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Ashley Chapman Oct 2017
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies...

A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
This comes from my fascination with Philip K. **** and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. In this, his future dystopian vision, androids are retired, a euphemism for terminated, when they have passed their legal age limit after four years. Humans, us, have by now ruined our environment and become enthralled to a false religion, Mercerism , a fabricated make belief, spun by an actor, Al Jerry. The empathy boxes plunge the followers of Mercerism into a shared virtual hallucination. I was also enthralled by Jude Law in AI by Steven Spielberg who gave what I thought was a mesmerising portrait of a *** robot, the ultimate Lothario and so tragically programmed to flaw.

Earlier this year Mercerism was the theme of The Tunnel, an art collective to which I am a participator, through poetry.

Blade Runner, the film, now Blade Runner 49, is based on this dark interpretation of where we could all be headed.
One flake of snow on a well-perched mountaintop,
Could make the entire mountain Drop
T R S Aug 3
I've had a plan to leave before the beginning of November,
So, Since I miffed about my privilege
I've sent a visage. Two torn bits broke apart,
and used to start a fire beneath my knees.

Spread glee and see what it does \ for you.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
<>
The Instigation:
Edmund  Black, commenting on “weary weighted,”

I agree with Kim; This is poetry at its best :)“

<•>

both of you shush!

there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail

tissue, too,
baby soft, or,
purple beating majestic bruised blotches
by those weaklings whose
kindness never
fully developed;  
or old man mine whose
skin cells erodes, so poems and light
weary weighted, lightly flake off
for your “betterment”
mostly tho for worse

good humans all await,
in patientce lightly hidden,
residents of dark sunspots
in the glaring existence exposer
of the unlit lighthouse whose time will come

they get it

how we get there unimportant

get there

GET THERE

get there
that is the poetic
mission critical

no path best or style preferred-
no compare just, but,
any path that
lifts and elevates,
to the commonplace


the common place

where all costarred, universal,
where common is the temple mount
of highest praise, holy smoke rising,

a place that
that discloses and closes,
is scribed/described honestly as
a connective,
which is the simplest
successive

call my poems,
blessedly common!

that an honorable,
so gladly accepted
and
so much more meaning-full
than merely best or better



for that,
I’d gladly weep,
for no praise
ever been
bettered





8/2/18 406pm
on the jitney to my isle
the instigation: Edmund black › “weary weighted, I agree with Kim .... This is poetry at its best :)“
Britney Lyn Feb 27
Winter winds like cracking whips upon my flesh,
My face blushed with February’s cool kisses.
Walking upon snow cover pavement,
My feet fall like concret upon its blank canvas.
To find peace in something so simple,
To face a frozen tundra with a frozen heart.
Fearful that the cracks could shatter,
Such as the hidden sidewalk underneath.
Snowflakes lick my cheeks, and I to wish to melt with contact.
But I am not of snow, merely a flake in a world of such beauty.
Knit Personality Dec 2014
Hear the pealing of the bells—
          Christmas bells!
What a world of siblinghood their merry ringing spells!
      As carolers go singing
      What the merry bells are ringing,
      And hot chocolate—spiced and stinging—
        Is drunk in duple time,
      A warmth arrives and swells
      As it jingles with the bells,
And impels the glass to shed her robes of frosted fleecy rime.
    Through downy flake on downy flake,
    O'er cozy wood and frozen brake,
      Adown the sledded dells—
          Powdered dells!
      Where holly berries ******
      Off the beard of old Kris Kringle,
The merry sounds, they mingle in a medley of noëls—
          Belles noëls!
    And "peace on earth, good will to men
    And women" then is heard again
    By every girl and every boy
    And every ear long deaf to joy;
For everywhere the pealing, the reeling of the bells,
The glory of the Christmas story resoundingly retells.
      The big, bronze bells—
      Where the boldest volume dwells,
And prays in sacred solitude when it, like a liquid, wells—
    Ring out in mercy, forgiveness, and love—
    The will to assume the white wings of the dove:
Hear them! and sing with the dinging, the donging of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
      Bells, bells, bells—
The binging and the bonging of the bells!

* .
OnwardFlame Mar 29
There was a time
A time within which my hair was shorter
My patience longer
And my desire to make it last
Tighter.

I danced among wolves there
Whistled in the thorns
Made friends with the trickles of blood
Flooding down my legs
Onto my ankles
Pinching up and down my thighs
Just hoping and waiting
Just baiting and flaking
Because you were what was there
At the time.

I coughed up glass
And syringes filled with pink powder
And surrendered to moments
Of wannabe bliss
Because you were what was there
At the time.

She seems to have found more aptitude
For your *******
Than I was willing
I remember the way your voice shook
When you called me on the phone
After I exclaimed I would never be her
I would never treat you like her
I would just be
Really gone.

I sage everywhere and everything
Moments of feeling so past it
For the darkness of pain to return
Like a fleet of starved seagulls
In a circle I threw them pieces of bread
Like I did as a child
Like I begged for you to see me
To treat me with love, respect
Even in the moments where you
Were at your most deceitful
Lost
Do you remember when we read poems to one another?

There is no reading of poems now
Not to you
My ink carries on
But not for you
Because you were what was there
For a time
And now you are no longer.
Silverflame May 2016
At day you can’t see them, because they are nowhere to be found.
But when the light is out, they head to the empty playground.
For while you are surrounded by walls, in your bed dreaming.
This is the place where their childish hearts are pretending to be beating.

The seeker is covering their eyes while counting loudly to ten.
Here they get the chance to play their favorite games once again.
Fighting carelessly over plastic toys and digging in the damp sand.
It looks like a lively place to be, instead of yet another wasteland.

They are hiding in the trees, giggling. Who can climb all the way to the top?
Tiny hands are holding on to each other, spinning around until they almost throw up.
Going down the rusty red slide: some are going fast, others nice and slow.
And if they hear you coming, they’ll be gone like the first flake of snow.

Far away, you might hear a familiar sound of squeaking swings.
Laughter is echoing through the night, carried into the town by bird wings.
They are trying to evade being captured, while running in a green ocean of clover.
But the sun is lurking in the dawn;
soon their fun and games will be over.
I had such a weird dream a couple of nights ago, and it gave me inspiration to write this. And don't ask why I dream about dead children, because I don't even know why myself.
Andrew Nov 2017
The wandering hours
Create pondering towers
When instead of talking
You are always walking
Steadily ahead of me
Like you're dead to me
Like a small centipede
Walking for centuries
With the intent to be free
Yet constantly ambulatory
So we become slaves to your movement
When settling would be an improvement

You begin to freely flake
As I start to starve
You say let them eat cake
And my heart you carve
Into servings appropriate for your appetite
While I know something isn't right
But still forced to accept this plight
Of being your minor distraction
Chained by my love's infraction
Of settling on you
I shouldn't stay
But I bet I do

I wish I loved or hated you a little more
So I'd know what to do
As it stands I'm always looking out the door
But I'm unable to move
I want to stick around and see if you do something amazing
Like love me back
Instead of attack
With your acidic apathy
You mercilessly grapple me
And never decide to let go
Of love you never let show

We've been driving down this road for a while
And for the last million miserable miles
You've presented me unpredictable trials
With your nonchalant instinctual style
You've let yourself become extremely impaired
As I understandably grow more and more scared
I feel the answer is in the love we seldom share
But you're never lost when you're going nowhere
And I cannot follow your wandering stare
Elena Mar 24
Do you taste what I taste?
Sipping on our sweet cafe
Spicy nutmeg, sprinkle me
With all your flavors, sing to me
What your buds have held on to
Every flake of cold or warm
Thoughts of wonder, sadness flows
From every ponder, it must know
Shallow waters, dip your toes
Into the deep end, with me
Open closed doors
Surf away, in winds unknown
Till we fall and make a splash
Till we laugh, in arms we shall
Pry the past from my fingers
Kiss my bruised lips,
make softness last.
Benjamin Oct 2018
All’s quiet and
still,
sky’s pregnant with
snow;

every flake, a lake
of ice—
every footstep, a false
echo;

the moon
beamed
upon the frozen
few,

the streetlamp
schemed,
and begged me
to kiss you.
Ashley Chapman Sep 2018
Past our past,
Yours and mine,
My soul yearns,
As I walk by silver clad trees; 
A favourite parked orange vintage Saab;
And memories newly raw, too.


I

Then quite extraordinarily,
The Cosmic Whale,
Stirs in my solar-plexus,
And my objectivity dissolves,
As conscious consciously hears:
The song of my inner Gypsy,
And look!
My Narwhal,
Up among the stars,
Beyond days and nights,
Roaming free,
Scything milky ways in half,
Fireballs disrupting,
In infinite timelessness,
Beyond the pull of gravity,
Where no vortex holds:
The 'othering' whirlpool,
That keeps us compressed
- as a collapsed star -
Gone!
At last my Cosmic Leviathan blows
- ALL is released and falls away.

II

Such is my Cosmic Behemoth:
The funnel *****
And inside out,
Is turned.
As at last on course;
Whoo! Whoo! Whoo?
But no-one replies!
The navigation station is empty:
This is motion without traction,
And no acceleration,
Slipping atoms would only slow!
The flow,
No windows either on the view,
As even visual truths are but fleeting,
And words muddy the clear unconscious streaming,
As the journey beyond mind begins.

III

The worldly maze recedes,
A bird's-eye vision steers the empty ship;
No harbours are plotted,
From here on
- endless flight in night,
Without end,
Wings blaze occasionally nearby,
A host of fireflies pattern the cosmic pool,
A whole immensity in which to dance.
Space,
Growing,
Stretching,
Expanding outward,
Not as we would have it, but as it is beyond our eyes.
Where space is born,
Again and again,
And so!
Exults in nothing,
A self beyond understanding,
In silence thrives,
Where sense logic makes no waves.

IV

The Cosmic Whale is off,
All attachments gone,
Like a flake of skin,
A fold in time -
Falls off.
The anchor dropped,
Is not retrieved,
What use is I -
When the clock's monotony no longer counts!

V

The surface disappears,
The ocean depth submerges,
In the cabin
The lights are dimmed to monochrome,
As navigators know,
Blind sees the furthest.
Charts are soon forgotten,
The imagination leads:
Ueah, the Cosmic Mind,
Vast and free
In all directions!
No need to plot a line,
Instead like the humble earthworm,
Who in darkness fertilises:
Beauty, how unimaginable, how unknowingly,
Is by all that envelopes guided,
As from the cracked ***!
Which in Reality was suffocated,
The source is nourished.

VI

As my Cosmic Whale plunges the deeps,
Look to the expanse:

     The eternal behemoth whose flight
     Everywhere provides,
     Guileless and unobjectified.
     A subjectivity that knows no
     bounds,
     Is unto itself unknowable.

In brushstrokes.
The universe,
Is as it rolls Created.
Where logic has little to do,
As all,
Already simply is.
This poem is actually about the ego's death. How I will mourne it, and how the fight to let it go will be immense as it is for us all. Death in life comes in many shapes, not ultimate death, but our relationships, *le petite mort*. Of course, there is life beyond relationship death. Beyond a sense of end; and yes, ultimately all is good preparation for that all consuming final death. This poem was inspired by untenable love for another; by the paintings in bold, almost lurid, but zen-like brushstrokes of a fellow Tunnel member, Genevieve Leavold; and by my mate Chris Godber who alluded to whales. It also has to do with my Gypsy heart and Celine's Salon, in Soho at Troy 22, where we celebrated the traveller's soul. Finally, a YouTube clip of a talk given by Guru Mooji in which awareness is being conscious of conscious.

Bon Voyage!
Little Bit Mar 2017
my legs are closed now
so it's all through to you

you say:
what a night
you're fantastic
well
that was fun
while it lasted

I say:
oh yeah
well
go on now
get gone

but despite my efforts
to deny it
to hide it

my young heart
is ripped open,
in two
because
it's through

wondering your answers
to the questions
left behind
in my mind

what's your middle name?
where do you take proper girls
on a first date?
am i just a flake,
full of hate?

do you have a favorite
cursive letter?
if you loved someone,
when would you tell her?

how will you make a living?
(certainly not by drinking)

does your mother know you're
a lying lush?
do you know that you're
a lousy ****?

will you remember me?
i hope to forget you soon
although it's doubtful
but i have to
to get my soul full
again

wondering the answers
until I indulge once more
and my heart is torn
into 4, then 8
until it disintegrates

I say:
go on
get gone
don't make
me late
written 1/31/17
Evan Stephens Dec 2018
It's snowing
tonight,
and I think
******* Dad,
when Maryland
beats Indiana
and I move
to text him.

He's beyond
snow now.
So what do I do
with these
unbearable photos
he took of me
standing alone
in the withered sun
on monumental trains,
I was six or seven,
out by the
rusting roundhouse
in Brunswick?

It's been snowing
for hours
& I carve
a footpath
out to the
unplowed street
to watch the
shining gray
banks under
the amber light.

There is no
route to carve
through this silence.
My father
was built
from ghost towns,
from Manzanar,
from the endless
pine-dark
of Idaho's
rivered night,
from all the
unmapped places,
he grew complete
in himself.

And even now
as I watch
the snow slant
and stumble
I am left behind
as his son
apart from him
& without.

The snow dives
into the
night blankness
& I wonder
if I had died
first, cutting
short this reckless
careless crooked
sprawl, would he
be writing here?

The smeared
gray glow
of the screen
across his hands,
the fat flake
snow rising
like dough
beneath the windows?
Cat Lynn Jan 20
I became hidden behind the severe weather's curtain of snow and ice

Running into a danger zone that was blinding white

Face beat red as ice shards pierced my lungs

Panting out winters puff, sinking into frozen love

My ankles shackled to the inches of snow

As the wind cried along with me, the rage only began to grow

Out of breath, I knelt for a bitter moment, just to feel, taste, and see

All the little Snow flakes kisses that laid upon me

On my coat, my hat, my face, and my lips

One with its each on individual beauty of crystalized hips

Edges so sharp, breaking through the numbness that lied

I began to laughed and cried, for I was also beautifully designed

Cloak me in your blasphemous hurricane winds, white me out from sorrow

Tuck me under your soft, icy sheets of snow

Color me white as I am buried away

So I maybe cleansed and purified. This will be my blackness grave

~ Wash Me In Winter's Kiss ~ For there is nothing more whiter then
*This
For He Has Washed Me As white As Snow
Praise Him...p

So yeah where I live we had a very dangerous snow storm and I kinda just ran away?... XD

Although it was dangerous it was totally worth it. It amazing how gloriously beautiful a storm can create. Completely white!? How often do we see that?

I was so freezing cold XD but look over it from an abandoned play ground made the frost bites worth it. I would have dived into it if I could have

So many people were .ad and furious I ran away like that but I had to I had so much on my mind that was ripping me

Be one with the frozen breeze to see the pure whiteness of beauty was exactly what I needed

I just wish I could have shared it with somebody...

Oh well XD
Soℓ Oct 4
UNHURRIEDLY, THE days sink scarce, over sleepy cabins, banked breath fog the cold villages thick in white fire as if dying had a say made seeable. Now, in the shadows flake why not us illuminate the ghostly fever in silent resurrections.

It is a listless rhapsody.
It is love slumped.
It’s all the adrenaline of the grove
Among the ***** of the breeze,
It’s beyond the blue by boney antlers
A choir of tiny voices.
O delicate and crisp the daisies whoosh!
It chirps and sighs,
As the hoarse grass at last breath -
Under rapids that turn
The worn rolled pebbles,
This sorrowful soul
In this quiescent whinge.
Is it not ours? Yours and mine!
Whose unpresuming antiphon
By this cozy eventide; moonflower?

(c)  HollyD Poetry
So, if you've toured a realm where the sol sets shallow and closing times cinder unsuspectedly through the AM. You'll know the opposite arrives impossibly evident as well, eh?
zebra Jun 26
***** bunny ****
a ****** with bangles
shaved and pierced
dried and shampooed
Spoosh, Tick Tick, and Trashed

is it true Jesus is Shesus
and has no ***** anymore

i love you
***** Juice
waddle cupcake *****
mambo Dancing Shoes
i am Kimbo the Love Doctor
******* the palm of my hand
***** sniffer extraordinaire
in limbo
eating ****** snacks and disco biscuits
looking for a whipped cream buff puff

jam split *** cracked cheeks squeeze tight
and your Black Metal Veins
burn like melting *** of fire

so what would your ideogram look like
a hot dog and Kleenex with Skunk and
***** **** glob pearls
blond wig wavy curls and Haven Dust

I am banana float
Big Flake
and your my split thizz
a new genetic fricassee

sleep is temporary death
and i'm to tired to feed
on shadowed veins

my personality a mote
like a goat with a tote
**** fueled *** and barbiturates desert
make a face like clevererd meat

kiss me *****
jugs with *** plugs and Tootsie Roll toes
girl friend
spreads hemic tide for **** water
i like lip gloss icing eyeliner
floating in Marshmallow Reds, and Pink Ladies

*** prance Foo Foo Dust
licker of rugs
stinker with shrugs
in a puddle of Drowsy Goofers
built not to last the aftermath
like a penny side show

in instinctive rhythms
and midnight madness
while hungry for tranquilizer therapy
i feel good
like a corpse buried in your hips

say something in your oral tradition
gag gaag a googoo
pass the tiaras
and Star Spangled Powder
private parts on public display
black girls gone platinum
chocolate upside down cake
with Blue Bullets between their legs
another lick please
snorting Lady Caine, and Mama Coca rotate Soft *****
pass for French with a horse **** cigarette
in a silver case
filled generously with saliva wet nose candy

White Nurse
like a golden snake with black bones
keeps her smokes between her legs
lucky strikes revival and Bumble Bees

i like my cigs smouldering  wet
dreaming of evil

Diesel, Golden Girl
Red Chicken
do drop in
wizard of fire music
phantasmagoria
…..
"One pill makes you larger,
and one pill makes you small,
and the ones that Mother gives you
don’t do anything at all.
Go ask Alice
when she’s ten feet tall."
drugs *** death
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
You think you are free
But you are not free
I would know
Because I am free,
I taste it every day
Real as my breakfast.
I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow
After my shift.

Aspartame
Aspartame
It ***** your brain
It can’t be tamed
So stay away
From aspartame
…Anybody
Got any flake?

Time is an illusion
It is proven,
Watches on planes
Or something.
If you believe in time,
Then you’re living a lie.
I learned that
A while ago.

CandiDATES!
Why
The ****
Is this not already the name
Of a ****** dating programme?!
I need to go.
I’ll call you guys tomorrow
When I’m a millionaire.

No, no, you’re over-analysing it!
I mean,
Like
I know
That given that humans are the most complex organisms
In the known universe,
Nothing could, in fact, be analysed more
But, you know…

(In the Queen’s English)
And I was literally
So drunk
Like
Trolleyed
To the power of
All eternity
PLUS ONE!

And I’ll tell you…
WHAT
Life is…
Is like…
Is like a…
WOMAN
You just gotta…
**** IT!

No, but seriously
I think at least half of us
Don’t even want to be here.
We just feel obligated to be a part of this…
Corporate-sponsored rebellion
And it’s…
Like…
Fine, I’ll have another one.
Nassif Younes Aug 2016
I can feel you behind me.
I can hear the spit swirl in your mouth as you smile.
I can feel the pop of air as it opens
And as a small crack opens up in your lip
I can hear a single flake of dry skin
Fall to the ground.

All that
And I still wasn't quick enough.
I can imagine the thrill you felt
When my trembling shook through the air
And against your body.
The heat coming off me as my blood raced towards the surface
Must have been paradise -
Would have been paradise -
If you were anything like me

But you were always the colder one.
So when your steady fingers
Met that first single strand of hair
On the back of my neck -
When it jumped up on end
And broke it's back
Stretching out to touch you -
You knew
I was all yours
And you
Didn't feel a thing.
Daniel Long Dec 2018
Anchors slip away,
in a sea, calmed by
nightly solitude.

A puff of wind,
eases a bedroom
shade open.

A flake of dust,
drifts alone,
gently on.
This poem I wrote in high school years ago and haven't changed a word!
My poetry/short story website: www.gothicsurrealism.com
Evan Stephens Aug 19
Their names
in tatters,
old cardboard,
in the dim
school hall.

Is it a dream?
My old jacket
sleeping by green
cinder blocks,
posed by the
locked boiler
room door?

It is a dream.
The snow has voted
flake by flake
and I must leave,
sweeping my tracks
with an elm branch
as I go.

I do not belong there,
in the past, where the
apricots are always ripe,
where the hopscotch trees
frame the laughter of
their young faces
in amber.

I'll visit them
like a deep sea diver,
in the silence
of pure oxygen,
turning over the sea floor
to find their names
in tatters,
old cardboard.
Lyn-Purcell Sep 2018


One can never see nor hold the same
the same flake twice, but that cannot
be said for the Queen whose skin
is as white as a star and just as cold.
A plum blossom who thrives off
the winters and blizzards.
Her silver locks tousled in her wind,
her eyes were icebergs of the deepest
blue and yet they burn with kindness
Her thin lips form a smile when a
flake falls in her palm, her open
hand becomes a fist.
But then unfurls like a flower
in spring to reveal a plum blossom
petal that glides away to the song of
zephyrs.
Winters may be cold but it brings
warmth -
lovers grow close,
families bond
children laugh
Memories form...
The Fae swirl leaving trails of shimmering
blue as she looks to the distance.
Her white robe billows, so cloud-soft.
'The Summer's sun has become Winter's,'
she closes her eyes and exhales.
'I feel your warmth and pride, Sister Summer.'
'My dears?' the Fae flutter by her head
in waiting. 'Be sure to have apricity embrace
them all. In hour of the Summer's Queen.'


Here's the second free-verse! ^-^
Nausea has cleared up alot more so I'm taking things slow and steady.
Enjoy! Let me know what you think
Lyn ***
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