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The pains of reality justify the
Deep seated sorrow of man.

The vulture encircles me
Events surrounded by mystery
Enveloped in insanity
The human race is
Captivated by mystery
Doomed to repeat history

Collusion to bestow unmitigated
Sorrow upon my being

Simply put, I am
Damaged goods

Speak softly now
And choose your next thoughts
Carefully,
For the devil has called
My soul to dance

Reckless, unmitigated
Abandonment
Of mind, body, and soul
Fruitless searches
Forever numb
Longing to feel whole

Deep beneath the rolling waves
Lies serenity
Amongst sunken slaves
Deep inside my brain
The labyrinth of my mind
Memories that
I've left behind
Gone with the breeze
Above arid land
Somewhere lost in the desert
Where only shamans understand
Somewhere locked in the innocence
Of childhood frailty
Misplaced in the universe
Perpetuating reality
Walking alongside
All the gods of the ages
Bounding across time
In history's pages
Vacated with the morals
Of man
Lost in the seams of
Our lives
In the absence of the infinite
Shared hallucinogenic cries
Gone with the limbs of
The serpent
Ignored individuality dies
The reflection of man tainted,
For it is where the devil hides
Looming in the shadows
Of irresistible allure
No acquittal of our sins
A race ****** to remain
Impure
Violence surrounding our
Unequivocal, dastardly instincts
Perched in the forefront of our
Perceived selves
Selfish, devilish
Acts of kindness
The misfortune of the fortunate
Given all the amenities
Of a king's meal
Without the sensation of
Taste
Washed away with our
Dreams of betterment
Laying upon the chests
Of mythological beasts
Souls left rotting
Souring with ferment

Supreme consciousness
Arouses the senses
Invent my future with the
Myths of the past

You're stuck in a state of
Imaginary grace
Dream myself into
New bounds of transparency

Cryptic writings
Things left unsaid
Unsure of the real
Or the surreal
Life's slipping away
Once again
Paper in hand
Palms begin to sweat
Indulging into reality
Memories
I long to forget

It seems forever
Since I've been home
Trying to balance
This chemical imbalance
But always, I'm left here
Alone
Believing my dreams real
Realizing my world's surreal
Living with uncertainty
Imagining reality

Where do I go
To hide the pain?
Dual existence?
Acute psychosis?
Trapped inside my own
Brain
There's a place in my mind
I like to hide
Where all of my secrets
I do confide
There's a place I go
To bury the pain
A papered existence
Conducive synopsis,
Abstained

I begin to sweat
My heart screaming
From my chest
Let the feeling pass
Delve into the kingdom
Inability to
Repress
Take me away
To that far off place
Abscond into surreality
Amongst things I dare not
Confess

Drinking in divinity
Affixed on mortality
Will I die in this place?
Unable to resurface
Back in reality

Stuck running in circles
On a surface-less plane
Can't escape the shadows
Can't remove the pain
Simple design
Made up of
Over thought complexity
A universe separated
Removed from the modern mind
Inexorably

Amputation of
The mutation
That is the
Human race
Segregation of this
Charred realm
From other wordly
Space
We live
We die
And death begins it
Reinvent our minds
Ignite our passions

Drowning in a gene pool
Of degenerates
Souls thrashing
Wildly, forlorn
Plunged into unmitigated
Evil
Of a race that destroys
The unborn

Lachrymose gaze
Upon the living dead
A thin film of separation
Through which lies
Are fed
Understanding the weakness
Into which we are
******
For shed blood
Forces cries
Ripping from mother's eyes
Witnessing her own demise
As a piece of her
Slowly dies
For father's impenitent
Fantasies once dreamed
Torn away from aching
Fingers
Left ravaged,
Impotent

Gazing at you
Under the cloak of
Intrigue
Watching you struggle
In the tangled lies
You weave

Commanding the head
Of the serpent
Lilith forcing man's
Non-repent
Imposed upon our being
Righteous punishments
Such ramifications
Deemed astringent

Incomprehensible
Allure
Masochists of
Everything pure

Watch the world die
From afar
Irrevocable despair
Promising allegiance
To a life I cannot
Bear

Killing myself with
Indecision
On the perimeter
Of sanity
In the psychotropic prison
And psychotic affliction

Here it comes again
The voices, getting louder
It doesn't feel good anymore
How do I escape
Escaping?
Where do I go when my sanctum
Has been compromised?
Unable to quiet
The insurgents afoot
Incurable, incalculable
Indecision
Lost, finding my way home
Left in between existence
Alongside myself
Alone

The cold, inhuman ability
To sacrifice one's own mind
Hanging onto the coat tails
Of free thought
Journey we now,
Into the nightmare
Ignoring loss of
Comprehension
Vacated laws of
Apprehension
Arming latent illness
Plotting revenge
Beneath the surface

Here it comes again
I hear it getting louder
It doesn't feel good anymore
Who will save the lifeguard
When he's about to drown?

Can you see me?
Can you hear my cry out?
He looks to find
There's no one around

Searching indefinitely
For myself
Lost in another
Under the guise of
Someone else
Why does it matter?
Seemingly insignificant
In a moment of clarity
Just breathe for a moment
Shoved back in reality
"Am I dreaming," he asked
His reflection replied
The answer profound
Unknowingly died

I sold my soul to get here
On the periphery of realization
Stuck on the perimeter of reality
Reentry revoked
Forced to sit idly
As my life passes
Before my eyes

This is my letter
Unable to deliver
This is my life
Unable to decipher
This is my nightmare
That I've never dreamed before

Trapped in the prison
I've constructed on my own
Locked myself in four walls
Of uncertainty
Built in the center of being
Unnoticed by the proprietor
Frailty prevalent
Implosion of the mind
Leading to the ******* of
The insanity
I've come to find

Death looms at the end
Of the candlestick
Walk hand in hand
With me
Fellow traveler of
Uncharted paths
My fellow affliction
With the unknown
Unable to save myself
From the pain I know
Awaits me

Here it comes again
Inescapable, maniacal laughter
It doesn't feel good anymore
And all I ever wanted
Was your guiding hand
Complacent in lies
Forcing deafening cries,
For there will be
No reprise
As my soul flutters
And dies

Death for sale
Ten will take you away
Consumed by the thought of it
No more worry
No more being suppressed
This other kingdom
Unknowingly repressed
Delve deeper into the nightmare
We lie together
Naked
Unashamed
Open to the probing
Fingertips
Of the world
Unable to speak
Sleep paralysis,
Yet this is no dream
Wide eyed
Searching
Unable to scream

Incommunicable desires
No longer latent
Unsuppressed is the disease
Of your discontent
Insufferable, forcible pain
Towards the ones loved most
Catatonic, embryonic
Feeble mind
Please save me from myself

Forgive me, father
For I know not what I do
Forgive me, mother
For I do not blame you

Plastic state of being
Suspended in the viscous
Coagulant of stolen thought
And free will
Drowning in my
Own enjoyment
Of self suffering

How will you remember me?
A trembling voice
To read my eulogy?

Forget the things I should have said
This demoness I've brought to bed
Speaking in riddles
Bewilderment of the senses
Deeper appreciation
For the subjugation of man

War criminals in suits
Pretentious, cowardly vestiges of man
Surrounded by an air of
Undeserved arrogance
Getting fat on young girls
Sending their children to war
Safeguarded by a desk
And the allure of change
Obscene, disgusting animals
Consuming their weight daily
In the profit of drugs and
Devised disease
Profiteers of death
Politicians work the corners

And I fall,
Too weak to carry on
Can't escape my own
Lonely, cold, loveless
Gaze
Black holes in my head
Leading into the depths of
My soul
Emptiness pervading
Madness running rampant
Destroying who I once was
Tearing to pieces
My uniqueness
Stripped of self
Thrown back to march
Within the masses
Towards impending demise

Staring into the eyes
Of the serpent
Turned to stone
Numb to emotion
Numb to pain
I cry out for substance
I miss the person
I used to be
The person you loved
Before you met me

Relieve me now of sin
Unto re-birthing, begin
Relieve me now of this burden
Knowledge and shame
Relieve me now of myself
And self inflicted pain

There it goes again
Making me feel dour
It doesn't feel good anymore
Purge me of this dependency
Ancient, carnal need
Necessity of loathing the infinitesimal

I've met the devil in my dreams
She looked a lot like you
Dreaming in wakefulness
Awakened desire in dreams
What is my intention?

Do I provide a function
Or functionally provide?
Are you living in a nightmare?
Have you gone to sleep and died?

Synesthesia upon awakening
My sensory perceptions
The permutation of the
Infinite

Children of the wilderness
Remove us from the
Impurities of societal disorder
Relieve us of the blandishment
Of media driven fallacies
As the masses are hoarded,
Spoon fed their own flesh,
And directed onward
By the pusillanimous grave robbers
Awarded with the title of
Government official
Given diplomatic immunity
And free reign over
The direction of our lives

There lies a serenity
Beneath the quiet surface
Of the ocean
The ocean floor is vast,
Uninhabited promise

I have developed an acute prescience
For what will come

Man unknowingly conspires
Against himself,
For the good of man
Cannot overcome
The evils of mankind
Conquering in the name of
Worthless ideals
And fruitless endeavors

Conforming to nonconformity
You're only fooling yourself

Wandering about in a dreamy state
With unexplained expectations
For some sort of happy outcome
Welcome to my nightmare
My inescapable kismet
Defend me from myself
I have become
My own worst enemy
Just a hyena looking for
A lions share
More animalistic than
A starving predator

Morally ambivalent
Acting upon
Inconclusive notions
There is no stability
In this loose earth
Sinking ever deeper
Into life unbeknownst
To me
Quicksand enveloping
Sanity and conscience
Leaving behind
Only memories of
What we ought to have
Become

Been suppressing emotion
For so long
Seems like forever
Since I've gone
Numb to the heartache
Blind to the happiness
Rediscovered childhood
At the end of my life

The words become a
Flowing river
My pen cannot dance
Quickly enough
To capture my
Escaping tongue

Discovering escape
Through self sufficiency

Sanity is nomadic
Traveling from
Person to person
Mind to mind
At any given moment
We are all insane
Began as a stream of consciousness and developed into a monster.
Sentimental person, stars in your eyes and longing in your heart.
Looking everywhere but within, broken. Sentimental person, lost and stolen.

Leaning on a falling shoulder, drowning in another man's tears. Everybody running,  running from you.

Always knew you were pretty, but never truly understood your beauty; your worth tossed aside like an old rug or blanket.

Never stepping back, never taking a breath, your worn out body on overdrive. Spending your days in a psychological prison, a suicidal mind; a deadly master.

Walking with armored shadows by your sides, defending you from adulation and affection. Much like a wealthy man in an infamous alley, the territory of an infamous criminal.

A daily shedding of tears. The hot waxy tears of a candle rolling down your charred cheek. You continue to burn alone, ever surrounded by darkness.

Always reaching out for others, until your arm is ripped off, now you're limbless; disabled, stuck in the mud.

A waste of space, according to your unjustified terms, a lonely species that serves no purpose.

Fearing yourself, hiding yourself and disregarding yourself. Labeling yourself as a burden to others.

Ghostly smiles and ill-suited facades, eyebrows dragging themselves towards the earth's centre.

A body-builder's weight on your soft-jointed feet, the mass of your lonely misery strapped to your fickle ridge.

Being used; you in exchange for your acceptance. Clinging to past love because your present has none.

Enduring the pain of stationary motion,    going nowhere fast, constantly crashing into tragedies, repeatedly ramming into heartbreak.

Walking with cracked and bleeding soles, like an American Slave, whip marks on your back, a result of self-induced punishment.

Every wake is unwanted, everyday painful. Living for you, is like sea salt on a new born wound, only it never seems to heal.

Your body taken over by plaguing parasites, under your own toxic control. Forced to walk to the beat of a tormentor's drum, your tormentor, you.

Your tongue removed, unable to express yourself. Even in the tongue's presence, pain forces you to keep your mouth shut.

Nearing the Precipice, afraid of jumping, but desperate to be hauled off. Anxious to fall into the river down below, the River of The Dead, where, in your hopes, life is happier.

Your wrists and chest like sliced beef, every tear drop accompanied by the unwilling swipe of your razor blade. The redness of your being splashed onto the floor, then wiped away before anyone notices.

Hiding in a thorn bush from your predetermined destiny, each day comes and thorns dig deeper into your blue skin. Thick needles that you've become physically immune to, thick needles that still emotionally hurt.

Sharks further below circle around your tasteless body, patiently waiting to change you, rearrange your features, devour you for their own satisfaction.

Plebeian people disguised as friends, they show passing interest in your melancholy,  your sadness is what they will soon forget.

Wandering and stumbling in a plain white plane. No colour, no sound, no mercy, no gain. Trapped in Dysphoria. Trapped in a worm hole, eternally alone.

Forever falling into a bottomless pit, a hole reserved for the undeserving. But unlike other times, the rope let go of you. The rope that you clung tightly to, the rope that gave up on you.

One tone played on your broken piano, dysfunctional instrument. Your second chance stolen from you, your body deemed as junkyard worthy and thrown into the jaws of a junkyard dog.

Your mirror image distorted, visions clouded, unrecognizable is your face and your pupils, a vacant shell where your soul once hid.

Relying on heavy drugs after heavy drinking becomes ineffective. Heavy feet, a heavy heart, heavy burdens, heavy sadness.

Given a useless name by those who never knew you, forced to go by it, forced to go by them.

Your sweet pink lips hiding, behind them, bitter secrets. Secrets that you've become too ashamed to discuss even with yourself in the darkest night.

Cut short by the knees, not given a chance to run like the others. You've no choice but to let the storm cloud rest on your soft-haired skull. And when the cloud releases its rain, the drops are sharp like daggers. They shock and stab and hurt like the truth.

Your teeth white and pure, are the prison bars that trap you inside you, your smile is now your limited daylight break, a breath of barely fresh air before returning to your forcible detention.

Sentimental person, wallowing in your pitiful emotion, an undesired sensation that seems to follow you physically.

Emotional person, more valuable than you think; more exceptional than you Know.
Dedication

Inscribed to a dear Child:
in memory of golden summer hours
and whispers of a summer sea.

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
   Eager she wields her *****; yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
   The tale he loves to tell.

Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
   Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life,
   Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
   Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
   The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
   Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days--
Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore
   Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!

PREFACE

If--and the thing is wildly possible--the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.18)

"Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes."

In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural History--I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened.

The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it--he would only refer to his Naval Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand--so it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder. The helmsman* used to stand by with tears in his eyes; he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, "No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm," had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words "and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one." So remon{-} strance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards.

As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce "slithy toves." The "i" in "slithy" is long, as in "writhe"; and "toves" is pronounced so as to rhyme with "groves." Again, the first "o" in "borogoves" is pronounced like the "o" in "borrow." I have heard people try to give it the sound of the"o" in "worry." Such is Human Perversity. This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard works in that poem. Humpty-Dumpty's theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a port{-} manteau, seems to me the right explanation for all.

For instance, take the two words "fuming" and "furious." Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts incline ever so little towards "fuming," you will say "fuming-furious;" if they turn, by even a hair's breadth, towards "furious," you will say "furious-fuming;" but if you have that rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say "frumious."

Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known
words--

     "Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!"

Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that, rather than die, he would have gasped out "Rilchiam!"

CONTENTS

Fit the First. The Landing
Fit the Second. The Bellman's Speech
Fit the Third. The Baker's Tale
Fit the Fourth. The Hunting
Fit the Fifth. The ******'s Lesson
Fit the Sixth. The Barrister's Dream
Fit the Seventh. The Banker's Fate
Fit the Eighth. The Vanishing

Fit the First.

THE LANDING

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
    As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
    By a finger entwined in his hair.

"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
    That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
    What I tell you three times is true."

  The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
  A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
  And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
  Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
  Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a ******, that paced on the deck,
  Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
  Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
  He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
  And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
  With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
  They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
  He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots--but the worst of it was,
  He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
  Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
  But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
  He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends,"
  And his enemies "Toasted-cheese."

"His form in ungainly--his intellect small--"
  (So the Bellman would often remark)
"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
  Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."

He would joke with hy{ae}nas, returning their stare
  With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
  "Just to keep up its spirits," he said.

He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--
  And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--
He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,
  No materials were to be had.

The last of the crew needs especial remark,
  Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea--but, that one being "Snark,"
  The good Bellman engaged him at once.

He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
  When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only **** Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
  And was almost too frightened to speak:

But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
  There was only one ****** on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
  Whose death would be deeply deplored.

The ******, who happened to hear the remark,
  Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
  Could atone for that dismal surprise!

It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
  Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
  With the plans he had made for the trip:

Navigation was always a difficult art,
  Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
  Undertaking another as well.

The ******'s best course was, no doubt, to procure
  A second-hand dagger-proof coat--
So the Baker advised it-- and next, to insure
  Its life in some Office of note:

This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire
  (On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire,
  And one Against Damage From Hail.

Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
  Whenever the Butcher was by,
The ****** kept looking the opposite way,
  And appeared unaccountably shy.

II.--THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.

Fit the Second.

THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.

The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies--
  Such a carriage, such ease and such grace!
Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,
  The moment one looked in his face!

He had bought a large map representing the sea,
  Without the least vestige of land:
And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be
  A map they could all understand.

"What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators,
  Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?"
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
   "They are merely conventional signs!

"Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
  But we've got our brave Captain to thank
(So the crew would protest) "that he's bought us the best--
  A perfect and absolute blank!"

This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out
  That the Captain they trusted so well
Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,
  And that was to tingle his bell.

He was thoughtful and grave--but the orders he gave
  Were enough to bewilder a crew.
When he cried "Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!"
  What on earth was the helmsman to do?

Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:
  A thing, as the Bellman remarked,
That frequently happens in tropical climes,
  When a vessel is, so to speak, "snarked."

But the principal failing occurred in the sailing,
   And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed,
Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East,
  That the ship would not travel due West!

But the danger was past--they had landed at last,
  With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:
Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,
  Which consisted to chasms and crags.

The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low,
  And repeated in musical tone
Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe--
  But the crew would do nothing but groan.

He served out some grog with a liberal hand,
  And bade them sit down on the beach:
And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand,
  As he stood and delivered his speech.

"Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!"
  (They were all of them fond of quotations:
So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers,
  While he served out additional rations).

"We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
   (Four weeks to the month you may mark),
But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks)
  Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!

"We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
  (Seven days to the week I allow),
But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
  We have never beheld till now!

"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
  The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
  The warranted genuine Snarks.

"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
  Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
  With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp.

"Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
  That it carries too far, when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
  And dines on the following day.

"The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
  Should you happen to venture on one,
It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:
  And it always looks grave at a pun.

"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
  Which is constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes--
  A sentiment open to doubt.

"The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
  To describe each particular batch:
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
  From those that have whiskers, and scratch.

"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
  Yet, I feel it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm,
  For the Baker had fainted away.

FIT III.--THE BAKER'S TALE.

Fit the Third.

THE BAKER'S TALE.

They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
  They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
  They set him conundrums to guess.

When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
  His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
  And excitedly tingled his bell.

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
  Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "**!" told his story of woe
  In an antediluvian tone.

"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
  "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark--
  We have hardly a minute to waste!"

"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
  "And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
  To help you in hunting the Snark.

"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
  Remarked, when I bade him farewell--"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed,
  As he angrily tingled his bell.

"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,
  " 'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens,
  And it's handy for striking a light.

" 'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care;
  You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
  You may charm it with smiles and soap--' "

("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold
  In a hasty parenthesis cried,
"That's exactly the way I have always been told
  That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")

" 'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
  If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
  And never be met with again!'

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
  When I think of my uncle's last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
  Brimming over with quivering curds!

"It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!"
  The Bellman indignantly said.
And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more.
  It is this, it is this that I dread!

"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
  In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
  And I use it for striking a light:

"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
  In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away--
  And the notion I cannot endure!"

FIT IV.--THE HUNTING.

Fit the fourth.

THE HUNTING.

The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
  "If only you'd spoken before!
It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
  With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!

"We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
  If you never were met with again--
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
  You might have suggested it then?

"It's excessively awkward to mention it now--
  As I think I've already remarked."
And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
  "I informed you the day we embar
Silence Screamz Oct 2014
Crying asylum,
swallows me whole.
White coats surrounds me,
taking control.

Forcible pills,
from lady insane.
Swallow them down,
or wrenching in pain.

Rooms smell of *****
and ***** and such.
Banging your head,
it drives you just nuts.

There's Sam in the corner
counting the bugs,
Alice walks around
giving false hugs.

Look, standing there,
Mike's tearing his face.
Sue's so surine,
screaming in space.

Lights go dim
bed time is bout.
Voices are silenced,
cuz the needles came out.

Strapped to my bed,
I am piercing the dark.
Orderly walks by,
sharp as a lark.

Lying all quiet,
alone and not proud.
A squeal from the speaker,
quite vocal and loud.

Scurry in the hallway,
drinking from his cup.
"Dr. Smith to the Psych Ward!!!"
"Hurry, the patient woke up!!"
Chuck Dec 2013
The forcible torrents rave on, ceaseless
Turmoil spins in a topsy-turvy wave
Bodies in shambles, minds twisted, restless
Drama and crises, emotions we crave
Twerking with the devil, licking the sledge
Morison's snake ride to "The (darkest) End"
Pushing the limits over the damp edge
Following and tweaking the latest trend
Emotional upheaval - rebellion
Creative juices overflow with paint
There is art in every great Hellion
But little ink flows from the mighty saint
Be content in the rich chaos of youth
It's the rains that nurture the seeds of truth
Shakespearian Sonnet form in a series I'm writing for my kids.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt




In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.

Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"

A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,  
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,

If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life

Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.

Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.

But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day

A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
{chasing after the thief,
** **, his bro}

against whom events have conspired

In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.

Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go


Jan, 2012
Hal Loyd Denton Aug 2012
Stitching

From a grand church in France to a rustic barn in Sweden the focal point and fascination is the door that
Has a key protruding in the lock but it has with time lost the screws that held it snug against the door
And the door frame there is no flat lumbered board now it is just a very deep splintered lines the color
Of auburn brown with a low gleaming in the setting sun I put my hands out and touch this rustic place in
Time an explosion of thoughts blast the mind a life lived well with purpose that endures with use the
Seasoned is expressed a stitching that is the fabric of life forms over muscle and sinew this outer
Garment does not belie the inner soul but in experience and in action it promotes and assures value
It passes through the vestiges of time the gray mist speaks with whispered mystery bur anchored at
Your center is the intractable character that sets the tone of your life a solid structure presents a forcible
Argument yes the elements have taken their toll but by doing so they have removed the green untried
Wood now the occasional creaking occurs but not of breaking but the stalwart rises in common skies
Privilege gleams the stranger or intimate friend is in the presence of the assured there is no pretense
This truth as sound as time and wisdom crowns walls and bedrock foundation you have come upon
The investment that God has provided and runs deep without constraints you can stand and muse
Here and as an invisible oracle your questions will be answered they will float on silent wind and mark
You as different you will be refreshed a redeeming will surge through you timeless affirmation will
Speak you will know it is sound it is steps that are sure when so much is cheap and just for show you
Will grow strong and tall your shadow will be the challenge to those who waste themselves on base
And worthless misgivings of life you will possess the power to be a place of refuge a fortress where
The powerless and helpless are provided comfort and instruction no longer will evil and its devices
Enslave the helpless there will be that irrefutable place of giving that will conquer a world bent on
Destruction.
Devon Webb Dec 2014
I can see myself
destroying
my own dignity,
popping it like
bubble-wrap
and watching as it
deflates
under my
forcible
fingertips.
Aaron E Dec 2018
Got lost and stopped by the grotto
struck deals with villains,
and though I'm in my feelings
kneeling and *******
I payed to be ripped off
cadences dip, lost the lotto

Watery graves appealing strange
the solution is lame
the parade's an insane path to follow
Radical urchin burden
grifting the current
mechanisms infected
luring fevers to wallow in, ad absurdum
fathom futility in survival
famine imbibes a stifled echo of revival
in my head

I'm just playing dead for my recital

better informed to the abhorrence I'm entitled

feathered in form alluring sword alarm from Michael

clever to wars imparted forcible and vital, to the era

but staring in awe before the cycle

Bearing a maw beneath the throes along the final.

Bury me after my heart
and guard informal notions of the lauded
if calluses lift the filthy and applaud it

whittle the simply to the too intense or lawless
for a history glistening through a rose of sickly fondness
I won't ask if you were listening to all this
but I must admit
I don't think I can trust you

to be honest...
This is actually kind of a rough draft, and something I may expand on later. There's a lot I cut and plan to add later with more specific wording, but I wanted to have at least the brief version up, in case I changed my mind about really drilling this out.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2023
The Show


I awake circa two AM to observe an Earth under siege.
Fearsome blasts of lighting lightening unceasing,
illuminate a sky that is divided into two; a grey white
boundary-less blob of cloud, bolt pricked in a steady
but random pattern for at the least the hour since I was
awakened and a blackened horizon lining defining the land of men.

I debate my choice of word; at some point I slip from the bed to
relieve myself for such is the age of burden I currently occupy;
but my fingers disobey wanting to write relive myself,
to assure myself, that I am, will be, a surviving witness to an awesome and terrifying spectacle, noting the appropriate dueling nature of “awesomeness” for it brings a joyous awe and a paralyzing fear with equal measure, but without any trace of forcible distributive equity.

The lightening is fulsome; sometimes well hid above in a
single whiteness that is the very definition of singularity,
without cue, but within, Z shape bolts of comic book proportionality.

Here’s the rub! All this demonstration is done in a complete,
comforter (!) of silence. The house periodically rumbles its
machinery, whether in fear, or because it must mechanically
do so in the same manner we breathe, or simply to alert me
that I frail human, am at the mercy of the skymaster above,
and the manmade array of pipes, compressors, big apparatuses pinstalled in the earth below to serve until they don’t, and then
we must service them.

The silence is amazing for it is total and domineering and absent thunder. The Show occurs in the largest venue available, the Bay,
but the well behaved audience makes no sound, not a whit,
no coughing, sneezing puncturing or punctuating (reader’s choice) the eerie quiet of a speechless world that cannot speak, as if its larynx was removed, but it’s eye were restored to the age of 20/20.

Well over an hour, closer to two, the demonstration is concluded
and we return to the supine, neutrally, even emotionless, for the gamut and gauntlet we have survived dry and in safety has
concluded and the thick picture window did its job admirably.

Wait Now, a pockmark of bursts in the absence of all light, the now blackness has replaced everything, except for a momentary pinprick of of cloud framed orange hue, a shell exploding far across the bay.

S. sleeps relatively unperturbed, until she does not; for a long minute she rattles the ship, kicking tantrum violently both legs, until the covers are disarrayed, only to fall back into a deep blue colored stage of sleep, and pulling the covers onto the custom fitted aperture neath the chin.

This secondary, receding lightening demonstration that has been taking place; as if a heavenly Lincoln~Stephens oratorical battle occurs over the nearby Atlantic of  nonstop proportion, leaving my my mind to dwell on this topic:

Resolved: This man, that pens this missive about sky missiles is a good writer, or even reasonably ok.

I am representing both sides (duh). and skip to the judges decision without further ado, for brevity is a skill I am profoundly lacking and appreciate, and the eloquence of the debaters is acutely not bad, as prideful acumen is the standard.

Sorry. Split decision, 3 -2, he is merely an ok writer.

Now past 4 AM, glance outside but once more, and there a slow slewing of dawn light emerging like springtime buds, the trees on the lawn are faintly distinguishable, outlined against a normalized, post-storm night sky full of debris EXCEPT in the not-faraway-enough-distance, a few straggler lighting bolts are yet appearing to remind me the night is indeed always awesome and full of terror, just like a good poem.

4:22 AM Jul 5 2023
Trevor Gates Sep 2013
Polished nails and faint fingertips
Soothing touch, but quaint red lips
Almond-shaped eyes, hazel iris gleam
Fair skin worthy of the loveliest dream

These words on paper
The very first
Starting the rhyme and verse
With more moments
And stories
All so poetic and stoic
Bleeding ink to fresh paper
Bleeding hearts to woeful ears
Tracing the lines
Of my formative years

Ashy mist skies nestled over
Bleak sleeping mountains
Ghost wood trees likes hands
Reaching from the earth

A girl named Olivia
Sitting in my grade school class
Dark hair woven
Threads of black silk

I never knew her as she grew up
Just an illusory form of a forgotten past
Imagining her as she could be now
I could walk up to her
And say:
      
       “Hello Olivia, It’s been a while
        You changed since being a child
        Your beauty’s been enhanced
        Maybe you’ll give the chance
        To talk and reminisce
        I just can’t resist
        Everything I see and hear
        Has never been so clear
        You make me feel content
        Whole, serene and free
        I just wish this wasn’t a dream.”

All things I wish I could say
To a person I could never forget
Where you simply forgot me
Because I moved away
And you lived your life

Stupid poems of love
Stupid songs of strife
I don’t want these things in here
On here
On these new pages
These quips don’t represent me
The way I want to be recognized
These aren’t the things I want to
Talk about.

Let these crisp pages tell of mutant women
And ******-****** fiends frolicking fiercely
Distorted, cathartic characters collapsing
Rippling, regal rodents ******
And cesspools shaping  
Bubbling, contorting, boiling, simmering
Cow intestines infused with cake batter
Incestuous fairies hopping and dancing to screaming metal
Crunching, chugging riffs and thunder-booming bass lines
Frightening, fulsome, fearsome, ******-up fire starters
Worshiping, boars and their tusks and piling carcasses
Blasting kick-drums and rolls of stomping toms
Orchestra of darkness, Symphony of Hell
Masquerade of puppets and angel witch choirs
Demon women and devil men, swamping
Over bodies and pulling me into the pits
Where the pleasure my body and tear my flesh
Eradicating goodness and lights
With blood, pain, salivating mouths over hardened *****
******* **** and trusting in and out like wild men
In a lake of burning coals  
And sins

I observe these happening(s) in this modern day
So I must write them and you shall read
And in the process
You will be
Shocked, surprised, disgusted, appalled and desired
Your body reacting to these words and phases

    Ever wonder what my voice sounds like?

I do too, at least in your mind

This is my voice.
This is not your own.

Bourgeoisie dinner parties fit for cannibals
White weddings stained with septic blood
Children racing across the burning fields
Chasing the reaper and his friends
rapid heart beats
cold sweating hands
stomach pains churning and squealing
forcible labor to invisible babies
pulling back lips and gums
and retracting teeth
sinking into warm necks
******* and stretching
moans
and beauty through depravity
animistic, egregious
brutal love and subtle kisses
bleeding hearts
and
bleeding pens


This isn’t bad.

I like this

Would Olivia find this mind attractive?
Maybe
Maybe not
It doesn’t matter
These scribbles and dabbles
On these ****** pages
Are the beginnings to something more
All sprouted from the memory
Of a girl.
There are road maps and guidelines to writing. Sometimes, the greatest adventure and experience comes from ditching the map and taking that off-road journey into that never-ending horizon.

I try to think of goals and themes to tackle when composing new poetic compositions, but as I struggle I come to see that nothing seeps through the mind easily when it is forced. Presenting dictation to your thought process is the bare broken mirror to your psyche. Later in life, it can be a useful tool for any artist.

Be honest with yourself, don't try to accomplish just one thing. Never aim to please others and don't conform to rules laid before others.

Breaking away creative spontaneity, discourse and unmeasured wonderment.
The Landing

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true."

The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a ******, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck
Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots--but the worst of is was,
He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends",
And his enemies "Toasted-cheese"

"His form is ungainly--his intellect small--"
(So the Bellman would often remark)--
"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."

He would joke with hyaenas, returning their stare
With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
"Just to keep up its spirits," he said.

He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--
And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--
He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,
No materials were to be had.

The last of the crew needs especial remark,
Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea--but, that one being "Snark",
The good Bellman engaged him at once.

He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only **** Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
And was almost too frightened to speak:

But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
There was only one ****** on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
Whose death would be deeply deplored.

The ******, who happened to hear the remark,
Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
Could atone for that dismal surprise!

It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
With the plans he had made for the trip:

Navigation was always a difficult art,
Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
Undertaking another as well.

The ******'s best course was, no doubt, to procure
A second-hand dagger-proof coat--
So the baker advised it--and next, to insure
Its life in some Office of note:

This the Baker suggested, and offered for hire
(On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire
And one Against Damage From Hail.

Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
Whenever the Butcher was by,
The ****** kept looking the opposite way,
And appeared unaccountably shy.
sleeplessnxghts Nov 2013
For so long while the rushing rivers broke through the dams resting below the bridge where we used to share the secrets that flowed out like blood oozing from your aggressive heart
I laid myself in a grave with the dirt covering my body but leaving my mouth to gasp the air that you controlled and seemed to restrict me from living
I've beaten my angry mind, trying relentlessly to compel myself that our memories together are ephemeral
But as often as the sun rises and as accurate as the tides roll up on shore
You are the moon dragging them there, a forcible action corrupting the truth to exist in a fabricated manor, overbearing, inescapable, we shared a time lapse I can no longer deflect from my remembrances
It was you who sent the raven to my window, perched up on the ledge, opening it's beak to formulate the sound that would entail a long and arduous torture of being in love with someone who could hardly provide me with so much as a smile
Instead a laundry list of tears flowed out of the machines, overflowing the surfaces with salty indications of an unhappy relationship
But evasive behaviors were your M/O
A constant recurrence of neglect, I watch the raven fly away leaving the chill breeze to ruffle my hair and scramble my thoughts
How could I breathe with the perpetual exhalation of carbon dioxide collecting within my lungs
The very breath you sent in through your imminent kiss that tore my lips apart?
The broken dam shelters all of the lost love and all of the mutual secrets that fled your lips and right into the ears of hungry souls begging for a reason to shatter me into pieces
Sleepless nights and dreamless awakenings
I cannot house these emotions any longer, but you won't leave, you found the key and the open door never fazes you
Why do I find you resting in my bed and smoking your daily cigarette on my porch?
Your hazardous fumes are encircling my already dazed confusion, filling my lungs with your cancerous habits
My thoughts grow as stale as the ***** I douse myself in, highly flammable, as you hold the lighter
You would much rather see me suffer in the memories than burn me to the ground and relieve my inner pain
You sadist.
Win some,lose some
read the news some and then read more
what is it that we choose win or lose it's what we get
and I bet
that charity, though is about what is received don't be deceived
by gifts galore
the people giving want even more than an equal share
but that's not fair of me
I can see and but for lack of clarity I'd see it all
if I could only stand a little taller to look at details even smaller I'd be sure of what it is I'm trying to say
but that's not going to happen any time today or tomorrow
maybe I could borrow steps and step up a notch or two
see just who and what and where you are and the reasons why you're giving for.
I can't accept if I do not know
just where the giving's come from and where it is you think it's going to go.

You'll have to tell me and really slow I'm not as young as
not so much fun as
can't run as fast as years ago
so be slow and take your time for that is all I've got
and I won't be putting back the clock to please you
do what you do
what you've always done
you've got to have some fun
and win or lose
the news is just the same
just a pain
no win or gain it's
a prying,trying,lying game.

The headlines deadleg me
peg me out
and all my doubts are reinforced by forcible editorials and pictures which from a time what seems immemorial leer at me
from page three
I can see me going round the twist at everything they tell me that I've missed
I'm pssed off now
and p
ssing off to 'the brown cow'
to get p*ssed.
brandon nagley Sep 2015
All yearling spring birds far from distant home,
Xanthic in Gothic gospels soot and yolk,
Where's one's soft spoken voice to calm me on the phone?
Formidable pulses,
The danger of convulsion's spread on like buttered oil!!!
Enormity soil's the defendant delirium...
Such agnostic aquariums stinkingly similar upstate!
Broken lives to sunset drive,
Specimen speckles,
Forcible tassels hover one's decree!!
Litigious locust's buzz creepingly,
Indecently exposing all's funk!!!
Concauctions of fake adoption's,
Concievers break locks off trunks!!!
Omit me out of this obdurate oasis,
Wherein one feel's spacious,
Free to cometh and goeth!!!
Freedom doth thou know?
Operatic Mrs and Mr's,
Minuets for thy ridiculed wishes!!
Ponderer of newness,
Cleaner's as thy tub spills over,
Thy heels click together just to get thy kicks!!!
Hit the streets thou feathered bird of no beak,
Thou tally marker of no means!!!
Foreman to thy own people's idea's,
Nourish me with a new novice,
Nurture me with heartbrake hotel,
Buildeth me a standing ovation of a one love palace!!!
Brave heart fairytale,
Doth thou stand to move about?

Listener of radio tunes,
Art thou close??


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Raven Brewer Oct 2014
Sun
It makes me sad to know
That to me you’re the sun,
but I’m only one of your planets
Constantly orbiting at a distance

I guess that I’m lucky.
At least I’m not a star,
In a different solar system
Glittering in the background

But they are lucky too,
They can’t get ****** in
By your forcible pull
They are free from your gravity
brandon nagley May 2015
All yearling spring birds far from distant home,
Xanthic in Gothic gospels soot and yolk,
Where's one's soft spoken voice to calm me on the phone?
Formidable pulses,
The danger of convulsion's spread on like buttered oil!!!
Enormity soil's the defendant delirium...
Such agnostic aquariums stinkingly similar upstate!
Broken lives to sunset drive,
Specimen speckles,
Forcible tassels hover one's decree!!
Litigious locust's buzz creepingly,
Indecently exposing all's funk!!!
Concauctions of fake adoption's,
Concievers break locks off trunks!!!
Omit me out of this obdurate oasis,
Wherein one feel's spacious,
Free to cometh and goeth!!!
Freedom doth thou know?
Operatic Mrs and Mr's,
Minuets for thy ridiculed wishes!!
Ponderer of newness,
Cleaner's as thy tub spills over,
Thy heels click together just to get thy kicks!!!
Hit the streets thou feathered bird of no beak,
Thou tally marker of no means!!!
Foreman to thy own people's idea's,
Nourish me with a new novice,
Nurture me with heartbrake hotel,
Buildeth me a standing ovation of a one love palace!!!
Brave heart fairytale,
Doth thou stand to move about?

Listener of radio tunes,
Art thou close??
touka Jul 2019
here and there

a crackle from the fire

an interruption in July's air

a forcible boom

where I wince until it lessens


but I smile, teeth persimmon orange

like those smoldering flecks of wildflower

that then fail their color, dwindle to the dirt


I picture my ivories falling out of my mouth in the same way

grey and withered


I rise, combust and fall

with these wild roman candles


like cassiopeia


I gaze in her general direction


dragged into the night by the hem of her peplum


I don't care to make out her shape

nor the throne she's tied to

by rope or by chain


her parable pressed into the scaffolding of the sky


a warning; an imposition
like sky-lit lithium
and its retinal imprint


I smile, teeth persimmon orange

turn my face

perception fails in such ways;
in these bold, bright, burning crossettes




I see figures






an arm extends
I̵̧̧̢̡̢̧̢̢̨̡̡̧̛͕̘̪̗̳͍͍̼̝̩̖̠̗̹̭͖̘̘̖̪̱̩̬̺̖̹͎͕̖͍̬̼̜͍̝͚̝̺̙̤̬̪̭̹̙͍͇͍̜͎͎̦͈̪̯̪̱̩̤̦͖̻̞̻̺͖̪͕̠̟̰͈̥̦̪͙͕̖͉͕̖̣̬̬͓̪̜̝͕͇̩̻̝̯̖̳̠͕͕̜̦͉͔̲̯̹͍̙̭̮̟̱̲͚͚̠̹͕̙͔̮͔̞͛͊̅̅̆̍̓̋͗͌̃͒̒͌͊̀̓̽̈́̒̇̋̉̓̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ ̷̨̧̡̧̢̢̨̧̡̢̡̨̨̨̡̨̢̧̨̡̡̛̛̛͎̬̻̮̤͇͙͔̤̜͚̞̞̫̠̠̗̭̱͔̜̘͎͔͍͍͈̤̳̠͎̞̘͕̳̭̹̼̬̬̗̖͎͉̠̙̘̦̜̻̣̭͇̙̱͇͇̣̲̹͕̜͔͍͔̪̜̭͖̗̩̺͚̝̗̼̭̫͈̦̜̝̖̲̲̲̝͚̯͖̝̲͇̣͎͇̜̗̩̠͚̰̳̣̗̙̺̺̗̹̠̙̘̘̭̗͖̺̙͎̭̺̣̞͉̤̠̻̲̳̖͇̪̯͚͍̥̘͖̲̼̳͖͇̻̬̬͖̩̭̣̯͎͓̤͎̞͚̱̯͉͇͖̠̣͓̲͍͉́͒̓͗̈́͐̾͗̇̽̀̎̃̓̈́̊̈̆̓͊́͗͐̋͛̿͒̾̑̌̽͂̔͂̄͗̂͐̿̂͆́̍̊̔̎̈́̊̔̀̈̇̇̈̃̐͛̄̽̈̎̊͗̈́͒̅̈́͋͐̑͊̿͐̅̓̀̀͆̇̇͂͌̓͐͌͌͐͌͂͌̀͆̅̌͑͊͗́̀͘̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅf̸̢̢̧̡̢̧̢̨̡̨̧̧̡̧̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̬͚̥̯͎̘̹̫̥̹̥̟͇̘̱͇̱͙̩̰͉͔͖͕͉͓̣̲̲͙͉̯͕̦̤͖̮̼͖̺̮͎̞͈͈̗̦͕̪̮̮̦͕̦̜̭͚͎̙͓͉̗̤̱̼͇̯̩̼̫͓̠̝̱̳̗͈̫̲͉͎̩̟̼͓̘̳̼̭͙̣͔̹͇̰̤͙̻͈̖̙͕̯̠̪̲͔̹̩̬̻̖̬͕̗͉̯͙͔͍̪̳̥͇͖̗̙͖͉̰͇̻̝͙̱̱̯̀̆̈́͋̎͂̂̆̒̽̑̆͂̊̒͌̔͒̈́͑̓̇̆̈́̎̇̐͆̀͂̌̉͒́̄́͋́͊̔͊̉̈́́͌̄̋̿̔̀͒́̈̒͑̾͂͑̋̈́̀̈͂̄̑̑͂̿̀̎̑̂̓̏̎̒̇̑̍͑̄̾͂̿̍̉̇͗̊͐̌̏̆̌̊̾̂͋̌́͋̇̉̂̑͊̓̓̇́̊̒͌̑̈́̈́̍̈́̿̅̐͆̆̎̂̉̉́̎̎̈̾̿̉̅͐͛̀̎̏͌̈́̏͑̔͗̋̀̑̾̾́̃͗̐̀̑̊̏͌̈́̄̕̚͘̕͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅi̷̢̡̨̢̧̛̱̘̬̝̬̺̱̯͎̮̘͇̹̜̱̗̱͇̞͓̝̘̻̥̟̭͓̼͉̳̭̪̩̓̉͋͛̌͛̾͆̽͌̓̈̒͒̓̏̃̍̔̌̆̄́̿̅͂́́̓̏̅͗̾̎̾̄̑̈́̾͂̆̆̀̒̍͆̽̃͂́̈́̍̈́̇̓͋̕͜͠͝ͅn̷̡̢̡̧̛̖̥̲͈̤͉̙̣̮͉̪̤̬̺͍̘̟̹͍̤̮͎̮̯̭̙͉̘̗̯̳̩̠̫̥͔͉̠̠̣͕̦̤͎̹̳̗̺̲̥̝̻͈̗̟̰̟̗͙̱̼̹̬̫̠͚̯͔̞̞̤̹̼̮͕̠̻̙̅̂̏̓̈̍̓̿̈̾͗̈̊̿́̈́̌͑͋̄̀̓̒͛̌͌͐̽͛̽̀̿͛̉̒̏͌̽̄̑͊̃͌̀̈́̿͆̆̓̆̈̓̓͐̀͂̈́́̃̈́̿̂͌̆̊́̈́̾̒̾̈́̊͒͊̉́̊̅̃̽͑̂̀͑̃̎̊̈͆̅͗̇̾̏͊̏̑͛̄̓̈͗̑͌̍̆̈́̉̈̔͑̿̈̑̐͑͗͂͒̾͌̓̉̎̈́̃̑͆̆͊̉́̐̿̑͘̕̕̕̕̕͘̚̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅd̶̨̨̨̢̢̨̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̞̼̩͈̻̖̦̯̠͔̺͙͚̜̠̟̰̱̜̻̝̻͈͙͓̤̞͓͎̳̻͚̣̜̲̱̹̫̄͑̆͆͋͊̓̄̉̇̃̎̏̆̊̃̇̀̇̄͊͒̍͗͗̅̿̋̍̈́́͐̐̀̇̄̆̒̾̒͗̿̈́̎̓͋̐͂̈́̈́̈́̄͐͐̀̄̀̍̆̑̿̎̐͆͂̉̓̂̃́̉̉̍͗̐̇̐͆̒͒̇̽̄̒̐͊̾̎̅̈́̍̾̄̾͑̅̓̀̌̎̍̈́̓͗͆̀̆̒̈́̇̌̀̽́̾̐͌̑̉́̾̄̌͘͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ ̴̡̢̢̧̨̧̧̨̢̡̢̢̧̡̛̛̣͖̤͓̫̝͖͇͇͓̜̗̟͖͕̹̘͚̗̥̩͙̤̰̠̤̝̰̹̭̗̹͔͍̖̭͔̖̬̥̼̫̯̯̞̠̮̫̮̣͍͕̤͇̜̥̗̗̲̯̫̱͚͙̟̗̹̙̻̘̹̭̮̟̝̲͉̙͔̰͚̠͕̫̭͙̺̘̮͉̮͙̪͍̳͍͕̮̲̮͕̣̩̺̬̜̩̼̫̤̥͙̜͇͚̭̼̗̳̦̘͇̹̟͇̬͔̞̱̺̣̤͚̜̹̼̠̩̫̟̪̲̟̭̫͓̭̗̱̲̻̖̪̻͎̘̟̞̣̬̗̔̽̅͋̉̈́̈́̈̓̓̆̅͊͒̉̇͊͌̉͂̑̏̂̂͋̉͊̽͑͂͗̇̂́͋̎̉̈̅̊̀͑̈́̑̀͐̉̓̆̿̅̅̌̉̏̋̍̓̀͛̅̎̄̓̀̇̀̿̎̏̓͆̂̐͊͆̑͐͑̍̈̈́̒̌̀̀̕͘̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅa̵̧̨̧̛̛̞̘̼̗͎̱̪̯̺̳̰̝̤̼͕͎͎̻̭͔̜̮̫̜̞̭̤̖͔̰̝̳̼̪̭̘̠͉̮͇̹͔̻͈̺̹̠̰̭̳̻͈̭̱̺̣̤̘̥̘̦͈̤̫̘̺̟̮̬̼̫̯͍̞͛͂́́͒͋͊̃͆̈́̔̀̑̆́͒̒̐̉̿͋́̂̓͂̐̆̈́̈́̃̀̒̆͂͒̿̿̋́̽̍̓̑̿̈́͒̽̀̽̇̾̇̽̃̇͑̋́̈̋̇̉̽͋̐͛̿̄̈́̽̈̋͆̓̈́̏̓͛̂̉͐̾̃͑̆̄̽̏̑̂́̐͑̒͊̀̈́̾̐̉̊̀̔̍̎̀͆̃͂͑̏̓̓͆̏̇͑͆̋͛͆̀̌̇̐̓͐̎͗̌̊̔̏̒͗̂̓̀̂͘̕̕̕̚̕͘̚͘̕͘̚̕͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠ͅ ̸̢̡̢̧̧̧̧̨̨͙̰̙̙̪̗̻͎͇̱̱̩̩̜̞̣̩̠̪̝͖͓̥̠̭̪̖͙̱̘̞̦̟͚̤̝̖͖̺̜̥͚̲̤̫̖͖͚̤̻̳̭͔̗̩̟̬̲͚͔̦̘̪̩͓͖̠͍̩͖̜͈͇͓͉̲̟̮̝̭͍̼̩̙̘̗̩̙̠̞̗̻̲̬̹̯̩̲̹̘̩͉̗̲̰̦̼̙͓̭̘̼̺͈̤̝̃̽̈̑́̈́̆́̀̇̃̒͊̋͌̑͛̊͒̔̉͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠ẃ̶̨̧̨̨̧̢̛̘̮̣̪̥̤̪͓̙̼̹̝͙̣̞̙͖͖̳͚̦̘͚̟͙͚̙̜͍͇̦̘̬̭̩̼̯̲̙̜̰̦͍͕̱̜̖̬͙̰̜̦̗͙̫͖̣͙͔̘̞̝͓͎̞͉̭͍̮̫̜̻͙̱̟̝̞͙͈͔͓͓̬̻̓̀̔̒̃̇̄̏̂̃̒̐̀̈́̽̅̾̈́̾̽͆̔́̉̓̋̈̇̾͊̐̊̑͗̾̌͛͊̎̓̎͋͌́̓͛̂̐̇͋̂͌̿́́̊̈́̌̔̐͊̏̽̈́̆̓̓̏́̃̏̾̇̅̈́͌̂̆̒͒̈́̇̆̍̒̔̊͐̓̒́̔̏͑͒̈͂́̈́̊̆̊̉͆͊̌̅͌̂̃͗͊̈́̓̈̀̔̍͌̍̈͒̔̍̽͐͛͒̈́͛̋͗̔͑̐̎͑̏͌̕͘̚̕̚͘̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅa̷̢͕̰͖̖̩̺̫̭̣̹̩̤͆̀̒̃̂̑̈́̃̄͘̚͝͝ͅr̶̢̧̡̢̡̡̛̛̘͕͖̯̫͎͙̯̻̜̙̫̲̙̙̣̳̱̮̬͈͓̮̳͕͖̭̙̟̫͓̝͚̫̥͕̩̤̤̬̝̱͈͙̱̻̲̤̗̺͕̼͍̟̠͚̖̦̝̠̼̗͉̹̪̺̹̬̗̗̩̲̥̥̤̞̪̹̳̥͙̩̖̹͖͇̮̝̞̮̤̳̰͓̻͓̻̳͔͖̖͍̻̤͇͕͇̅̿̏̓̽̂́̀̀̊̓͑̅̽́̿͂̒̆̇̄̈̽̀͆͗͋̔̽̇̈́̾̽̈́̿͂͑̔̓͑͆͌̾́̿͐̂̋̑̇̌͌̒̍̈̾̒̂̃͐̃̿̏̀̍̌͐͑͑̅͛́̅͊̔̾̏̈́͆̎̃̀̑́͐̉̀̾͂̏̈́̈́̏̔̔̓̓͆͘̚͘̕͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅm̵̡̛̼̫̖͍͓̱̬̰̣̺͔̠̣̤̱̞̲̌͂̆͊̃̀̏̊́̍͂͗̆̎̀̿̓̋́̃̌̐̆̑̈́̇̃̋̊̐̈́̊̔̊̈́̀̀͑͗̍͑̐̓͗̔̊̾̒̏͛̿͗́͛̄̎̅̐͛́̎̂̔̽̂̎́̐͐̾̓̏́̉̽̈̄͐̋̈́͗̿̎̉̽͑̌̓̈̒̑̿̅̓̓̎́̒̄͌̒̌̃͒̾̀̒̽̋̄̽̔͒͑̒̍̌͆͒͑͐̍̆̈́͑͗̃̔̐̊͑͆̀̀͂̆̃͌̿̐̉̀̾̃͆̓̈́͊͗̀͛̈̀̾̐̈̊͗̌̈́̎͌̀̚͘̚̚̚̚̚̕̕̕̕̚͘͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅ ̷̡̛̛̼̲̺̭͖̹̭̗͔̼̼̺̠̱̳̗͚͉͌̿͐̓̃̄̾̌͌̑̎͊̈̂̋̒̀̽͌͛̔́͐̀̐̃͛̾̈́͛̔̋̀̈́͒͆̎͌̌̂̔̄̈̈́͆̎͗͌̏̋̀̂͒̉͊̐̄̽̈́̏̆̆̐̄́̄͒̒̍̂̆͑͛̎̒́̐̿̋̍̅͂̓̅̀̿͋̃̉͊̿̚͘͘̕̕̕̕̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅş̴̢̛̛̛̛̛̞̱̗̳̭̯̬̻̟̬̻̰̙̮̬͇͚̬͙͍̦̟̮̺̹̤̬͔͕͎̦̥̝͉̳̅̎̒̉̅̋̓͑̂̉̅̋̔̑̔͗̿͗̎̈́̅̉͑̿̏̈́̌̐̍̆̀̄̈́̒̽͊́̋͑͒͌̀͗͒̊͐̒̐́́̄̐́͂́́̀̆͋̈́̄̓̒̌͊̀̊̿̌̌̓̀̐̀̈́͗̅̆̊̅͆̊̒̈́̉̀̃̿̓͌̃́̊͊͌̇̄̊̀̏̾̆̔͛͗̽̃͐̀͐̀̈́̅́̐̄̌̈́́̏̃͒̀̔̿̈̓̋́̉̾̊̿̎͒̀̌̈̇̿̋͂́́͒̓̊̓̌͛̆̏͌̄̓̿͑̃̉́͂͂̏̆̅̇́͑̓̉̚̚̚̚͘͘̚̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅp̸̧̢̧̧̧̨̧̧̧̡̡̧̡̧̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̫͓̟͙̯͔̣̘̯̯̮̯̜̼̝̙̪̮̤̙̙̫͇̟͈̙͉̪͚̖̰̞̜̟̥͓̻͉̱̼̺̖̱̝͚̼̬̥͉̮̱̟͎̼̠̮͎͙̹̙͔͇̝̲͕̥̫̙͙̩͉̫̫̺̤͖̞͙͉̫͉̰̫͔͖̳̠̙̻͈̟̰͉̪͎̤̭̲͓̲̲̥͓̣̲̞̭͉͓̠̼̰͈̤̙͖̣̳͔̦͓̯͉͇̱͉͚̹͚̥̰̪̘̈́̄̈͂̓͋͌̌̑̔̊̾̈́̃̍͌̌̆̊̀̽́̒͛̇̀̋̀̑̀̂͆͋͐͛̈́͛̈̾͊͛̔̃̽̑͛́̇̎̇̀̔̎́̿͑̉̾̋͗͗̊͆̆̈́̋͑̑̾̎̈́͒̏̍͆̉̆̉̀͆̉̄̏͑̈́̽̋͌͛͑͑̆̿̇̈́̌̈́̿̍̾̉͊͛̄̈̈́̇̽̇̄͊͆͆͗̌̒̾̈̂͊͑̀̌̓̚̕͘͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅǫ̴̧̨̛̛̛̫͔̠̺̯̥͈͎͈̞̙͎͓͎̠̺̻̻̣͈͖̲̲̱̞̬̜̲̯͎̖͈͖̗̲̖̯̩̟̯̠͔̪̒͂͌́̀̾̌͑̒̃͂̔̓̆͗̔̎̀̔́͊̿͒͆̀͛͋͒͑͛͌̑̂̉̑̉͊̎̓́͋̾̋̆̈́̓̀͒́̊͂̈́͐̈́̆̆͂̈̎͋̍͌̆̉̆̎͋̋̋̓̎̌̆̇̋̕͘̕̕͜͝͠͝͝͝t̶̨̡̡̡̨̢̧̡̢̢̨̛̛̛̛̗̣̘͉͇̠̲̳̺̹̩̱̺̫͉̫̱̣̻̹̻̼͔̜̼̟̖̟̠͍̲͉͎͚͚͇̮̰̱͚͇͓̞̻̭̱͖̫͕͚̱͕͎̰̫̼̣͕͔̩̙̰̻̙̲͙̠͖͈̲̜̞̫̮̙̤̫̱͇̬̞̩̼͇͉͉͎͔̙̪̩̫̞̬̪̱̠̯̩̮̗͎̬͉̺̰̯̣̯͚̗͕̐̆̀̋̇̀̆̅̋̅͌̈͐̀͂́̇̒͆̏́̑̂̉͐̎́̾́̓͋̑̑̆͐͐̽̾̄̆̓̿̊̒̉̌̔̓̂͆̓̈́̔͆͗̏́̊͛̒̍̄̀̃̎̅̋͂̍̀̉͒̀̾̈́͐̾͆̑̎̈̎̾̄͗̃̅͋͌͂̌͊͛̉͐͆̀̇̉̉̽̅̏̏̔̀̋̔̐̉͑̂̀̂͑̈́́͛̓͐͋̐̿̽̇̌͂̒̐͆̂̽͊̽̎͑͆̈́̽͌̎͗̇̓͆̔̋͗̓̅̀̏́̌̀̔͗̿̀̓́̑̍̈́̒̃̋͑̎̀̎̊̓̾̕̚̚̕͘̕̚̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅ ̷̧̡̨̢̧̛̛̹̜̼̪͎͇͕̖͉̪̺̩̠̠̼̫͚͎̳͓̟͈̙̳͖̼̟̰͚̰̬͇̮̹͑̈́͗̓͛̊̓̽̐͊̄͐̔̉̀̓͋͛͋́͊̒͊́̽̌̅̈̉̽̏͒̄̑́̒̔̅́̓͌̌͋̀̽͆̓͂̋͒͒̇̒̽̊̈́̓̓̓̑̋̄̔̌͛̾̀̎͑̓̿̃̾͆̀̎̔̊̆͑͂̔͌̌́̓͂̊̐̓̃͆̋̏̃̆̈́͂͛͐̀͆̂́̋̔̉̐̈̐͐͂̈́̈͗̽͆͐̿͗̎͛̈́̎̽̋̅͘͘̕̕̕͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅį̶̧̧̢̢̡̨̨̢̢̡̧̨̛̝̣͈͓̮͍͍̦̲͇̯͚̞̤͓̜̲̱̯̙̞̰̺̳̠̲̭̙̗̩͔͈̠̖͙̱̙̙͖̻̗̳̳̜̙͍̯̩̥̼͕͇͉̣̩̦̩͍̪̤̜̩̩̠̲̤͇͉͔̜̮̜͍͕͔͙͔͓̣̬͉̻̠͙̤͍̖̤̲̫̗̲͙̆̋͐̊̈́̋̾̂͆̾̈́̐̀͑͌̊̍̀͋̿͆̇̆̓͗͂̇͛̽̉̊̃̂͋͑̐̆͛͆̓̈́́̋̂̀͆̂̋̿̈̂̎̀̒̈́̾̇̓̊̑̂̿͌̾̎̇͗̎̆͂͗̃̓͆̊̀̂͗̽͐̏͂͋̔̈̏͑̄̆̉̿̊͛̋́̏́͊̃̐̑͌̍̋͊̍͂̈́̔́̉̆͗͒̈͛̓̅͌̊͑̽̿̊̆̆̅̊́͋̾̌͒̔̔́͐̾͒̆͐̎̎̈́͐̈́̔̿̕͘̚̕͘̚̚̕̚̚̕̕͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅn̵̨̢̨̧̡̢̛̦̥͙̰̲̬͓̥͓͙͓͕͉̫͍̖̹̗̠͈̙̱̳͉̰̲̹̘͙͕̣̮̣͓̰̘̫̝͇̤͚͎͕͉̫͔͇̹̫͙̜̰̮̗̙̺͇̪̲̬̺̪̦̤͈̪̞̙̬̮̝̭̠̹̳̟̯̣̠̻̹̫̳̺͇̱̲̠̳̰̳͊̓͐͌̓̈̾̽̍̅͗͐̋̌͊̒̓͗̂̎̊̓͛́̓̈͑̂̾̈́̋̑̓͒́̚͘͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̡̡̨̧̛͈̱͓͇̳̱̘̥͕͈̘͓͇͈͔̭̱̝̪̱̬͈̼̰̗͚̯̫̘̘̫͙͎̮͕̩̯̩̟̭̟̮̯̭̜͈̳̯̝͚̫̫̮̯̠͈̣͇̗̰̩̘̩͙̺̜͕̖̼̺̥͍͎̬̳̝̥̼͙͉̎́́͐̎̑͐̍̇̄́̑͛͂͂̈̎̌͆̋̒̈́̇͋̃̌̊́̅̇̅͋̃̊̒̐̒͒̌̽̈́͌̈́̐̓̍͊̐͛̌̈́̀́̔̈́̾̿̀̓̊̉̽̏̈́͘̕̕͘͘͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅţ̶̨̧̡̡̡̡̢̧̢̥͈̼͎͕̞͎̞͖̘͓͎̠̣͍̟̝̠͈̥̰̗͍͚͇̭̦̭̞̯̜̳̼̖͚̦̩̜̠͍̳͙̳͈͖͖͇̞̳̰̦̣̺̺͔̖̠͓͙̩͚̟̠̗̟̬̙̺̲͎͚̮͕̜̤̥̫͙̣͔͇̣͙̪͈͚͔̥̮̗͕͖͙̝͙͎̱̙̣̆̌́̃̾̈́̈̊̓͗̍̽̉̃̿̾̊͊͒́̉̈̔̐̀̋̅̾́̑̍̾̑̄͋̑̈́͋̅̀̒͂͗̄̆̒̈́͑̐̅̒̐͆̀̉̓̄̈̔̐̂̑̂̃̆̑̾̌̆̈́̈́̆̎̿́̈͆͌̆̍͐̑̈́͒̇̈́͒̓̒̑̿̅̈́̓̐̓̎̄̒̀͆͂͌̆͐̉̋͋̎̄̈́̂͒̀̑͌̅̈́̽͒̊̋̌̈́̇̽̉͊̓̽͘̚͘̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͠ͅḩ̶̢̢̧̨̡̢̧̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̱̪͓͙̤͓͉͎̠͇͙̱̣̝͙̳̫̖͕̜̯̝̖͔̼͔̘͈̗̘͎̗͇̳̮̲̹͎̗͇͍͎̮̣̣͍̱̰͖̱͙̞̻͖̭̥̙͕̬͎̮̼̗̣̠͉̱͔̟̠͉͕͔̬̮͕̝̦̘̤̩͔̱̲̫̹̯̘͈̥̳͉̼͉̖͓̳̱̬̗͚̦͖̞̦̘͓̗̫̲̫͉̹͎̳̫͉̙̥̰̰͔͕͎̙͉̙̦̖̊̀̂̾̆̃́͊̐͆͊͆͋̈́̌͒͂̒̈́̈́͑͂̓̀͒̎̅̒̊̅̉̽̈́́̐̅̒̓͆̌́̇̃̉̀̏̐̓̊͂͒́̈́́͛͛̍͌̆̂̀̃̒̌̒̐͌̄̄̀̾̒̍̌̋̑̀̈́̌̓̽̌̾̏̑̊̀̽̍̔̿̏͋͛̈́̋͛̂͒̈̏͐̿́͐̍̍̄̓̆͋̐̔̇̈̓̊͆͐̎̌͊̋̆̒̾̉̕̕̕͘̕̕͘͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅe̵̛̛̛̛̤̒́̋̽̂̊̽̃͆̉̀̇̂͂͑͊̈̀́͐͋̉̽͆͋͐̌̂͛͑̈́̑̒̔̈́̈́̆̇͆͆̓̈́̆̆̒̎͗̈́̓̈̔̋̅̀̌̄̓̎̈́̎̈̒̄͛̋̑̽̍̽̈́̋̄͌͐̎͌́̃͑̿̾͒̃̒͊̓̑̔̑̀̐̀̏̈̏̅̄͐̀̓̓̂̓̆͑̃̏͛̇̔̀̊̃͐͂́̀̕͘̚̕͘̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝ ̶̧̧̢̛̛̥̠̳̫̝̳̭̞̟͎̯̥̠̹͕͕͇̮̻͓̙̻̼̤̙̳̤̩͑͌̿̂̉̑̋̎̎͑̓́͂̏̀̾̊̊͌̔̂́́̏̋̆͋̄̊̀̒̏̄̉̈́͑̄̃́̌̊̌͆̉͑̊́̐̑̃͋̈́̊͆͂̇̓̋͂͋͂͘͘͘̕͝͠͝͠͠ͅś̷̨̡̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̛͍̺̲̖̮̗͕͕̫̻͎̩͖͖̣͔̪͕̘̮͚͕͈͓̩̝̦̩̱̗̭͇͎͇̻̗̙̳͖͚͈̯̮̱͙̺̮͍͎̹̙̼̠̞̞̦͛͑͐͂̀̓̀̒͑̅́̔́̍̾̀́̓̽̃̌͊̽̋̔͂̋́̿́͑̀́̍̍̔͆̌̅̇̇̀̊́͆̿̽̉̇̌̂̑̀̉͊̅̋̃̽̌͗͐̆͒̀̈́̊̾̀̐̍̈̓͐̾͊͌̐͘̕͘̕͘̚̕̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠ư̶̡̢̧̢̧̢̨̧̨̡̢̢̢̧̡̢̢̡̢̛̛̻̞̝̬͙͚̟̤͇̗̰̤͕͔̹̩̯̞͙̰͚̹̯̠̪̺̖̟̹͓̘̞̣͖͇̮̘̱̳̹̗̮̗͇̼̪̖͉̱̙̺͕̟̥̮̟̳͖̫̯̟͙̟̮͉̲̳̹̖̲͉̙̼̤͍͖͙͉̼͉̟̰̖̩̺̼̱͔͔̼̯͉̩̝̳̦͔̰̹̖̝̫̠̲̹̥͖̰̦͔̤̦̪̠̱̖̲͍̞̲͎̠̣͔͙̘̰͈̣̼͉̻͓̼̪̲̜͉͂̒̓̓̓̃͒͊̎̈́̅̂̽́̈́͂͋̂̐͂̀͐̓̀͊́̄̓̇̾̆͌̀̐͆̈́̏̀̓̓̎͛̿́͌͌̔͘͘͜͜ͅͅn̷̡̧̛̛̮̮̯̯̤͕͎̯̳͔̟̗͎̪̦̟̩̫̫͔̺̠͓̱̣̹̮̔͑̈̏̈́͋͛̍͗̈́͑͗͆̆͐͛̑̆̓̃̆͊̔̍̃̽̀̅̆̈́̀̉̍̅́̈́̈́̓̈́̈̌́̓͗̍̐́͆̑̑̉͐̆̈̍̅̐͋̈͘̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠
̵̢̢̨̨̧̢̧̨̡̨̧̨̡̡̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛͙̙͔̬̘̳̜͔̻̮̪̣͓͙̗̦̙̠̮͇͕̖̫̗͔͇̬̪̹̩̪̖̘̘̣̺̼͙̩̤͇̳̲̖̯̩̻͎̭̭̰̪͍̺̳͖̫̫̥̼͓̲̘͕̺̳̩̠̬̥̲̫̘̟̗͙̱̟̤̘̦̹̦͎̞̭͕̥̮̤͇͖͙̬̻̞͚͔͙̘̳̺̭͕̳̗̮̩̫̰̻̭̱͓̤̪̭̺̲̠̦͎̣̬̗̲̹͓̭͕́͑͒͂̽̌̀́̏̂̌͊̈́̀́̋̈́͌̅̆̏̌̀̅͗͊̓̋̌̐̊͊̈́͋̌̐͒̿͐̃̍͌͒̅̿̑̾͛͐̐̀̈́́̽̈́̆̂͌̽̉̈̀̆͆͐͂̑͆̾̅́͂̆̓̈̏̊̒̓̎͑́̀̽̆̽̎͆̒̃̈́̆̄̈́̊̀̓̎͐̆̔̈̓̊̂̓̍̑͒̐̐̐̒͘̕̚̕̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠
̶̡̡̡̢̢̡̡̡̧̨̡̨̧̡̧̨̢̢̡̨̨̛̛̱̬͉̝̠͕̻͎̰͔͔͉̳̫̝̮̼̞̩͔̯̱̩̥͙͎̱͎̠̼͈̝͚̦̱̞͉̣͎͚̞̞̱̹̜̭̪̪̫̟̺̥̭̞̲̠̦͚̪̠̖͔̱̼͙̙̬̩̮͈̮̞̯̤̱̣͕̠͕̣̝͙̼̺̲̮̬̼̯̥̪͕̞̪̼̙̯͓̠͓̥̫̮̤͎̭̟̭̼̳̘͓̯̦͈̱͕͖̭̠͔͉̫̫̦̻͙̩̲̰̜͇͈̱̭̘̝͚̭̩̝̫̪̝̣͙͙͉͉̯̩̖͍̘͓̎̑̐̑̎̋͋̂̔̄̅́̊̏̈́͗̐͐͗̐͐̓̃̌̑́͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̵̧̡̧̧̨̢̡͈̻͈͙͔̭͎͇̥̱̪̭͖͇̦̣͔͖̘̼̭̙͓̭̫͚̩͔̰̘̭̫͓͍̼͈̬̦̗̺̤̜͔̹̤͓̘̹̥̩̦̦͇̻̩̿̍̈́̅͑̏͌̄͛͋̽͛͐̎̉͗͗̋̾͒̒͌͐̚͘͠͠͝͠t̶̨̨̢̧̩̦̰̖͇̞̲̫̺͔̝͉̜͇̼̲͎̪̫͕͙͙̺̫̼̥̠̦͙̦͍̣̖̤̰̞͔̣͎̫͖̥̎̈́́̌͛̀͗̈́͊͆̒̄̂͑͐̽͛̉͆̃̀̊̒́̈̈́̀͌̏̾̽̀͛͑̏̄͐̂̓̈́̓̽́̀͊͗̉̾̀͊̈́͂́̃̿̂͂̿̒̆̽͒͗̊̀̓͛͐̌̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅ ̴̢̨̨̛̛̫͇̱͙͍͍͓͎͔̣̤̤̖̗͓̭͈̺̦̻̱̻̅͌͂͆̈̊̉̆̅́̿̃̒̂̈́̌̅̈́͛̍̒͑͆̉͗͂̋͂́̈́͆͌̿̿̓̊̈́̊̈̑̎͐̑̽͐̏̑̈́͆̋̇̓̄́̈̐́̀̎͌̋̐̅̃̄̎̇͂̑̓̍̄̚̕͘̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠͝͝ͅș̶̢̡̨̻̹̱͈̮̬͉̣͕̼̤͓̺͎̒̆̑̎̈͛̇͒̎͛͊̏́̉͋̀̓̒̓̅͜͝e̵̢̨̡̧̡̢̧̡̡̨̧̡̝̰͓͖͚̮̱̬͈̟̻̭͎͚̜͈̣̫̤͙̣͓͍̩̼̻̭̖̜̺̭̱̺̮͈͓̬̺̰̺̳̞̪͍̠̘̺̞͓̙̖͉̩̫̗̮̘͙̱̺̥̞͖̖̟̱̯̳͎̮͍̩͎̭͇̰̪̺̤͍̭͔̬̻͚̹̪̟̺͓̱͙̹̫͖̙͙̙̰̺̠̪͍̬͈̖̻͎͙̤̻̳̻̱̥͈̤̩̮̞͎̲͖͈͕͙̥͔͖͈̖͖̦̪̼̟̙̻̻̫̙̝̬̯̻̭̘̜̻̤̭͔͍̗͈̝̜̻͈̻͖͙̗̣͉̣͖͖̖̬͈͓̖͚̣̬̓̓̐̀̑̍̉̒͋̓̓̅̆̈́͐́̈́̓͛̈́́̐́͂̑͗̒͌̄͆͋̀̀͛̐̌͗̓̐̐̿̍̈́̆͋͛̈͋͐͒̈́͒͑̅͊̂͋͌̂͑̇̈́̽̀̓̊́̓̂̕̕̚̚̚̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅţ̷͉̙̬͕̗͍̤̯͉̈́̊̍̏̒̅͂̔̆̿̎͆̎̇͋͘͘͠͠ś̸̡̧̧̛̛̛̙̜̺̜̣̪̜̬̲͇͉̪̰̘͍̖̣̩̤̯͇̜͙̳̲̳̯̬̫̹̝̫͇̙̟̙͈͕̣̱̯̮̲͈̹̩͔̲͕̫̤̦͙̮̺̗̠̜̦̭̺̩̭̲͉̜͙̙̬̭̦̬̥͔̗̩͕̟̩͊͌͑̄͐̔̈̂̑̇̑͋̓̀͌̾̔̀͑͆̄̍͊͑͐̒̽̒͋̀̉̽͊̉̆̾̊͋̾̈̒̏̀̎̌̒̆̄̔̇̂͒̿̏̈̎̃̅͆̍̃͂̊̎́̍̾̍̓̐͛̋̓̒̅̊̃͐͒̈́̇̅̈́̓̃̑̀͊̉̋̇̽̒́̓̆̀̔͐̕͘̚̕̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠
Gourab Mukherjee Aug 2016
Seldom, that our society releases
Cares to evoke the trauma
Agony and pain, the members undergo
Dignity of their innate feelings remains unnoticed
ridicules and abuses of the sidelined community
Treated as untouchables,
Life passes through humiliation
Revenge what at all grows

Hardly they love
With their battered minds
Hair growth is prominent
a feminine male
Claps not at all appreciates
Voice that hoars
differ from the stereotype
Pronounced as 'Hizra'
Hopeless with their genital
Infertile is what left behind
***** is sore
struggle for survival

Habituated with the wilderness
Embraced the culture
Deviated their thoughts
Fear is what all pays
Takes the trick
Makes a move
Snatches a penny in a forcible manner
Sympathy could be shown
moral failure lies in the society's unwillingness
a mindset which
we have to change.

©Gourab Mukherjee'
Gee Jul 2018
No.

A simple term,
It means so little.
But yet explains a lot.
Still not heard by,
People with forcible dreams.
With these two letters,
Able to enlighten my opinion,
On the oncoming situation.
Yet the ignorance of your needs,
Portray importance over,
The simple yet powerful two lettered word.
LP S Jul 2018
...
I think he may be right,
the boy that calls once a year,
five years too late.
I think he's right.
About fighting to love
and be loved,
only to be remembered
by that unheard voicemail,
that “missed call” notification.
Those photographs we didn’t keep,
and the stories we stopped telling
long before it was their time to be forgotten.
It shouldn’t be fair,
the forcible forgetting of the nights
they spent asking me to try harder
begging me to love them just a little bit more..
It shouldn’t be fair,
that I was so quick to say no
so quick to shut down
so quick to refuse such simple requests.
It shouldn’t be fair..
But they should be honored,
all the boys that exist now,
only as black and white adjectives
in simplified prose.
Penned only during the loneliest hours
when the world is dark
and the nightmares are calling.
It should be an honor,
being buried in the worn pages of
these Moleskin graveyards..  
After all,
poems are where all great love stories go to die.
Mike Hauser Feb 2015
Her name was Gayle
She blew in and out
Of my life like a forcible wind

Knocking down trees
And me in between
I still remember back then

Like it was yesterday
The storm never fades
In the mind of the strongest of men

There is no doubt
As my minds river floods out
We'll never pick up who we were again
Sam Temple Jun 2015
Fishnet impressions
cut into the wall paint
as passing car headlamps
momentarily shine across
conversational window treatments.
Shadow imaginations playfully dance.
Half-lidded eyes capture slight movement
and a barely coherent consciousness
begins to develop scenarios.
First, subtle impressions of cats of sills
and tree branches scrapping across tempered glass…
but then, a more sinister feeling takes hold
an encroaching doom and impending dread
fills nearly sleeping veins.
Trapped in stasis, hovering,
knowing sounds have meaning
but totally lacking any muscle control…
fear takes charge
and paranoia settles in for the night.
Certain that each creaking board
is a maniacal killer
bent on committing a random
and horrific ******,
sweat beads on a forehead
desperate for the ability to
hide under a sheet.
Compressor switching on
as the refrigerator activiates
sends new visions of forcible theft
and gang **** swirling.
Mental images of criminals
in ski masks
penetrating the spouse
and laughing
carry a restless mind
quietly back to sleep,
as the low, dull hum of
the hot water heater
gives the house peace for the night.
Timothy H Jun 2016
I take walt seriously
For the questions
Question me
   untamed and reoccurring
They -
Aren't from him
    No, they're not from him
They -
Are light through
    a cracked door
They -
Are rumors told
    of secluded shores
They -
Are forcible ripples
    for what
        and who
           they're for
Axed dent of circumstances
finds yours truly liberated,
whereby no obligatory constraints
obliges forcible adherence
synchronizing Circadian rhythm

forcibly linkedin within paradigm
minutely crafting, daisy chaining
involuntarily ceding cradle to grave
man made artificial construct
(dismissing one living away

off the gridlock)
co-opting every precious moment
comprising hour quotidian existence
to sustain swiftly styled
harry tailored lifestyle

affording bajillion **** sapiens
luxury to scold frantic scramble,
freedom to scurry frantically
twenty four seven madcap rat race
formerly existing (millenniums ago)

as "noble savage"
ah...remember those glory days
now, grudgingly,
niggardly... unwittingly
compromising pleasant dreams

jarring deeply slumbering
body electric groggily awake
liberty, courtesy alarming wake up
to toil away making dem
big dearly beloved bucks

essentially entering holy grail
searching made more worthwhile
thankless fracas, fray, fraught
pitting one beasty boy against t'other
survival of fittest in overdrive

(Charles Darwin taken aback),
how origin of most ruthless species
went a courtin for dazzling,
jazzy, regal trappings
supposedly to ease

grueling laboring mind numbing
lumpenproletariat, when after
devoting, sacrificing, venerating...
prime mating years
take respite, and

hire oneself out
as independent contractor,
versus sedately pathetic mundane...
you bet your life
in relation to this
self ostracized scrivener.
AJS Jun 2018
While sitting on the can
Where I do my best thinking
The thought came to me
Really quite unbidden
Some things should for certain
Be kept closely hidden
Like confessions, and pooing
Poetry and boo-hooing
It’s not the best in us
But the worst of our being
That seeks forcible expulsion
Cathartic verse
Not for sharing
Carrying infection
A mental contagion
Best sent through
The swirl of oblivion
Unseen, unheard, unknown
Like this one?
Jane Dec 2019
But it's the pain in my chest, the eternal ache that threatens to pull me under with its suffocating weight, that I can't shake. It's haunting in its omnipresence. Through laughter, joy, excitement and the darkness. The dread. The emptiness. It would be a numbness but for the crushing pain that paralyses my tongue and deprives my screams their ******, traumatic entrance to the world as they rip from my throat. It's a good thing too, that forcible, formidable silence. I don't think I would know how to stop screaming if I let one pass my lips. Such a damning fate it is, to feel so wholly. Visceral and excruciating. Endless and final. To feel nothing at all, though, would not save me from the worst of it. The feeling I flee from, the one that pushes me to chase down any other emotion and clasp it tight in my heart, regardless of hurt. Anything is better than loneliness.
A middling verse, where the rest remain obscured
Axed dent of circumstances
(series of unfortunate events
courtesy Lemony Snicket)
adze hatchet marks
to sexagenarian mortal
and finds yours truly liberated,
whereby no obligatory constraints

obliges forcible adherence
synchronizing Circadian rhythm
linkedin within Capital One paradigm
minutely crafting, daisy chaining
involuntarily ceding cradle to grave
man made artificial construct
(dismissing one livingsocial away

alone in the wilderness off the gridlock)
co-opting every precious moment
comprising hour quotidian existence
to sustain swiftly styled
harried tailored lifestyle
affording bajillion **** sapiens
luxury to scold frantic scramble,

freedom to scurry frantically
twenty four seven madcap rat race
formerly existing (millenniums ago)
as "noble savage"
courtesy Jean Jacques Rousseau
ah...remember those glory days
now, grudgingly,

niggardly... unwittingly
compromising pleasant dreams
jarring deeply slumbering
body electric groggily awake
liberty, courtesy alarming wake up
to toil away making dem
big dearly beloved bucks

essentially entering holy grail
searching made more worthwhile
thankless fracas, fray, fraught
pitting one beasty boy against t'other
survival of fittest in overdrive
(Charles Darwin taken aback),
how origin of most ruthless species
went a courtin for dazzling,

jazzy, regal trappings
supposedly to ease
grueling laboring mind numbing
lumpenproletariat, when after
devoting, sacrificing, venerating...
prime mating years
take respite, and

hire oneself out
as independent contractor,
versus sedately pathetic mundane...
you bet your life faux gameshow
in relation to this
self ostracized wordsmith
scratching out literary endeavors.
Raven Brewer Aug 2023
Sun
It makes me sad to know
That, to me, you’re the sun,
and I’m only one of your planets
Constantly orbiting at a distance

I guess that I’m lucky.
At least I’m not a star,
In a different solar system
Glittering in the background

But they are lucky too,
They can’t get ****** in
With your forcible pull
They are free from your gravity

— The End —