoke the gospel in each designated tongue so people understood, a bit like having your back turned against the people - speaking in latin - and when i sat i the church to listen to the choir singing, some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me to stand up, and pay respect to the golden altar... he told me to stand up! what cheek... what barbarism... only in russia... i had to stop being bewildered by the beauty of song and listen to a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of gold... THEN i was confirmed... donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving! mind the fact that i've seen the greatest degradation of mysticism take place... the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along... in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along, the idiots reminded me of it... you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname... you're educated: confirmation name... that takes four spaces of consideration... so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils, folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god... but only in writing... first name, baptismal name, confirmation name, surname... a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing... same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw... but experience-wise... un-original to the **** not even a clone... not able to experience major historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself... a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper... clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible... too many inter-actants along the way can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone... different mr. john smith... NEXT!
0
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
"confirmation" of a "catholic" in a russian orthodox church
*to further my point, as an eager reader in a catholic school, reading about the gnostic heretics, wondering with my theology tutor upon the question asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics influenced mohammad on the sly? i mean, they too believed a phantom walked among men, and a phantom was crucified?* my confirmation didn't take place in a cathedral, as was due course for all of us in being schooled, by a bishop in brentwood cathedral, i opted out... my confirmation came in a russian orthodox cathedral, in st. petersburg, when i watched people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm, with the priest mumbling toward a golden altar, as typical in the tradition, buttocks towards the people or as in the western tradition reciting in latin, before the nationalists came and spoke the gospel in each designated tongue so people understood, a bit like having your back turned against the people - speaking in latin - and when i sat i the church to listen to the choir singing, some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me to stand up, and pay respect to the golden altar... he told me to stand up! what cheek... what barbarism... only in russia... i had to stop being bewildered by the beauty of song and listen to a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of gold... THEN i was confirmed... donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving! mind the fact that i've seen the greatest degradation of mysticism take place... the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along... in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along, the idiots reminded me of it... you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname... you're educated: confirmation name... that takes four spaces of consideration... so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils, folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god... but only in writing... first name, baptismal name, confirmation name, surname... a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing... same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw... but experience-wise... un-original to the **** not even a clone... not able to experience major historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself... a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper... clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible... too many inter-actants along the way can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone... different mr. john smith... NEXT!
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60
I don't have a filing cabinet, I've emptied all the drawers; Lugged it through my clearing house, Then gleefully through the  door. The **** thing's out for pick up. Each drawer was filled with files: Insurance forms for cars and bikes, Gone this long while; Health receipts for healthy lives, Warranties and refund lies, Transcripts from a former life, Lesson plans and records, Some pics of you and me. All shredded, bagged and tightly tied, And ready for the street. I'm finding some relief. If only I could do the same With memories of you.
0
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
francie-lynch
File It
I don't have a filing cabinet, I've emptied all the drawers; Lugged it through my clearing house, Then gleefully through the  door. The **** thing's out for pick up. Each drawer was filled with files: Insurance forms for cars and bikes, Gone this long while; Health receipts for healthy lives, Warranties and refund lies, Transcripts from a former life, Lesson plans and records, Some pics of you and me. All shredded, bagged and tightly tied, And ready for the street. I'm finding some relief. If only I could do the same With memories of you.
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18
Oh so many words with no way of forming logic so many words trapped in confusion So many words dying to be heard to be admired to be out gagging me but I just can't find my voice. I just can't make it come out. I'm alive, I'm breathing. I walk around but I'm not really living. Its the Pain. I can feel it cursing through my veins with tears streaming down and staining my face. Eroding all the life left on my face. I've lived so long in this low I don't really know what a high feels like no more. Even in love I'm down low and mournful. Insecure and pitiful. Crazy if you ask me. I know I have to get out this cycle but this low has stolen all my dreams like a quiet thief in the night,. Stolen my voice and I'm left with this burning desire for greatness with an empty vision. Because my dreams were too fragile , like a fetus in the womb killed by negligence and under nourishment. Or better yet ripped out by metal rods poking prodding in a ***** hidden backyard ally. I prayed. I cry. I believed. I cry. I had faith. I cry. I even used to look up to the stars and the moon. Mostly past tense now. Because nothing ever really came out of it. My hopes became the barren womb of a woman failing to produce. All past tense. But I still cry as if pouring my soul into this water that leaves my body will appaul the gods enough to have pity on me. Restore my faith and recharge my halo cause its been running on reserves for so long.  As though I'll finally see the God everyone raves about. As though I'll find my destiny. But I just end up dusting my rags and bearing this load that's nearly taken my life by my own hand so many times I could feature on a comedy. A cliche but I have a void in my heart. I tried ignoring it. Filing it with nonsensical things that always dry out. At a point I thought I'd found a solution but my heart now in pieces I learnt never to trust in a human what you can't do yourself. I let somebody take me through the fiery lanes of hell to leave me there Oh so many words with no way of forming logic so many words trapped in confusion so many words gagging me but I just can't find my voice. I just can't make it come out. So many words dying to be heard to be admired to be out. But I'm at a loss.
0
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
Heartbeat_M
Not A Poem
Oh so many words with no way of forming logic so many words trapped in confusion So many words dying to be heard to be admired to be out gagging me but I just can't find my voice. I just can't make it come out. I'm alive, I'm breathing. I walk around but I'm not really living. Its the Pain. I can feel it cursing through my veins with tears streaming down and staining my face. Eroding all the life left on my face. I've lived so long in this low I don't really know what a high feels like no more. Even in love I'm down low and mournful. Insecure and pitiful. Crazy if you ask me. I know I have to get out this cycle but this low has stolen all my dreams like a quiet thief in the night,. Stolen my voice and I'm left with this burning desire for greatness with an empty vision. Because my dreams were too fragile , like a fetus in the womb killed by negligence and under nourishment. Or better yet ripped out by metal rods poking prodding in a ***** hidden backyard ally. I prayed. I cry. I believed. I cry. I had faith. I cry. I even used to look up to the stars and the moon. Mostly past tense now. Because nothing ever really came out of it. My hopes became the barren womb of a woman failing to produce. All past tense. But I still cry as if pouring my soul into this water that leaves my body will appaul the gods enough to have pity on me. Restore my faith and recharge my halo cause its been running on reserves for so long.  As though I'll finally see the God everyone raves about. As though I'll find my destiny. But I just end up dusting my rags and bearing this load that's nearly taken my life by my own hand so many times I could feature on a comedy. A cliche but I have a void in my heart. I tried ignoring it. Filing it with nonsensical things that always dry out. At a point I thought I'd found a solution but my heart now in pieces I learnt never to trust in a human what you can't do yourself. I let somebody take me through the fiery lanes of hell to leave me there Oh so many words with no way of forming logic so many words trapped in confusion so many words gagging me but I just can't find my voice. I just can't make it come out. So many words dying to be heard to be admired to be out. But I'm at a loss.
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24
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge, Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my Cuyp. Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens- Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields. Twenty more colours to mix. Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I; prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each Milky white shade, rushing out  into the aurulent sunglow. .
0
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
martin-narrod
Cotton-Duck Weave
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge, Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my Cuyp. Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens- Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields. Twenty more colours to mix. Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I; prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each Milky white shade, rushing out  into the aurulent sunglow. .
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16
I put on a Count Basie LP on the blue covered record-player, Tilly lay on the bed filing her finger nails, looking at them making sure they were even. I looked out the bedroom window onto the grass and hedge and to my right the apple orchard. I loved the saxophone solo on the Basie LP, moved my head to the beat. Did your mum believe you went to stay at a friend's house? I said. Yes, she seemed to, Tilly said, taking her eyes from her nails to gaze at me. Had to be convincing, and lie of course, Tilly added, looking at me more intensely. Which friend did you say? I asked. Pretend friend, I haven't a friend I can lie about so convincingly, Tilly said. I guess so, I said, turning to face her lying there on my bed, the trumpeter soloing on Basie track. Doesn't your mum mind us being up here in your room? Tilly said. I said I wanted to you to hear my new Basie LP, I said. I don't like jazz, I like the Beatles and Bob Dylan, Tilly said. Had to say something, I said. We had good *** at Uncle's place didn't we? she said, smiling, putting away her nail-file. We had. I remembered it as I sat on the bed looking back at her, wishing we could here, but it would be too risky with my mother just downstairs, and my young brother likely to come up any minute. Is your place ever empty? I asked. Seldom, Tilly said, Mother is nearly always there, doing her housework or the garden or preparing meals. The Basie big band was playing out the track and then stopped, and there was silence. I leaned to her and kissed her lips. She put her arms around me, and we held close. Lips to lips stuck. We wanted to, but we couldn't worst luck.
0
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:28 AM UTC
TerryCollett
ONE AFTERNOON 1965
I put on a Count Basie LP on the blue covered record-player, Tilly lay on the bed filing her finger nails, looking at them making sure they were even. I looked out the bedroom window onto the grass and hedge and to my right the apple orchard. I loved the saxophone solo on the Basie LP, moved my head to the beat. Did your mum believe you went to stay at a friend's house? I said. Yes, she seemed to, Tilly said, taking her eyes from her nails to gaze at me. Had to be convincing, and lie of course, Tilly added, looking at me more intensely. Which friend did you say? I asked. Pretend friend, I haven't a friend I can lie about so convincingly, Tilly said. I guess so, I said, turning to face her lying there on my bed, the trumpeter soloing on Basie track. Doesn't your mum mind us being up here in your room? Tilly said. I said I wanted to you to hear my new Basie LP, I said. I don't like jazz, I like the Beatles and Bob Dylan, Tilly said. Had to say something, I said. We had good *** at Uncle's place didn't we? she said, smiling, putting away her nail-file. We had. I remembered it as I sat on the bed looking back at her, wishing we could here, but it would be too risky with my mother just downstairs, and my young brother likely to come up any minute. Is your place ever empty? I asked. Seldom, Tilly said, Mother is nearly always there, doing her housework or the garden or preparing meals. The Basie big band was playing out the track and then stopped, and there was silence. I leaned to her and kissed her lips. She put her arms around me, and we held close. Lips to lips stuck. We wanted to, but we couldn't worst luck.
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98
I realized I'd never really visited a hospital bed. I'd been once for the birth of my sister, but all I remember are the boxes of krispy kreme doughnuts and my aunt, who'd not yet had a child of her own, scolding and snapping at my brother and I just four and five to stop playing with my mother's adjustable bed. And I remember the face of my grandmother, joyous, though not quite smiling; but perhaps I remember her that way because I was always a little bit afraid of her, and still was when she died six years later. But it was sudden, and she didn't even make it to the hospital. I don't even remember my sister herself, or my mother, just her bed and trying to climb into it. But now here I was, filing past the numbered blue doors in the halls that didn't smell like sickness or loneliness or anything poetic at all-- just cafeteria food, close and a bit ***** In the room, there are two women lying on their beds, each watching a TV. They are watching the same show, but they are each wearing a set of headphones and watching separate screens. It looks a bit lonely and I wonder if maybe they'd like to watch it together. I kiss her hello and her eyes are watery, her voice broken; but I am assured this is not her normal state. but it's the only way I've ever seen her, so it's hard to imagine her otherwise. There's a kiwi and an empty yogurt cup on the table and I start to zone out, probably wondering whether they're from her lunch or already her dinner. But I let my mind wander and soon I'm picturing everyone I know in turn lying in a hospital bed. One is missing all her hair, another has an IV, and I ask myself which ones I would visit. The woman in the bed is smiling crookedly; I've been told the tube in her arm is morphine, and she's speaking about the dinner she had at our house while my french sister assures her that we'll do it again when her four days of rest are up. And I go back to my game. It's a bit cruel, maybe, but life, I think, is all a story of sickness and who would visit you, brave the stale air of your hospital room and tell you stories of the future.
0
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
emily-webb
hospital beds
I realized I'd never really visited a hospital bed. I'd been once for the birth of my sister, but all I remember are the boxes of krispy kreme doughnuts and my aunt, who'd not yet had a child of her own, scolding and snapping at my brother and I just four and five to stop playing with my mother's adjustable bed. And I remember the face of my grandmother, joyous, though not quite smiling; but perhaps I remember her that way because I was always a little bit afraid of her, and still was when she died six years later. But it was sudden, and she didn't even make it to the hospital. I don't even remember my sister herself, or my mother, just her bed and trying to climb into it. But now here I was, filing past the numbered blue doors in the halls that didn't smell like sickness or loneliness or anything poetic at all-- just cafeteria food, close and a bit ***** In the room, there are two women lying on their beds, each watching a TV. They are watching the same show, but they are each wearing a set of headphones and watching separate screens. It looks a bit lonely and I wonder if maybe they'd like to watch it together. I kiss her hello and her eyes are watery, her voice broken; but I am assured this is not her normal state. but it's the only way I've ever seen her, so it's hard to imagine her otherwise. There's a kiwi and an empty yogurt cup on the table and I start to zone out, probably wondering whether they're from her lunch or already her dinner. But I let my mind wander and soon I'm picturing everyone I know in turn lying in a hospital bed. One is missing all her hair, another has an IV, and I ask myself which ones I would visit. The woman in the bed is smiling crookedly; I've been told the tube in her arm is morphine, and she's speaking about the dinner she had at our house while my french sister assures her that we'll do it again when her four days of rest are up. And I go back to my game. It's a bit cruel, maybe, but life, I think, is all a story of sickness and who would visit you, brave the stale air of your hospital room and tell you stories of the future.
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55
You are the clapping monkey You are the restless throb of dusty city streets You are the children running around after the school bell And the stubborn tree that has lived in the neighbourhood for fifty years However, you are not clipped footsteps of harried workers Or the diligent, clockwork-like ebb of traffic And you are certainly not tranquil duck in the middle of the city park There is just no way that you are the tranquil duck It might interest you to know that I am the neat, color-coded filing cabinet I also happen to be worn-out recliner beckoning in the evening’s light And the ever-winding, deserted country road I also happen to be the free-floating paper bag But don’t worry, you are still the clapping monkey You will always be that clapping monkey And I am the enchanted audience.
0
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
nuha-fariha
The Clapping Monkey
You are the clapping monkey You are the restless throb of dusty city streets You are the children running around after the school bell And the stubborn tree that has lived in the neighbourhood for fifty years However, you are not clipped footsteps of harried workers Or the diligent, clockwork-like ebb of traffic And you are certainly not tranquil duck in the middle of the city park There is just no way that you are the tranquil duck It might interest you to know that I am the neat, color-coded filing cabinet I also happen to be worn-out recliner beckoning in the evening’s light And the ever-winding, deserted country road I also happen to be the free-floating paper bag But don’t worry, you are still the clapping monkey You will always be that clapping monkey And I am the enchanted audience.
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16
7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.
0
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
clockworktribune
The Battle for the Taco Bell
7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.
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1
a moment to reflect: moments like two earphones; plug & play euphoria nothing like it if only filing them was possible – keepskaes of the mind hoarding is essential! hoarding for those times of drought drought of feelings worth the paper they are written on writers block can ****** those who do not hoard those painful realisations of space space in a mind and soul worth filling, worth emptying of shadows worth hoarding of all things for times of drought..
0
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 8:13 AM UTC
cara-furniss
Barren Moments
a moment to reflect: moments like two earphones; plug & play euphoria nothing like it if only filing them was possible – keepskaes of the mind hoarding is essential! hoarding for those times of drought drought of feelings worth the paper they are written on writers block can ****** those who do not hoard those painful realisations of space space in a mind and soul worth filling, worth emptying of shadows worth hoarding of all things for times of drought..
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17