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ohellobeautiful Sep 2018
we are free to be
whatever we please
whether or not
any others agree

our distinct vibration
shifts all of the nations
and our unique ways
are the cosmic-hydration

with no need for fixation
on anothers’ dictation
we rid ourselves of
any self-love cessation

we explode in our glory
all free from filtration
and use our relations
for human salvation

let us be who we are
embracing each scar
our imperfect nature
keeps us reaching far

releasing self-judgement
with our hearts kept ajar
we can see that our falls
were just crossroads to stars
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
'Where is he now?'

'Room 35'

'His age?'

'Twenty 29'

'Has he spilled any brain fluid from the eye sockets?"

'He has not yet been placed on the neural cell divider'

'We were instructed to wait upon your arrival'

The two men faced one another. Equal in stature and authority.
Both were ghastly in their features. Sunken eyes that contained the
weary load of a harrowing existence. Intelligent though ravaged eyes that penetrated into the deepest recesses of the psyches of those quarantined in room 35.

Berdensharder walked past Halden.

Will you induce the full cerebral breakdown? said Halden

'I have not yet decided'

'Let me see him first.

Room 35 was secured and access permitted to Berdensharder.

He walked in and breathed the formaldehyde humidity.
His nasal passages recoiled in revulsion at the pungent sting of miserable brain fluid filters in suspension.

Facing him was the sample. A young man with a look of terror in his eyes.

He had been placed in a cranial clamp and was rigid in an upright steel frame. Electrodes hung like tentacles from a deformed squid.
Clouds of medicated bacteria floated in a transparent tube connected to the frame. The tubes had not yet been put in place.

'Your name?' said Berdensharder

'The young man was clamped by the wrists and ankles; naked and ashamed of his fear. His forehead was scarred and an incision led into his prefrontal cortex.

'Radsler Duriyima' came the reply

The voice was broken and clung to a false hope of salvation.
He had awoken in room 35 and had no knowledge of his previous weeks or months. His brain struggled to function.

'Your name! Berdensharder screamed is Gunther Strausse!

Tears flowed freely down Duriyima's face.

'No. My name is Radsler Duriyima'

This was the only lucid thought in his mind. He was sure of it. His life depended on this name.
Instinct was heightened as he said it again.

'Radsler Duriyima!'

Berdensharder switched on the cranium synaptic fluid uptake. He set it for distillation level four. This was normal and a precautionary first step in the cerebral breakdown initiation.

Duriyima's body convulsed and a screen in the room displayed his thought process and an image appeared on a screen.

The synaptic  responder projected the dulled translucent pictures of a face in a mirror. It was Duriyima's and he was shaving in an apartment. A grainy distorted vision interspersed with the sounds of a woman screaming. A gun blasted and then grey dull plastered walls rushing by. More screams. More walls. Blood splashed. Then black.

Suddenly Duriyima's eyes opened and Berdensharder sprayed a saline solution on the eyeballs which kept the eyelids from closing.
He took a surgical precision scalpel handed to him by Halden.
Slowly he slit the eyeball and removed a trace of fluid. Inserting a tube into the eye, his hand was a precision instrument and he gently placed it deeper into the back passage of Duriyima's eye.

Duriyima wanted to scream but was prohibited by a mouth gag soaked in a medicated solution.

His body shook the entire time in rapid convulsions. Only his head remained unmoved.

Tears flowed freely the entire time and the tear duct of the severed eye was gradually made redundant by Berdensharder.

Stepping back from his helpless sample Berdensharder looked upon the apparatus. He removed the gag.

'Now Mr Gunther Strausse!
'Your name!'

'Duriyima wanted to respond but only an animal like sound emitted from his throat.

A scream so horrific it would unnerve the servants of Satan

Halden looked at Berdensharder.

'Well, are you going to induce the full cerebral breakdown?'

'No. We will first get this sample to state his name.
'When Gunther  Strausse is ready to state his name then I shall do so'

Duriyima looked at the pair of them. What was going on?
Where was he? What did they want? His mind couldn't function.

The door of room 35 was closed and he was alone

One thought began to emerge. His name he now felt was Gunther Strausse.

He could not be sure. His thoughts ebbed into insanity.

Berdensharder would induce the full cerebral overload the following day.


Duriyima succumbed to massive shock, severe trauma, and paranoia.

He remained plugged into the filtration system for two hours in a semi conscious state. His brain ebbed with seismic brain wave cycles that sheared the integral subconscious of his existence.

One name repeatedly came to his mind, 'Gunther Strausse'
He tried to make sense of all that had happened as the fragility of his sanity took its toll. The face of Berdensharder took on a form in his thoughts. He felt nauseous and violently ill. His eye ached with an unbearable pain; his vision horribly strained and blurred.
The sound of a gunshot deafened his ears. His forehead was an explosion of activity and excruciating pain. Tears flowed from one of his eyes and this confused him. He sobbed and in a gibberish howl begged for deliverance.

He had this stomach churning sense he was in Hell and the torments he had endured were God's retribution.

He found his voice then.

'Sweet Jesus!' he screamed

'Not this! Not this!

'Son of God! Forgive! Forgive!

He begged till his bowels emptied and the stench of anonymity
reeked from his flesh.

Duriyima was very much still a part of the living; in a ghoulish grotesque quarter of a savage place reserved for aggressive science.

His screams and outbursts of terror had triggered an audio camera.

Berdensharder looked at the desperate features of Duriyima.

'No! Gunther Strausse' he said to himself.

'There is no God here'. 'Not for you nor any of us'

'God, Gunther Strausse, you will find has never heard of you'
'Not here'

'For you, only I control your emotions'
'I determine your quality of life'

'Yes! You will find out that betrayal is rewarded with surrealism!'

'I am your God!, Gunther Strausse'

Reaching his hand to a calibrated dial he adjusted the volume of the sound chamber to it's maximum decibel rating.

Duriyima's screams were relayed back to him and his ears bled with the intensity of the sound.

His mind collapsed in the wall of sound as his heart pulsed in rapid sickening beat patterns and it overtook the sound of his own screams.

'Yes!', Gunther Strausse, scream!  It will help you to realise it is all you have left.

Duriyima's body convulsed like a lightning rod for terror.
His brain burst with demented anguish and he collapsed into a nauseating nightmare.

Even in this state, Berdensharder followed him and the labyrinth
of Duriyima's mind became a battle ground for sanity.

Berdensharder's hand reached for the distillation filter system.
He employed the backwash switch and watched as the fluid of Duriyima's brain was circulated into the three micron carbon elements.

Halden looked on and met Berdensharder's eyes.

'It will be of no use' he said

'His mind can not cope with insurgent cells'

'He will never state he is Gunther Strausse'

A third figure looked on as Duriyima's face erupted in an explosion of hideous expressions.

'We shall see' said Gunther Strausse
'We shall see'

Room 35 crashed into an uncanny silence for three minutes'

Then a cacophany of sound hit Duriyims's ears

'Gunther Strausse' it wailed

'You are Gunther Strausse'

The cells in Duriyima's brain formed new synaptic networks forging in clusters around his prefrontal cortex.

Brain fluid started weeping from his sockets.

It was beginning to happen. His memories were being replaced.
His mind reborn. It was excruciating and still the wall of sound echoed and resounded in room 35

Gunther Strausse

Gunther Strausse

Gunther Strausse

Duriyima's eyes stared into an abyss of madness.

His tethered hands could not reach out to touch the face of sanity.
Deep inside his pysche he knew his ordeal was just beginning.

You took note of the cry for salvation?' Halden said to Berdensharder

'Of course, it is natural in the sample. The Amygdala reflex'

'He still retains a sense of deliverance. His amygdala is primitive and
primed for a search; a Saviour who will redeem him'

'There is no scapegoat here he will find. No burning bush.
No Good News from Christ'

'Still it is a sign of deep resistance' replied Halden

'It is a trivial issue and will be resolved'

'We will remove this superstition and replace it.

'He will question his sense of identity'

'He will becomre as Gunther Strausse and he will witness his own transformation.'

'Has the synopial fluid vat been prepared?


'I will inject his neo-cortex with an anti-aneurism sedation'

'He will beg for death soon but it will be denied'

'Nor shall he fully recover from the full cerebral breakdown'

'We are taking it to level six distillation tonight'

'Has the cryogenic vat been prepared for the body'


Duriyima will soon pray to be Gunther Strausse but prayer will abandon his faculties'

'He will endure and witness the five hour transcendence of terror'

Halden and Berdenschrader looked at one another knowingly.

'Has there been any further visuals  from the synaptic cells of Duriyima'

'Yes, a woman's face made a lucid and highly resonated image on the cerebral scanner last night'

'Only high resolution visuals are deemed important due to the high emotional energy associated with them'

' She has been identified?

'Even now she is being prepared for Room 35'

'Good, good. This will please Gunther Strausse'

'Now, let us immerse Duriyima into his new reality'

Halden and Berdensharder dressed into the rubber robes and secured the brain aprons in place.

Entering Room 35 they looked at the sample. He was under a deep induced coma. Berdensharder took a scalpel to his forehead.
A vacuum switch was enabled and a surgical cutting tool prepared to remove Duriyima's brain for temporary relocation.

Halden and Berdensharder looked at the clock on the clean-room walls. They had a five hour window to take Duriyima into a purged state of cerebral surveillance.


Hald­un rolled his sleeve up as Berdensharder prepared injection 19 and prepared to administer the dose.

'You have no need to worry Halden'

'It is routine now at this stage especially for you'

'This will be your seventh full cerebral surveillance of a sample'

'I have brought you back every time'

'You are safe with me. Your brain, your body will be unscathed'

'I hear a citation of merit will soon be yours'

'Gunther Strausse will award it to you personally'

'You are a loyal servant Halden, I will see you in five hours'

Halden looked at Berdensharder. Each man had suffered in their own way since 'the shutdown' took place.
Only their intelligence and guile had ensured their survival.

'Yes, Berdensharder, I know it. You will bring me back.

Then Halden passed into an induced coma.

The rig was in place and Berdensharder lifted Haldens skull like a door on a hinge. The titantium bolts were embedded deep into his skull. Delicately and with great precision twenty five electrodes were inserted into Haldens brain.

Berdensharder switched the spinal column reverse chamber.
A two way valve tripped the automatic pulmonary Gemini blood cell network. Haldens body remained in live peaceful repose.

The clock ticked in time with his heart and his brain was placed into the electrolytic vat.

In the same way and with the same urgency and diligence the brain of Radsler Duriyima was placed along side Haldens.

Level six distillation was in progress. Berdensharder now set about
the procedure which would take Duriyima to the verge of a mental breakdown.
In room 35 a young woman aged twenty four stared back at her tormentor.

Her hands and feet were restrained in an upright frame.

A cranial brace secured and held her head rigid.

On the screen facing her was an image of Berdensharder

'Your name?'

Hannah Prestovsky's mind was confused. She had no recollection of the last hours or days. Her mind struggled to function.

Only her name surfaced to her mind. The only lucid thought she had. Her name was Hannah Prestovsky. She knew her life depended on this name.

'My name', she stuttered, 'is Hannah Prestovsky'

'No! Your name is Gunther Strausse!

Tears flowed down her face. She was naked and ashamed of her fear.

'No, she said. My name is Hannah Prestovsky!"

She sobbed and emptied her bowls as the stench of terror rose from her body.

'I am a diplomat!' she cried

'I demand immunity! In the name of God who are you?'

'Silence settled broken finally by the image on the screen.
The voice of Berdensharder boomed from the speaker.

' No, you are no longer represented by any government authority'

'God is no longer here to deliver you into his protection'

' Now, your name?'

Hannah Prestovsky screamed till her lungs exploded with exhaustion.
In an area of this room sealed from her screams, the brain of Radsler Duriyima was about to undergo full cerebral surveillance.

­Duriyima's brain lay pulsating in the neural vat. The electrodes in his brain were connected to those in the brain of Halden.
Berdensharder was engaged in the system flowpath direction.
When he tripped the one -way valves it was essential Halden's brain fluid flowed into Duriyima's.

In this 'full wash surveillance' Halden's consciousness would merge with Duriyima's. If the process was successful then those thoughts held in the synaptic network of Duriyima's would be an open book to Halden. His brain would retain all that was contained within Duriyima's. It was unprecedented technology and had not yet failed.
Each time on relocation of Halden's brain, he was able to give a full account of the life of the sample. It was as if he was the sample.

Every fear, every concern or hope was disclosed to Halden.
No one else in the facility was capable of undergoing a surveillance of this nature. Others had tried it but in all cases both the sample and the invasive consciousness died within minutes.

Halden and Berdensharder were the only team to ever secure consistent trials to unheard of 'five hour' deep cerebral surveillance
and succeed in securing the neural data of the sample. Their method became known as the 'five hour transcendence of terror'.

Berdensharder looked at Halden. His admiration for his associate was deep and he envied him his courage. He was ruthless of course but he had an air of dignity about him. Berdensharder thought too that Halden would escape one day. If that ever happened he shuddered to think of the repercussions.

All these thoughts were fleeting and the flashing instruments alerted him to his first function. He would light up the prefrontal cortex of Duriyima first.

He looked at the calibration settings on the visual imaging screen.
Then  he stared at the live body of Duriyima. The body was an empty vessel although every spinal output was connected to the remote brain of Duriyima. Audio and visual scanners would enable Duriyima to witness his own detachment.

This was the reason for anti-aneurysm injections into the new-cortex of the sample. It always freaked them out.

The worst was the brains response to it's isolation from the body.
The 'language to vocal' response was recorded and displayed to a digital readout. The voice was an algorithm. The screams became white noise.

When the sample recovered from the shock it was then the voice became an artificial sound emanating from the instrumentation panel.

Before Halden could immerse into Duriyima an interrogation was initiated.

Berdensharder turned on the system to awaken Duriyima.
Slowly Duriyima responded. His body responded in simultaneous response to his brain.

He could see the set up on the screen. It dawned on him that he had become an abomination.

Then he went into a full mental breakdown that created a white noise explosion that lasted for ten hideous minute.

'Yes! Scream. It is all you have left. Shortly your mind will open its gates to Halden'.

'Gunther Strausse will be planted in your brain'

'You will soon need your Saviour'

Duriyima knew it then. He must be in Hell. It could not be real.

None of this could be happening.

He didn't know what to do so he screamed.

The scream of the demented.

A smile traced the face of Berdensharder.

Berdensharder waited till the white noise finally stabilised.
He knew the sample was in deep pyschological  trauma.
This was a natural part of the procedure.
Duriyima's brain waves alternated between gamma and alpha rhythms.

A voice suddenly emanated from the speaker. It was monotone and the pitch was low. The sample was ready to communicate.

'Am I in purgatory?'

Berdensharder did not respond. He reached forward and opened an anthrax aerosol.

Reaching into the vat he opened a microscopic funnel into Duriyima's occipital lobe. He squeezed the aerosol which contained enough anthrax to poison a minuscule area of the brain. It went black immediately and the whole brain seemed to shrink in a futile sense of survival.

The white noise monitor went into a frenzy of sound.
It lasted for fifteen minutes. Duriyima was in agony.

When the noise subsided the brain was lifted from the vat.
Berdensharder removed the black tissue for sample analysis.

He watched the screen as he cauterised the area.
Duriyima's body was writhing in intensified terror.
He knew the whole procedure was witnessed by Duriyima as though he were a third party.

The body was in convulsions; at times seemed as though it might break free of it's restraints.

'No, Gunther Strausse, you are going nowhere'
'Now let us listen to some classical music shall we?'

A beautiful piano concerto filled  the air and the vibrations settled into the brain vat. Berdensharder looked at Halden's face as a smile broke out on his features.

This pleased him to see his associate receive some pleasure.
The music always worked. The brain always responded.
He looked then to Duriyima's face. It was contorted in a ghoulish grimace. Even so, the brain wave activity settled to level fifteen.

The body slumped now and the eyes were catatonic.
Berdensharder needed to leave the sample undisturbed for fifteen minutes. If it went into cerbral flatline then he would administer sedative eighty four. This always brought the sample back from the corridors of death.

From experience he expected the sample's next words would be 'my name is Gunther Strausse'

This had to be the way. The brain needed to survive. This was the name it must give. It must give it in no uncertain terms.

It feared the anthrax. The unknown. It feared the interference of nature. It must be placed back in its body. It must co-operate.
It must state 'my name is Gunther Strausse'

Berdensharder was patient. Thirty minutes passed and once again the white noise subsided.

The brain was in active mode once again. The samples vital statistics were stable.

The music was discontinued.

'Now, Gunther Strausse, what is your name?'

The sound monitor responded in a hesitant slow manner.

'My name is Gunther Strausse'

'Did you not tell me your name was Radsler Duriyima?' Berdensharder replied

'My name is Gunther Strausse'

Berdensharder was in full control and raised the terror level.

'No! Your name is Radsler Duriyima!'

'You have never heard of Gunther Strausse'

The White noise from the sound monitor went catastrophic.
Duriyima's brain screamed in agony. Had it not been for the anti-aneurysm injected previously it would have phyically exploded.
The body went into convulsions.

'Who are you?' screamed Duriyima

'Who are you?!'

Berdensharder smiled and replied 'It is who you will be that is the question'

'It is who you shall be!'

It was time now to open the non-return valve and allow Halden to enter the consciousness of Duriyima.

The White noise on the screen indicated that Duriyima was on the verge of the full cerebral breakdown'

'Soon it will be over' said Berdersharder and reached to turn on the valve. Halden would now perform the full wash surveillance.


It was always a beautiful experience. Halden felt as if he were reborn and the world was an unexplored discovery. Here in the neural ocean of Duriyima's synaptic network of young cells he immersed himself deep in the private psyche of another human.
He searched the entire brain map of Duriyima and came to know that neural landscape as though it were his own.

Duriyima resisted of course and became aware of the invasion.
His screams were a peak of White noise on the visual audio scanner.

Berdensharder watched carefully. Halden would soon know every thought and experience that Duriyima ever possessed.
He cared not for the fate of Duriyima once they were finished with the sample. All that mattered was the complete subjugation of a private mind. The private would become public. This forced confession would become the norm. It was exhilarating to be a part of the destruction of the individual. Halden had shown remarkable courage and took great personal risk to achieve this break through in mind control. He had shown it was possible to inhabit another's brain. Once this was done it was a step away from world *******.
Those who control the mind control the future. The secrets of enemy States would be unlocked. One had only to capture the intelligentsia and key figures in an administration. Their minds would be ransacked. Berdensharder turned suddenly as footsteps unexpectedly approached.

It was Dr. Xuaguang Lee from sector 84.
Behind him was a young woman holding a syringe to his throat.

'What the hell is going on!' screamed Berdensharder

'Hannah Prestovsky was sick to the pit of her stomach at the sight she beheld.

'You are going to release Radsler Duriyima' she said venomously

Dr. Lee looked on with rising terror in his eyes.

'She is holding a lethal dose of injection 19!'  he screamed

'Do you think I give a **** about him?!' said Berdersharder

Shoving Dr. Lee away from her she ran to the neural vat.

Holding the syringe above the brain of Halden she lunged it into his brain stem.

'You fool!' Berdensharder screamed

'The body of  Halden went into cardiac arrest.

Halden was now locked into the consciousness of Duriyima.

There was no way back for him. He could now only survive if Duriyima survived.

Seeing her chance at the shock she had given to Berdensharder she siezed the anthrax spray and a chemical solution from the neural vat.

'I swear to God if you don't bring Duriyima back then he will die my way!'

Berdensharder's mind raced. He had to save Duriyima if he was to save Halden. He knew Duriyima and Halden were one now.
Could he do it? What would the result be? Gunther Strausse would ****** him if he did not bring them back.

'Step away from from the neural vat! he shouted

'If you have any thought for Radsler Duriyima then let me work!'

Dr. XuGuang made to run for the door and was shot instantly by Berdensharder.

Hannah screamed as the blood sprayed her face.

'No ! Berdensharder' she screamed

'You will give me that gun or it all ends here!
'She gestured to the neural vat and prepared to dose it with a chemical mix.

Berdensharder looked at her and knew she would do it.
He passed her the gun.
'Now! Let me work!' 'Every minute is vital!'

Hannah Prestovsky was sickened by this filthy abbatoir.
'Where the hell are we ? She thought

Berdensharder turned the one way valve and shut down the pulmonary system for Halden. He needed to work fast and get Duriyima's brain back into its body.

A surge of excitement ran through his veins.
Would Halden be able to communicate from his new mind.
Could Halden dominate Duriyima's brain.
'Step back from the neural vat! Please!

Hannah held the gun and watched the horrible spectacle before her.
Kim McCarthy Mar 2013
If I were ruler of all nations... As one of Gods creations
There would be policies created from this societies frustrations
I wouldn't waste your time... In fact doing so would be a crime
It wouldn't be about politics with all it's dirt & grime

It would be about the people
It would ensure our rights are equal
Spread to all from high above, preached atop the highest steeple
And I wouldn't be afraid to say...
That expiring some freedoms may be the only way
And that would mean taking certain peoples "rights" away

Some freedoms are given away too easily
They should require much harder accessibility
Which will aid in the filtration of humanity

One right I would retrieve because it's abuse is so hard to believe
I'd make it official that not all persons would have the right to conceive
Not unless certain criteria are met, I'd have certain rules that would be set
I'd put a hold on this right until one disproves their ignorant
And since ignorance is bred I wouldn't allow our future to continue to be mislead Stuck in communities that will never get ahead

If I were faced with this position, I have no doubt in my disposition
Life skills would be taught in school, a required graduation precondition
I'd advocate the importance of community Gone would be the privilege of immunity And with it would go all feelings of disunity

To ensure all are exposed to equal possibility
Early education would include lessons on life & moral responsibility
To ensure guidance to all despite personal accessibility
I'd replace things like algebra and womans lit with classes on life knowledge
It's more important that the youth learn financal stability and manners, those who want to learn the square root of X can take that major in college
Priority should be that each leaves high school with the tools to survive
Each would leave with equal opportunity to prosper and to thrive

Oh if I ruled the world!!
J Penpla Mar 2013
Nothing calls for morals, like lovers’ quarrels
Though all is fair in love and war
I have one law, for all clenched jaws
Don’t fight in metaphor

“You’re always the martyr” one may brand the other
In passive aggressive verse
Mere iteration, through metaphorical filtration
That truly reveals the reverse

Here’s one I despise, that utters love’s demise
“Honey, the door swings both ways”
It’s an image projected, of love infected
Spat in pseudo poetic haze

It’s a double edged blade that ought to be stayed
Though a wonderful figure of speech
It does not pay, to duel this way
Nay it is to love, but a leech
You stay there and i'll stay here
we dont even want you to get near
block off the front and the rear
make sure no entry is clear

put a fence around our own land
make all other nations banned
shoot to **** so they understand
our walls must never expand

i'll stay here and you stay there
there's just no more room to spare
dont even try to breathe our air
we stole this land fair and square

So much talk about immigration
causing fear and frustration
are we fair in our filtration?
while we let the rich vacation

humanity is lost in translation
causing a hateful sensation
just looking for some salvation
leading to their migration

some are looking for vocation
a better life is their fixation
then they meet our damnation
no admittance to this location
Jaanam Jaswani Dec 2014
What is me
What is this place I'm living in
I've begun to doubt the reality of the world
It's an illusion I've developed
During the days I've spent in straight limbo

I'm afraid
What if i wake up and mourn a lost dream
I can't go back to the white
The pain, the solitude
How can I remain in this beautiful illusion?
Brianna Heins Jun 2012
To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality,
is waking up in dazed desolate imitation,
that creases and crinkles euphoric principality.

Blades of grass, sharp tipped spears of unreality.
A chilling, a challenged negation;
to lose the robust and ephemeral vitality.

Spinning round the ugly formality,
are snickers, unshy sneers of an evil salvation,
that creases and crinkles euphoric principality.

Thrilling no longer a verb, piano key pressing its precious mortality
into her throbbing thrashed temple dictation.
To lose the robust and ephemeral vitality.

A ****** numb soul with the criticality
of skeptics, chewing their lips, a dead cell castration
emotional stripping, slipping into complete impromptu filtration.
That creases and crinkles euphoric principality.
A Villanelle. Such a cool form name.
ConnectHook Mar 2016
It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:

"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.

You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—

while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.

Those simple plebeians:  you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.

Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.

The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.

The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:

The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded  poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)

Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.

It is Sunday in Babylon.  What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?
The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: because they repented at the preaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.
The queen of the south shall rise up in the judgment with this generation,and shall condemn it: for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.

[Christ's words from Matthew 12:41,42]
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
'My dear sister, Mary, our sister Surah this kingdom wants to rule.

Every time she talks to Richard, Surah tries to treat him like a fool.'

'Anne, the old castle in the forest has become the demons' home.

There is darkness around her, when the woods she wants to roam.'

Surah was living in her old castle, in a dense forest being hidden.

It was a sinister place used for satanic activities, the light being forbidden.

It had a demonic altar, and a horrible stench was emanating from that place.

A scent came from the decaying victims, which disappeared without a trace.

The castle was keeping strange noises such as gasps, sobs, and screams.

A humongous spider web had been stretched across the way of wood's dreams.

The castle was draped in a sticky awful mess from its entrance to the towers.

Nothing could live in that place, and its garden had only thistles as flowers.

The castle was very different in its style needing a complete renovation.

She learned about some ancient herbal medicines in that place of damnation.

There was only one servant, who was keeping always on his face a glower.

His main duty was to read a book in order to keep safe the crystal's power.

Surah entered the castle having an ecstatic conclusion about her stride.

'How are you, sweetheart? You must know all the wonders of my inside!'

Clayton told her, 'Because goodness, and badness always can intertwine,

Inside twisted, happiness, and sorrow are always both equally divine.'

'I see my everlasting alter ego in the mirror of fate being transfigured.

Should I ever become this demon?',' I see that your image is disfigured.'

'This demon, who resides inside of me, also in John, will place his seeds.'

'How can you be so cruel? In this moment, my heart solemnly bleeds.'

'Father is dead, mother is quite alive, the girl may meet her end.'

She laughed, 'I'm well prepared to help them, because they need a friend.'

'Do you mean that they will die? Shall I really become so scared?'

'No, my dear, they will have a long sleep, and their doors will be barred.

Now, look at the processes, through which the alchemical content

Passes from the time it is placed here until it can have a new major scent.'

Solid becomes liquid through the filtration of the partially dissolved suspension

Being converted into a vaporous state with the aid of the heat, and the tension.

Distillation, separation, and rectification can disunite this new substance

For the fascination. Do you think she's really in want of this sustenance?

After converting this substance into a powder by the action of heat, I will add

Some different ingredients into a new mass by blending them.' 'You are mad!'

'Not at all. It works. Then, I will wait for purification through putrefaction,

For inhibition, fermentation, fixation, multiplication, and for a new projection.

When my potion will be ready, I will go to the castle to give it to Jezebel to drink.

This potion will have a red color, and a good taste. What do you think?'
sharyn Dec 2014
Hey, I don't mean any offense, but man,
your lyrics lack essence!

Walking disasters with their gang signs and excuses
of artistic freedom spit out words
and pass it off as lyrics;
with their rebellious attitudes,
rhymes from ******* to *******;
addicted, afflicted, constricted, predicted.
Words you produce
are misused, overused.
With twenty-six letters and endless combinations,
your lyrics sound more like quotations!
I've heard those stories before.
If you want to stand out,
stand up
and walk through disasters.
I want words
that stir,
that move,
that breathes
a different air into these lungs
who's tired of clones and copies,
words that no longer shake this body.
I want words of liberation,
acclamation of passions,
filtration of frustrations,
words of sensations,
plantations and gestations
of hope and light,
strength that will keep me in sight
of the goals in the Fight.
Now that
is artistic freedom.

*—S.C., October 2, 2014
I hope not to sound cocky when writing this. This was a quick write for a friend who asked me to critique his rap, which was unfortunately lacking in substance (but not so much in profanity :P). I couldn't say it to his face that I didn't like it, so I wrote a rap/poem (?) for him instead...haha.
eF Mar 2017
Speaking now,
Is pointless conversation.
Like the fluid talks we used to have,
Got lost in filtration.
It's sad because lately,
I've come to the realization.
I used to hate the distance,
But now it feels like
A  **vacation.
Self worth.
Stray from those who make you feel less than perfect, even if it's hard at first.
Brian Clampet Dec 2010
I know winter has
The nights
are now
frigid silent
As if the very
compressed soundwaves.

As if the very
cold that crept through to
my marrow,
by however many layers I was wearing
(it was two),
laughing and biting my nose,
burning my
throat and lungs with
each breath,
could actually
block out the noise!

As if the very
ice in the air had
magnified the moonlight
wiped away the
fog and smog
pollution and dust.
Cold Air Filtration.

...And that's why, with
weather cold enough,
from high enough,
looking hard enough
mortals may see the light
will probably
Hewasminemoon Jan 2015
When I moved to this town, I dreamed that one day I would own the little yellow boathouse that sat on the riverside (the one with the white trim) From what I heard, it was abandoned years ago, and no one in the town had bothered ever fixing it up, so slowly it decayed. But I always pictured myself making the repairs necessary to turn it into the beautiful home I imagined it once was. I would turn the corner room that faced the water into an office and spend my summers working on my novel.
But today, Caleb, the youngest son of the neighbor boys who lived in the house down the street told me it had been destroyed by an old oak tree that stood behind it. When he told me the news, he and I were standing out in the long driveway, my hands wrapped around my coffee mug.
‘There’s nothing here’ I thought. ‘Just him and I’ (and I was air) ‘so it’s just him here.’
I dropped off my cup inside and headed across town to see the damage. I reached the house by noon, and as I stood, staring out at what was left of what was supposed to be my home one day, I began to sob. I felt like a child. All of my dreams had been crushed, literally. The tree reminded me of a giant spiderweb, it was bare and it’s branches stretched out like long fingers, wrapping themselves around the house. Besides the river, the wind was the only sound I could hear. It whistled and howled at me.
I had given up the one thing that inspired me: my city. For this. A little house on the river. It’s like I ripped off my skin, and all that remained was my bones, and all they could do was clank together in the cold like a wind chime.
Everything was upside down. This is not how I imagined my life. I had nothing mapped or planned, but where I was now seemed so far away from where I envisioned myself being. Everything was unfamiliar to me, and it frightened me. All I wanted to do was take gasoline to whatever it was I had created here, and start a new. But this tipsy topsy life was mine, and I had to make do.

He picks me up in front of a family of statues under a green isling. The side of his car reminds me of crinkled paper, or mashed potatoes. We sit silently in the car at first, then he begins to tell about a woman he had encountered today. The word ‘*****’ comes out of his mouth so smoothly. But when I hear it, I feel it’s sting on me like wasps. Is there something to be said to prevent me from becoming that woman? (if i’m not already) A woman he hates? A woman he resents? A woman who’s dry in the morning and too boring in the evening? My tongue curls and I feel my stomach coil. Men use the word ‘*****’ to describe women who are strong. Women who are assertive. And when men feel threatened, or rejected or emasculated by a woman, all they can say is “that *****”. There is no male equivalent. There’s no word like “*****” for men. Sure, there’s ‘*******’ and ‘*****’ or ‘******’ but none of them feel as harsh. None of them sting like ‘*****’ does.

We pull into the long driveway, and pass the other neighbor boy who’s name I honestly can’t remember. When we get into the house, he pulls me into the bedroom.
“I need you” he says.
‘What’s the difference between want and need?’ I ask myself. There isn’t much we NEED. To eat. To sleep. To drink. I NEED a drink. He WANTS me. It’s a primal thought. Instinct. I am not a need, not really. But he knows how I think. He  know’s “need” works on me. Because I hear “need” and feel desired, until I’ve been had. And then I remember “need” means “want” and I remember “need” means he’s tricked me.
I think what we all REALLY need is a day. Spring cleaning for our insides. Be it your body or mind. For the housewives of Castle Creek, that means cleanses, and binging. For me, it means sitting down with a leatherback journal and a good pen. Scribbling down everything and anything that comes into my mind. No filtration. No distractions.

He finishes, kisses me on the cheek, and disappears. I’m left on the bed, my dress pulled up, exposed. And so, a few minutes later, after I’ve collected myself, I head down the hallway to the kitchen. I have become the woman I never wanted to be. The woman who’s making dinner for her husband as he sits and watches some terrible Tom Cruise movie. It makes me sick how average my life has become. ‘What a sad way to live.’ I think. Just like everyone else. But I am not everyone else. If I were, perhaps everything here would be so much easier. I am not the woman the people of this town want me to be. I am far too artsy. Far too independent. When I walk into the grocery store, people stare at me. As if they were looking at a wanted poster. The worst part of going to the store isn’t the weird looks. I’m used to that by now. It’s the music. Smooth jazz. It makes me feel like i’m in an elevator. An elevator that’s stuck, and i’m waiting for someone to come and rescue me. But no one’s coming. I’m stuck in Castle Creek. The world’s smallest, ******* elevator in the United States.
bleh Oct 2016
we break into the graveyard after hours. no purpose, but it's just there, down the road. and it's nice the way it overlooks the ocean.
   climbing over the hedges, we see a middle-aged couple already there, blasting dixieland on a portable radio. we share a confused look, and just leave again, a tad indignantly. it's the kinda thing that's ruined if someone else's doing it.

                                                  summer drags on,

the sound of trucks. bubbled wallpaper in pavement creaks.
wonder with the directed slice of soft fallen pillow lumps.

          round the way to the two parks, one with the children mewling on the wooden
stumps and the other with the cigarette butts, sports grounds, snubbed out sunday radio. the wind make a steady jaunt down the long
forgotten corridors. there's little to see here, but it's an easy place to make home. the trees sway something rotten that would make a newcomer uncomfortable, but you learn to shut it out.

standing in the road, hands in pockets, against the chill. no one's sure what to say. not sure if saying anything really helps the fact. it just embroids the situation with complexity, detracting from an otherwise pure, if unpleasant, tone. we settle for a 'see you around.' the claim, if it is a claim, is false. the movers come early the next morning. and the house down the way stands vacant. the boards rot away. a year later the building is knocked down. rebuilt. craftsmen and diggers. but the same lot. same dirt. chewed up and digested. every winter the worms die. are replaced. tendrils expanding and contracting. sit down. it becomes so wearisome, but sometimes the sun's mild presence  makes it okay. the boards buckle in the damp morning light. the
  water filtration system hums down the road. the neighbour's kid crosses the road to the other park. kicks a soccer-ball for a few hours, gets dejected, and returns home, is reswallowed by the painted timber.  

the bible pushers did the usual rounds on wednesday. Mrs. Grensten would always let them in for tea. we'd watch from the other window, and imagine infidelities, convoluted fetish play that they'd get up to. a game of enticing disgust. eyes on the window in the hope they'd slip up, and we'd see a shot of tired flesh among the drawn curtains. a vacant voyeurism. laugh in the boredom of a dreary sin.
       they haven't visited for some years. after Mrs Grensten died, the next time they came Mr Grensten chased them away with his walking stick among coarse shouts and tears. the downstairs windows and now left open, but there's nothing inside

your pen-pal in Romania sent a postcard. they didn't write anything, but there was an old chapel in a field on it

some days the sea is quiet. generally in the early morning, during lowtide. under the moon the sand takes on this expansive pale blue luminescence  
        usually it's either too crowded, or the waves make up for the lull in people. i thought i had a point here, but i didn't

  she stands in cotton robes, stained and dyed with gin. mother says to ignore her. she rings a small ornamental bell. you don't really get it. you ask why she's ringing it. with a finger to the mouth she shushes you. you look offended. as you 're about to persist in demanding explanation, she steps out into the road, just as a courier van speeds round the corner. she wears a soft smile. the tiremarks on the cotton makes a pattern that reminds you of something, but you're not really sure what.

a humming light on an old oak table. there's a peacefulness here. you loose tempo, and the crowding figures look at you with irritation. you feel small and wish to melt, to become liquid and drain away, move in motions already dictated, they ask the next question. Who are you? Why? Justify your reasoning.
       a half ****** caramel drop. sticky.
       pavement grit. coarse.
                closed the walkway due to wasp nests.
you're not sure which route to take. you pass
     by the graveyard instead, and look out to sea. there's a gentleness here. it reminds you of something, but you're not sure what

   we used to find bugs at the pond edge. the area had a piercing smell, but that was part of the charm. it meant we'd never dare enter the water, though. one day in teenage bravado, we did. it was slimy in texture. suddenly, you pushed my head down among the green folds. there was something there. a soft, but solid texture, like jelly. electric scatterings. old tire tracks folding out, like a deconstructed rubiks cube. i shoved your head in as well. we laughed and splashed in viscera.  wye's spoke in empty folds and promised us the world in reassuring tones. the warmth of a log fire on a winter eve, crackling sparks glowing in undulation. the muffled tones of a showerhead, blanketed in feathers. a mellow smile of the certainty of an inviting future. we lay on our backs and the sun shone down through the trees. as it passed the yardarm we headed back to shore, lost rapture of the soft kisses of meadow-banks. you grabbed a rock and bashed me in the head. a solid but glancing blow. this too, was fine. no fear, just laughter. i grabbed one too. with blunt instruments, we chiselled skin and bone. small enfolds of the rising moon. we stretched out, fingers entwined. no fear. possibly regret? but a soft regret, the kind that tracks the passing of time, that lets you register the ceaseless withering of the past, and hopefully, see beyond. rivulets of blood. i breathe in your gaze, and melt into grass. just laughter.

the stitches in the corner of your mouth are rotten. that's good, that means the healing is done. flesh reunited with flesh. you feel it with your finger. there's a bumpiness, but little sign of much else
see you around
Ottar Dec 2013
can you count them on one hand, the good ones,
or do you have to take off your socks and shoes,
using your finger and your toes,
to count them all, but only, the good ones...?

they are like a soil where your roots can go deep
and be exposed, and still be nourished,
in the harshest of times, still flourish,
and like something vulnerable, be nurtured.

time is not a friend, and if you are like me, and I hope you are not,
I have more time than friends, soil has been replaced by rocks,
the filtration is great, for the amount of saline water that flows,
                          on every lateral root socket that grows,
                      would have drowned the roots years ago,
                          and the soil would have washed away.

roots still exposed,
memories of those
who were once close
greying like my hair,
fading while
the roots hang on
but  there is no one there.

Trevor Blevins Sep 2015
When the shadows overtake me
I hope my throat is already slit.


I've learned by now
That fast and painless
Is a concept of fiction.

It wouldn't matter
If you were to tear out my heart
Or rip out my spine,
It's all death just the same.

If you choose to take my life,
Don't take mercy into consideration,
Because mercy has been long lost
On those already rotting
In the graves dug in their minds.


Peace from the darkness
Has taken the shape
Of your hand on the goblet,
With all my absolution taking the form
Of your loving embrace.

Let's build up our legions,
Show them the light in our gospel,
And convert them to our truth...

Such a beautiful proposition,
If we could work it out ourselves.

Wash over me with your holy sermon.

Let me absorb all your light.

Reconstruct all my arrogance
Upon the backs of the broken,
Just for the rare opportunity
For such a picture perfect landscape.

Monarchy never looked so stunning.


Drowning is becoming an art.

Deeper and deeper
Into the depths do I venture,
All the while indifferent
To my lack of oxygen.

I'm plugging in plot holes.

I'm re-founding Byzantium,
And all for the iconography
That has left me
In such a state of marvel.

I don't want compromise
Or pity of any sort.

I just want you in tidal waves,
And to get pulled deeper
Beneath the whole of your personality.

In a modern world
So short on imperialism
Why was it so easy for you
To colonize my heart?


For the first time in years,
I need no translation.

I speak clearly, openly,
And without filtration.

She both listens and hears,
And that's not even the beginning
Of her infinite positive traits.

She's a modern masterpiece,
So above modern art.

I want to dissolve into her brilliance
If for even a moment.


I have nothing to fear.

I am the God of Death...
I am the shadows
That haunt even the deepest corners
Of my recuperating mind.

I'm gaining back the strength
To show the world once more,
That there are better, truer
Forms of evil in our control.

I am the culmination
Of the lives I have taken,
And now I choose to never
Be frightened by fate again.

I am the God of Death,
And now I choose to live.
Arpita Banerjee Jan 2017
The horizon lies asleep in a grey blanket
In a sea of myriad figures,
And an unimaginable silhouette.
The engineering of black feathers,
Sets ablaze hazy azure weathers.
The Art Decorates Towers,
Like giants with arms outstretched,
Look down commanding superiority
Over the volatile beauty of the wretched.

Who branded this Pandora’s Box to be garbage?
Stop turning your faces away
Like this is some butchery,
Or an abhorable carnage.
The dogs have repeatedly protested against the injustice
The heavy wind suppresses their voices and entices
A seduction of inarticulate silence.
Brothers who embrace us,
Have known nothing of such malices’.

Only the birds are left unenchanted;
Because they fly too high to be pervaded.
I hear children’s voices
And mothers’ too,
And taste the flies and insects,
And all the devils they shoo;
Because they understand not the complexities of a civilization,
They have never rendered their thoughts,
Never undergone no filtration.
The unconquerable spirit of this world,
Has made them savage,
Their claws curled.
In the heat, in the light,
In the plight
Which brings the cold night.

The sunlight here is too dense to penetrate,
Therefore it unabashedly spills over,
No opening,
Just a gateless emptiness on which to concentrate,
Lives and lives here,
Forever proliferate.
With none to remember their faces,
And no mortal soul to commemorate.

Dust settles upon the fingertips which talk.
This place is deemed unfit,
Unsuitable for a walk.
Yet birds, animals and humans alike,
Have stated their preference of what they like.
This land is perpetually theirs to ****.
Passion resides here,
In this unintended landfill.
This poem is based on the encroachment of spaces by informal settlements. This is also a testament to how the organisms which by virtue of their illegitimate occupation transmute themselves into rightful owners of space.
Sal Gelles Nov 2012
the decrease in morale seemed to linger
across the keys as i dragged my fingers
to the beat of something simple in mind,
simple in length, and simple in rhyme
but the reasons i'd continued to continue on
were never meant to be played as a pawn
in the constant fight i'd been having alone
with the uncertainty ringing in my phone
where i heard them utter the news i'd heard
and hearing this knew that i'd gotten word
of what i was to be knowing for some time
and now that i was knowing was too sublime
as the filtration of this seems to fall off
and all i can seem to do is hold in this cough
to keep from releasing my sickness to you
and keep you safe from what's keeping me blue.
safe from harm's way.
Stefania S Jul 2016
don't pull at my words
because they're meaningless
shells of ghosts and spirits
my heart is a wasteland
and it's unkempt and unsafe
the vines that live there have started
they choke the light out and i'm blinded
but what do you expect of a girl without eyes
so far-sighted that the present is always the
hardest sell
and a blink, that's all it takes
and quickly she crumbles, withdrawn
the safest of strategies really, because
these notions of silly lag, i don't subscribe
and you do
but i am not there and i cannot be that kind
i am from another time and place
and my fear doesn't exist in the realms of others
untethered and most shirk because i know my mind
the cost of resolution, millions and who's prepared
for that black tuesday
a depression filled with numbers and figures
because that's the best way to work it out
to walk over the mountain with pen in hand
holding the paper at its highest
no one trailing, and certainly no leader
scent and feeling my guide, and it's off, always
the forest not always kind to the dweller
the trees losing their foliage and it's drowning me
and every leaf, a tapping summer day of long ago
when i died-when i folded, because that was best
then, but that's what the brave one does, folds and ties
the string
suffocates out the light and rises up, seeking oxygen
and remembering the morning and how it burns to feel
sun on exposed wounds
blankets caskets of sorts
breathing from below a clotted dirt cage
and whose lungs can do that
what kind of filtration provides light when there's so
the easy answer, none. there isn't one-it's best to make
it's best to start again, to keep going, the mountain's peak
miles away, maybe never to be reached
and maybe that's the point, because there's no up, there's
no down
it's just this, the trek through miles of useless wood
my feet caught up on blackberry brambles
and the blood that drips from my mouth as meaningless
as those ugly clouds that threaten rain and only run off
when the sun pokes harder
i am weak and i know this
my words an epidemic to a brain gone awry
an endless cloud of haziness that's only settled
when altered, so who's to blame
for self-inflicted wounds and piercings
take ownership i say and blame myself
knowing that my cold ways and unkind heart
are the sinners and all of the sin is mere reprisal
repayment for my own infliction upon others
basic notations, because when i'm not good enough
nothing ever is, and it doesn't matter
stay away from the flock, create the rules, do as i please
those that push back still will, they'll shunt my light
they'll remind me of why i tunneled away
seeking safety-and i'll retreat, as is form and expected
always what is best, because hurting is secondary to being
and it's easier to swallow that elephant whole
to take on the blame, to blame myself
the constant knowing
and the desperate feeding of a monster
that will die in the dark
wile away or while away?
these are the questions one has time to ponder
when newly retired
honey wheat or white bread for my tuna fish sandwich?
toasted or plain?
why didn't I buy a few onions when I went out yesterday?
onions, cucumbers and vinegar...make a note!
which series should I begin watching on dvds
that were given to me years ago for just this time?
I guess I'll start with 'Breaking Bad'
since I've seen the first 3 or 4 episodes
then 'True Detectives', then 'Fargo' even though
I mistakenly saw the last episode
bought a water filtration system for drinking and showering
did you know that in 10 minutes of showering the body
absorbs a gallon of water and it's just as lethal as drinking it?
I gotta get back to my book...get serious man!
serious or sirius?
I love having time to ****!
Graff1980 Sep 2018
A small pale faced figure stands, enshrouded in darkness, while a hauntingly sweet song softly echoes through the cave.

“There’ll be days
precious moments
see them sunning
by the bay
till, the sea
sees the star light,
blinking angels

Somewhere in this sightless void a larger form slumbers. Moans of agony pass this man’s parched parted lips.  Tears moisten his painfully swollen face. The stench of sweat, *****, feces, and fetid breath fill the air around him. An alarm sounds as the last battery from the compact heater finally dies. Sloan shivers as the temperature within the cave begins to drop.
Mother mercy watches with a well-practiced stare of concern. She slides a thin, torn, and brown stained sheet over Sloan’s shuddering body. It does little to comfort the sick man. His ragged breaths slowly shift to slightly less raggedy breaths. Mother Mercy watches for a few more moments to make sure that he will not die, then settles down in a corner for the night.
Electric dreams of long ago float in the forefront of her mind. A bone thin boy of barely teenage years stumbles into a broken-down building that was once the Canadian Gazette. Stray rays of light from an overhead window brighten the small room, illuminating gun black filing cabinets, and dark wooden cubbies, colored with well-worn grey paint, which hold crumbled bits of old newspapers; One of the papers read, “Mass Methane Leak Poisons Ground Water and Air”.   Each step stirs up dust causing him to cough. Mother mercy can hear the congestion in his cough and see the fever in his scarlet flushed face. His eyes are a rabid red flitting left to right, searching for any sign of danger. A loud noise causes him to flinch. Mother Mercy moves forward, trying to speak to the boy, but like a doe sensing danger he prepares to dart.

She finds her voice. “Please. Do not leave. I can help you.” She pleads mechanically.

He moves forward, tentatively attempting to touch her. She can see a sharp scar that runs from under his right eye down to his thick dry cracked lips. He tries to speak, exposing his yellow and browning teeth and the many gaps therein.
Suddenly, daggers of light push past and through his young body. He does not cry out, but merely succumbs to disintegration. Then……
Then Mother Mercy awakens to a new morning. Waves of light bring the cavern to life.
Sunshine moves in and across the cave to expose uneven earth, and a dirt encrusted cave wall, which is oddly void of any insect life. Her hazel eyes quickly adjust to the oncoming onslaught of daylight. Once again, she checks the man to make sure he is alive. Sloan’s chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm, which is all she can really hope for.
She slides dark brown locks of long hair out of her eerily symmetrical face. She brushes the dust off her tattered tan coat, and her holey faded jeans. With a couple of rapid sweeping motions, she removes almost all the dirt, and pebbles from the breast of her inner shirt.
Off to the left of the cave, and still covered by shadows a small machine awaits her inspection. She examines each tube, cord, and gauge with a military proficiency. Then using the jury-rigged straps, she places the machine on her back. Heading out of the cave, Mother Mercy stops, picks up the batteries from the small heating device, and checks Sloan one more time. Finally, with her bare feet fully outside she sets off for the day’s labor.
The sky burns a bright orange interrupted by barely perceptible vapors of methane, and bluish grey cotton clouds. Despite the splendor of the morning there is nothing but silence; No dogs barking, or bees buzzing about their honey making business. There is no life to be found except for minor patches of multi-colored fauna that are randomly situated along her route. So, Mother Mercy breaks the silence with a song.

“There’ll be years
yarn unspinning
as we stumble
towards our graves,
but the seconds
in-between breaths
are what make
this life so great,”

A few miles along the way, she stops singing, and begins to check the tiny traps she has planted along her daily path. Each carefully constructed device is sadly empty. Three or four more hours after that the silence evaporates and she can hear a small stream of water running. She stops and stares down at her bare feet.

“There is something I forgot to put on my feet.” She queries to herself while continuing to walk.

A few moments pass as she puzzles out the minor mystery. Once she makes it to the edge of the stream, an awkward smile fills her tiny round face. Mother Mercy removes the machine from her back, letting it fall to the ground. It makes a loud thud and sinks several inches into the slightly softened earth.  In a movement so swift human eyes could barely perceive it, she jumps up, rising several feet in the air while crossing a considerable distance, and finally lands in the stream. Soft sizzles sound from her bare feet, as she slowly grinds them into the mud. Then Mother Mercy sloshes sloppily out of the water wearing a thick layer of dark brown mud on her feet.

“Of course, how could I forget. I need mud to cool my feet.”

She walks back to the machine, pulls it out of the ground with ease, and returns to the stream. Next, she submerges the device. Waiting till it is completely full of water, she pulls it out, and begins fiddling with knobs and switches. She waits as the water boils, completely evaporates, filters, cools, and finally condensates back into liquid. Deftly, she removes one of the filters and shakes out all the unknown particulates. Then she opens a tiny compartment, and places a small sensor device within in the water to check its quality. After a satisfactory reading she places the water filtration system back on her back and heads down a different path.
The mud on Mother Mercy’s feet dries; Dark brown shades lighten, crust up and chip off in little flakes. Irritated, she begins to slide her feet through the almost nonexistent foliage to scrape off the remainder of the drying mud. With each small patch of grass Mother Mercy moves her feet faster and faster. Her left foot flows back and forth with incredible speed and strength. There is a loud clink and a chipped piece of rock soars across the air.
In puzzlement, Mercy stares down at her foot and finds that it has split open. Red and black fluid streams from the seam of torn skin, which expands and exposes metallic bone. As she moves, the wire insulation from within her foot ruptures, revealing cheap copper conductor. The hot metal sparks, lighting up the methane in the air. A scorching white, orange, and bluish outlined fireball expands with enough force to launch Mother Mercy up and back off her feet.

She hits the ground hard, and curses,” ******* methane!”

White synthetic skin begins to melt, shifting and swirling into grotesque shapes, and darker shades of red. Mother Mercy rises, unsteadily. Wincing in pain, she unloads her heavy water filter burden. Again, she checks all the tubes, cords, and gauges. What was once a thing of ease now becomes quite burdensome. She places the filter system on her back again, and resumes her journey. The red and black liquid continues to leak. Each steps becomes slower than the last. Until, she reaches her destination. Mother Mercy collapses next to a series of solar panels. With what little strength she has left, she detaches one of the charged batteries. A look of distress crosses her already agonized face.

“I’m sorry.” She softly sobs to herself. “I need this one.”

Mercy pulls a flap of skin from the right side of her waist. An intricate maze of wires, metal, and fake flesh pulsates. Her hand plunges deep within the slimy cavity, twists, and removes a damaged battery. It is bent, and cracked leaking a thick acid liquid which viciously burns her hand. She tosses it aside then slips the unbroken battery inside the cavity, twists it, waits for the click, then removes her acid, and viscous liquid covered hand.
The synthetic skin slowly starts to unburn, shifting in reverse till it returns to its previously pristine quality. Her foot begins to pop and all the parts snap back into their original place as the split skin slowly stiches itself back together.
Mercy harvests the rest of the charged batteries and places the used ones in their charging slots. Finally, with the days labors done she heads back to the cave.
Once she is at the cave she washes a stray rag. Then cleans her hands. Cradling Sloan, she slowly serves him some water. Once he has had his fill. She gently rolls him on his side moves his shirt up searching for any sores, then proceeds to softly scrub them. She rolls him in the opposite direction and repeats the process. Then she checks his inner thighs, and **** cheeks. Sloan winces in pain but remains quiet. She gently lays him back, and rolls up his pant legs, washing the bare skin which is littered with more nasty sores. She finishes by washing his face, hands, and his feet.  Finally, she sends him to sleep with a sweet song

“and the children
that we leave
littles daughters
full grown sons
are like blooms
that lose their trees
as our roots
wither and flee.”

Mother Mercy is consumed by an unnatural fatigue. She resists slumber for a few minutes, but inevitably succumbs. Everything becomes nothingness, then changes to nothingness with dizzy brown spots. Yellow sparks split from the tip of her consciousness. The darkness dissolves and becomes the cave again. Small streams of water worm their way in from the cracks on the wall, which seems to breath unevenly. Suddenly she realizes the cave stinks like sewage. Fresh wind works its way in then blows out a stark stench of rot. Each exhale sounds like a human moaning in pain. The last flickers of light die a long-protracted death.
A wheezing breath stirs Mother Mercy from her dreams. She awakens quickly to see Sloan gasping violently.  She rushes to his side, and sees a thick yellow and greenish gooey fluid mixed with blood sliding down the side of his jaw. With her left arm she flips him over holds his upper body inches off the ground, wipes away the disgusting fluid, and checks the abscess with her free hand.

“Spit it out.” She pleads.

Sloan continues to gasp. Tears swell but refuse to fall.

“Pleebees, helpep, me.” He struggles, coughing violently.

Mother Mercy cradles him in her arms, singing,

“Till, the song
that I am singing
becomes the song
that they passed on
and the love
that I was bringing
are the wheels
that just roll on.”

Sloan, gasps and wheezes for several minutes more. Tears and sweat fill his face.

“Mob where’s my mob?” He cries between gasping breaths.

Two hours later slumber finally reclaims Sloan. An hour after that Mercy gently places his pained body back into its original position. After another half an hour she to surrenders to sleep. She sees nothing.

A stern voice commands,” **** the enemy.”

Mercy cries in response, “There are no more enemies.”

Mother Mercy awakens to a new morning. Once again, she checks the man to make sure he is alive. Sloan’s chest rises and falls. She wipes off a spot of pus and blood left over from last night’s abscess leakage.  The swelling has slightly receded, but his face is still feverishly warm to the touch. She switches out one drained battery from the heater for a fully charged one then grabs the water filter, and heads off to start the day’s labor, singing.

“So, goodnight
little planet
precious place
that I lived on.
I know you won’t
miss me one bit
but I was grateful
to call you home.”
III Sep 2015
If you were anything other
Than what I thought you were,
You’d be everything ugly.  

Because I looked to you
As if you woke up the sun each morning,
But you only ever blotted it out.

You took some frizzled brush
With its bristles cut ragged
And pointing in all directions

And you painted the sky
Some slimy, green-black shadow
Which reminded me of pond ****,

Or worse yet
It reminded me of the filtration
In my fish tank I never got around to cleaning,

Oozing yellow pus
And clearing any room with its stench,
It was so much like you.

For just like a soaking,
Disgustingly rotten fish tank filter,
You maintained the image of beauty,

You plucked the sickness
And flakes of half eaten food
From the sea of this world

And built it all up inside of you.
So now people gaze
With some sort of admiration in their eyes

At a tank housing a vibrancy
Of life and plants and healthy things
That only exist to brighten the day,

But little do they know
That if you undo this,
And unscrew that,

You’ll pop right open,
Your filthy inner workings exposed,
And taint all the good things around you,

You’ll leak out into the crystal clarity,
Make it hazy and cloudy and
You’ll blind all the fish,

You’ll **** all the fish
If we don’t keep you closed.
Saint Audrey Aug 2017
Protecting the carcinogen
God bless this anomaly
Who they choose to protect
Intravenously a sight to see

Saving this misstep
Blight of justice, repetition
Six million people left to vet
Each one with tunnel vision

That's the view
Is right
Death and disorder
The walls
Of the holy manor

Then **** them all
Inside and out
Violent, volition
No one truly knows self doubt
Ventricle technicians

Each coat of paint
Is closing the space between the walls
Halls closing in
How much longer before you fall?

Oh god, I'm still alive
Please, someone **** me
I shouldn't have to go through this

It's funny, ain't it
Fancy feast for the whole congregation
My words aren't an open book
A buffet for crooks run amok
On ground up horse hooves

Frowning down I pout
I'd **** my ******* self to put their fire out
A brisk shower of intuition
Intention of slowing mass emissions
Eating ***** in
Filtration organs

Go vegan
HATE. hate.
Vexren4000 Dec 2017
Filtration systems,
Freshwater running through,
Filtering reality,
Or photos,
Or liquid,
Falsifying sometimes,
And showing the truth in others.

A private passenger jet flies on by, and past,
- leaving lethal chemicals, so, high up in the sky
- to be breathed in by your' and my own gasps;
- it causes each & every one of us to, slowly, die.
It's all been decided by some ole' greedy guy
- sitting in a golden office, so, high up in the sky.
An' he has an air filtration system, of course;
- for, he doesn't need his throat feeling hoarse.
Though, it seems it's fine if it's you or mine..
- oh yes; he's guilty of such a dastardly crime!
He kills all our mothers - and kills all our fathers..
- oh yes; he is, truly, such a sinister monster!
He'll **** all our siblings and **** all our children;
- his mission is a cruel one of killing off millions!
We have no way to stop what is being displayed;
- he's a master of evading all those he betrayed.
February 14th, 2017.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
Viktor Frankl's faith was trust that one's life holds meaning
trust in ultimate meaning...
My word trust holds true and rest crammed together for support
to stand under knowing the entire set of upgrades
and lock changes,
to mankind-basic knowledge of good and evil, since my last
a filtration algo-i'll-go rythmn and hyme adjusterho rholler
that powers ourkind past wayless places
when language joins the gamers playing for glory, at any cost,

Old Glory

per pose haps need happening,
sans happy-ness,
what ness could ever be?

What's the haps? Don't lie.
What's goin' on? Don't lie. Say,

Regular stuff. My side's winnin'. A *** in Pershing Square,
under the Jesus Saves sign, brought that to mind,

Fifty years ago, for him, looked like "no direction home"

Sansara sera, whatever sera selah

Nihili, to the max, right. But,
we know
other than this now,

thinking process of cognitive rythm building

coughing final, expulsion of some invading barb,
a fiery dart, setting cooling

actions sponding to ligands loosed when the
third aveili in a micron failed to expell

slowww whoooshhhhh
in-a-ginning be da vita, see...

say I think I know this feeling

qwhy-esse quiessence,
a settling,
after all that could be shaken, was.

acid to water, or water to acid?
who would gno?
Southern California autumn breezes
hope garthwait Mar 2019
20 August 2018 4:46 PM
Haunted by the plague of empathy:
Filtration in a house of human emotion.
I am dampened by the tears;
the walls swell with empty apologies.
Paint chips fall with cancelled plans
the mirror cracks upon reflection of wasted time.
Hinges creak with a wilted will:
the taunting of unopened doors.
Tattered floorboards chance comfort
scuff marks of a dance never felt.
Shadowed by the doubts dragged in from my visitors
Will the beauty in my woodwork show through?
Every step towards the attic clouds grow in my chest
And soon it won’t just be the rain, but a storm of all my rage.
I’m sick and tired of the wires and the walls holding me in
This isn’t home, it is my hell, my own head is like a prison.
You’ve picked at everything I’ve built, so don’t dare call me a friend
So please, dear, do me a favor and don’t ever knock again.

-newportsmooths h.g.
For I Exist II

For I exist as a vapor only to appear for a little why then I am no more
as a heart explodes with the lotion of laughter to unfold I digress
tapestry on the wall has divisions of sought after fervor exposed
for as a young man I used to dream immaculate dreams of kings & queens
a challenge to be free was a question of time my own solution is using my mind
think of a path leading to a barren forest exposed to its elements
as you walk your very soul permeates love filled up in song
long columns of pillars lie on the enchanted barrier as if a whisper
there are things to take notice upon such as moss with green composition
leaves are torn with various colorization of blue, red, & green
as a vortex through the light beams a filtration aura
a whisper leads to an angelic being where sounds of mystical fascination ensue
if only I could touch the very him of its vested garment
then alone again I cry in the very silence of my own thoughts & fears
for I shed a single tear to help numb the inner pain

Come with me bury thee in a barrier by the sea with a sweet melody
the noise had stopped in the forest then I resigned to my hamoc
life is but a mystery then in time you will see the fullest extent of reality
not since Pegasus and Orion have we come into the realization of thought
to proclaim happiness to the mass populace amidst a tragedy left in sullen brevity
for I am here as a fragrance sprayed out on all mankind alive to be
in the moment with love nestled in the very fabric of existence shun the resistance
can't even wink to dismiss this earthly bliss in a time well spent in thought
come with me stay with me as we bask in the vast expanse between space and time
why does one equate logic with fear for in our differences I will show I really care
For I exist as a figment in imaginative thought along the barren path
Everyone seems to be touched by the impulse the very vibration of love's resolve
falling emblems taunt a hidden resolve toward a quest for more but then of what
for I can be reflected as a mirror shown to brighten a heated horizon
perhaps I existed before time began in some quaint little dwelling along the barren sod
we each look through things as if in golden nuggets of thought exposed to the elements
let go of your ambition released for the white dove in the sky will truly fly
for when I came into being I sought love to share with all those faces who truly care
Jazlyn Jordan Dec 2018
My imagination more like
What in tarnation
My imagination isn't the creation
That I've been giving a donation to
It’s a filtration of frustration
A mason looking for a
Location, a migration of geese that
Flock to the next station
Where’s the collaboration, where’s the demonstration
Of creativity that i want you all to see that is within me
Where’s the conformation, with the imitation of
Intimate *******
The imagination full of lubrication
A medication that comes with a vaccination
Full of ******* then point mutation
As it grows on and on into more of a phenomenon
Its a presentation of who I am but never fully appreciated
Due to the fact that I’m sort of outdated or
Too much for the industry who try and come for me

So my imagination is my pleasure and my curse
Where it stays inside
And lies
In my head
Sometimes i let it out
And let them spread as
Words and writings
Expressions and ideas
Feelings that I can’t imagine being
But they all head for the ceiling and out of the window
To where everything grows
And is prosperous and thriving
Living and free
Everything that I Can Not Be
My imagination… is the death of me

It’s my rise and fall
Its the thing that helps me sleep at night
Or it keeps me awake with the thoughts that I wish to never have happen
It’s the thing that keeps me from taking myself away
Away from the things that I wish to never have to go through again
Over and Over
Hurting me, stabbing me, killing me softly… slowly
My imagination is the things that i wish to happen
The pleasure I long for
It’s the caress of hands the warmth of something more
It’s the love i look for
It’s the high that I ride
Filling my veins
Turning to ecstasy
It’s the good things in life
My imagination is MY pleasure and MY curse
It’s mine and and I will never let it die
This is my first poem on here so I'm not really sure how this is going to go so, please give me good feedback and positive comments.

— The End —