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Nat Lipstadt Jan 2018
based on the essay in the notes below
which was forwarded to me by Liz Balise
<>
all poems and their accompaniment sauces commence with onions,
that start by fouling the air, bringing forth only unrestricted tearings,
but then...

the slow cooking elicits the sugars hid within,
the unpleasant odor, refined into something
minted new sweet and savory.

so too, the poem must simmer, slow cooked,
harmonizing the caramelizing,
even if some ingredients
claim the first born birthright of the eldest first essential,
despite the collective harmonizing.

the ripened color of the blood red tomatoes,
the ruddy cheery sanguinity of
certain words in each poem,
are the coloration of its entirety -
the ones your never forgive for never letting you forget them!

what matters not but how, the daring to substitute the new how,
how you chef see it and color it with the crazy way how
you beckon us over one by one to the big *** for a tasting
accepting critiques and suggestions, a thousand pinches
of your salty sweet essences.

and the recipe is dog stained and pointy corner ear-edged,
cause you cannot exactly write it down, and you bend the corner
for every substitution and variation,
cause every poem
made to taste the how of us,
each one a subtle different.

everyone understands metaphor,
even the society of the reticent ones in the back row,
just say the “trapdoor of depression” and they’ll nod knowingly,
so say to them a poem is a metaphor for you,
and spaghetti sauce is how you see, recreate in words,
how you need to add an ingredient of yourself
to this one,
a word, a phrase, becomes you,
becoming you in it,
in you,
you in it are both poet and poem,

a simmering new and different

————————————————————————-


A Well Written Essay— The Spaghetti Sauce Method

As a teacher and a learner, I have always wanted to see the "nuts and bolts" of everything. Yes, it slows the process down, but the learning is more complete, and a person becomes capable of making endless connections of understanding, branching to other  creative possibilities. Writing like dancing, and all that is worth learning, deserves all of the pieces and steps of the process.
I remember telling my students every year that grammar could indeed be a dry bone, but necessary in the process of good communication. Told them that I would teach writing by the "spaghetti sauce method" (Visualize their perplexed faces here.). "A well-written essay should be like a really good sauce-- smooth, fine textured, with a complete harmony of meat, sweet, tomato, and seasonings-- not one overpowering the others, but all in marvelous union of great flavor and aroma."
I continued, giving the example of my mother's
(God rest 'er) Irish spaghetti sauce" as a contrast. "Mama would throw in onions, peppers (if she had ‘em), hamburger, salt and pepper, fry it all in corn oil, and mix with two cans of plain tomato sauce. This was all okay with me," I went on,“ till I experienced the epiphany of garlic, basil, oregano, pork neck bones and a cup of wine; in the kitchen of an Italian neighbor, who walked me through the process and ingredients of real Italian sauce that was simmered for hours."
I continued to nudge them with the comparison: "Excellent writing is more than talent and passion, otherwise a tirade of curses, knotted ideas, and copied paragraphs of someone else would always do.” "No," I went on, "It is clear thought, captured, slow-cooked in the labor of mind and understanding— and in good time, expressed, in a way that others can comprehend -- with great attention to the cardinal rule: It is not as much WHAT you say-- but HOW you say it."
Through the year I focused on one or two aspects of better writing at a time for each paper. It was an uphill battle, often teaching against the mediocrity of the expectations in the PA State Standards of Assessment. It would add ten hours to my work week to grade and comment on a set of a 115 papers.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
when listening to
a Byzantine chant (Δεύτε λαοί)...
as much insight as
i had of the hebrew tetragrammaton
to meditate on
in phonetic encryptions
in other languages:
sly semitic *******: hiding
their vowels...

humor...
there's a west "contra" east
disparity...

yes...
                  the west's notion
of humor, staged,
is that of the comic...
or rather:
  the monologue...

comedy by western standards
is to be compromised
by a monologue...

comedy by eastern standards?
is to be compromised
by a "dialogue":
script...

comedy as monologue
contra...
comedy as... cabaret...

***: opera contra
operetta...

                novel contra
novella...

          some people can only
ingest so much
comedy of the audible
thought...
a monologue...
which is what is the compromise
of all of the notions
of the western take on comedy...

never has thinking become
so closely associated:
synonymous with
claustrophilia...

         but western comedy
is monologue...
or its current form...
and rarely a comedy worth
of being: diffused...
for a dialogue...
for a cabaret...

perhaps the medium
is missing an alternative suggestion...
perhaps the hidden
airy-narrator...
the thespian cult of the movies
is hiding the theatre...

but the cult of
the monologue comedy of
the stand-up,
this solipsistic-orientation
that has not
summoned the selbst to a da
with a sein...

         maybe the English sense
of humor has become
a tedium...
               one monologue too far,
notably vocated...
  maybe the English sense
of humor is missing
dialogue...
a cabaret...
so that at least two people
can laugh at the same
cause of amusement?

cabaret is a continental
"concept" for the expression
of humor...
i almost forgot how alientating
the standard, english,
medium for the expression
of humor is...
           cabaret is alien...
yet the solitary figure
on stage, the stand-up...
is the formal: normal...

     expressing humor via
the monologue is so alien to
the world beside the utility
of the english tongue...
perhaps an investigation
into: humor expressed via
a dialogue...
  no... not this ****** doubled
re-emphasis via
the conjunctions
of interjection to hush
yet add to the canned laughter...

to be honest?
i find it hard to laugh
at humor supported by
the fakery of canned laughter...
it's not that i am too lazy
to laugh:
but canned laughter is...
hiding the fact that:
something... isn't exactly
funny...

    i once saw a Pole attempt
to import monologue humor
to an audience best
associated to understanding
cabaret / dialogue humor...
bad idea...
that's it...

                but having to incline
the audience to remember
the use of:
nuance / metaphor...
like telling a person sitting
on a chair:
   a hammer & nails were used
too...

obvious this will not translate...
stand-up monologue humor
will be the standard for
expressing humor in the English
tongue,
and the form of humor
            in dialogue (cabaret) will
be only a musical...
there will never be: in addition -
the emphasis of the punchline
of the joke,
to be forwarded by one-dimensional
pseudo-actors of
the staged...
   since english humor has morphed
toward the emphasis of
monologue...
  catching the ears of:
who are in agreement with,
said statement...

     yet: the stage...
       english humor as a monologue...
thinking has become
so claustrophobic that it requires:
both audience, and stage...
no wonder...
  even the english themselves
find this and its subsequent
extension of: "what is humor"
bewildering...

  "too much" nuance,
or rather... plenty of nuance -
yet prescribed with:
precursor notices of -
legal tact...

            to me the english language
has forgotten a vital
verb,       cogito...
personally? i can't begin
to fathom why people would
be inclined to "think"
that their orientation around
this faculty could
ever breed a space,
or a fear to be associated with it...

but yes...
  the english best understand humor
as monologue...
they are so alien to humor
being expressed via dialogue:
on the stage of a cabaret...

              i simply forget to be awed
by this curiosity,
i remind myself to retort
to this observation
with a nodding approval of:
as you were, yes, as you were...

horror movie sountracks
i can listen to, no problem...
canned laughter samples?
i'm ******* petrified
of them...
              not, petrified, but, rather:
i was never supposed
to laugh... was i?
Hopi Butler Nov 2011
Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting

Time is repetition
As I watch from the couch
“He won’t last the weekend,”
Says Hospice
“They said he might not last the weekend,”
Says Dauson
He’s stronger than they know,
I say

Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting

False hope, of course
I can see the way
The cancer fights
Deceiving the guards
Hiding and attacking
Slowly taking what’s theirs
Slowly killing,
Spreading down towards the
Ground then rocketing up
Until his psyche
Dissipates into nothing

Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting

“Go hunting, it’s opening day,”
He says
They listen
But only because
He yells at them to
She goes out to smoke
My grandma with my grandpa’s killer
“Can you pick Dauson up?”
Says Mom to Tracy
Keith’s mother,
Mother of my brother’s “brother”

Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then Frosting

I know it’s coming
Yelling it’s arrival
Like the steady beat of a beating drum
I’m surprised
That no one else
Can hear it
That no one else
Can feel it
Permeating the air
The shadows reaching out
With tendrils made of cold
Made of smoke
Made of death’s sweet kiss

Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting

Time is fast forwarded
Laying him down on the bed
“Melissa’s almost here,
The boys are almost here”
And then time stops for a moment
He’s facing me
Eyes closed, mouth parted
A single tear that is his own
Freezes on his cheek

Orange juice then frosting
Orange juice then frosting

You asked what changed
Me the most?
What made me who
I am today?
A grave stone
A wooden cross
Seeing a man die slowly
Day after day
Ari Dec 2011
OM
Om
In The Beginning
Sound
needed a medium
for dissemination
space and time
was born.
As I sleep sitting cross legged I know these things to be Truth.
All things consist of matter
matter of molecules
molecules of atoms
atoms of  atomic particles
atomic particles of subatomic particles
subatomic particles composed of strings
yes strings
the vibrations of strings at certain resonant frequencies --
Sound
I’m referring to Sound --
accounts for the creation of all things
all things composed of matter --
I matter You matter --
and Sound is the variation of pressure waves propagating through matter
through You, and Me, We
are hereby beings of Sound
Per-Son
Earth, Sun
the birth hum permeates us all
all things soak in the amniotic ocean of Sound
it is the background, the foreground, before Sound
was Silence
Silence is the antithesis of hissing existence sibilance is diametrically opposed to nothingness antimatter to matter in an asymmetrical universe.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there as witness, it still fell and the timbre transpired, to be
is not to be seen, perception exists within existence
Real is a three inch wide magnetized Mobius Strip spinning counterclockwise in a corroding
centrifuge of perception carbon dated to The Beginning
and The Beginning occurs every second
in an umbrella opening in a firestorm
the collision of soapy bubbles
clay in a snow kiln
uranium decaying
a sari being wrapped
the chopping of wood
ice capped volcanoes
an oily rainbow
the exposure of negatives
the grinding of coffee beans
a cobra swaying
You can charm a cobra by biting an apple
the blur of sweat and palms on stretched animal skins
congas bongos tablas djembes tom toms snares timpani
hands at warp speeds in an innate rhythm inundating time
four four two four four three seven eight twelve o’clock
what is time to Sound but a permanent witching hour for feet to frenzy?
each stomp a falling star that sears a crater, each crater a subwoofer for the Earth’s movements
Sound is time being rendered elastic
quantized digitized equalized filtered phased distorted compressed processed
time has been tamed
fast forwarded paused rewound slow motioned skipped
from one timeline to another, Sound is the de-lineation of time
the unraveling of space the curling of dimensions dementia in rhyme
minds are traveling back to the present, pre sent from the future, the future has passed
We are light, massed
night is just another shadow our auras cast
mating calls
jarred halos
woodwinds in an airlock
disemboweled factories
pyramids of electric chairs
pipelines in the desert
grief slumped shoulders
paper lanterns in a whirlpool
poems read in darkness
laughs sobs shrieks cries cackles yelps howls laughs whimpers
worlds ending with a BANG
an infinite piece quantum philharmonic orchestra clamoring to be heard over the revolution of the spheres
We sing
reverberating to replace Saturn’s rings
every single note a secret love letter passed ear to ear read instantly
all sounds converging to singularity
an accretive disc of sonic entropy spinning around one point
all We have left to do is drop the needle
call
and let the response cascade into us
Chain Gang of the Universe swinging old ***** spirituals
the momentum of our pulsing song accelerates beyond relativity
the amplitude of our vibration transmits from soul to womb
each newborn tongue blessed with a honeyed Om
My son, Your daughter, I taught her, You taught him
and now they can play cat’s cradle with their strings
tap dance on quarks and make fiddlesticks sing
So even now the Rabbis sing
Hear O Israel, the Lord is Sound…
As I sleep sitting cross legged I know this Truth to be all things.
Om
florence white or better known as mumma rose gets captured in ron’s psych ward



after losing her mate harold stone  in 2011, florence ‘mumma rose’ white started

to show the screws that she is a changed woman but she can’t resist, escaping from the secure

psychiatric unit and then started to search the web to find tasha andrews, so she can have

ella white, who is the chosen one, but this time mumma rose was determined to win, and

mumma rose decided to bring her commune to the web and she would trick everyone who

looks like they can help her into joining the computer generation, which was the name of her

new commune, and florence wanted to find tasha and ells, and she would do anything to get

help to find them.

ron was searching the web and wrote on google after having problems with the web and

‘what is wrong with the computer generation, and surprise surprise, he came across mumma rose’s

website, but it was secure, because florence didn’t want no irene roberts to stop her plan, but

ron was unsure about whether this was a lead, so he searched for any way of finding a date of when

this website was found, but he couldn’t find it, but ron forwarded the websie over to the police and

then ron was called in, with the police saying, where did you find this site and ron said, i was searching

for something i like and i then accidentally googled what is wrong with the computer generation and

this was on the top, and the police said, yeah well, this site was built in 2012 in the hope of capturing

tasha and ella once more, and it looks like she is off her medication as well.


ron left the police station and went to his usual place and there was one of mumma rose’s computer generation

buddy’s having a cup of coffee and a cake, and he said, my friend mumma rose wants me to bring ella white home to her

after that evil tasha andrews and irene roberts took her away from her, and ron said, listen, do you know where she lives

and mumma rose’s buddy said nothing, not even his name because he can’t see the evil in mumma rose but ron wanted

to trial a new medication on her because the one she was on wasn’t working and the man said, why the **** are you doctors

trying to shove good people on drugs, and she is a good person, you know who the real villain is.    it is that evil irene roberts and

tasha andrews, or she wants is to have her baby brought back to her.

ron said, she has manipulated so many people, and she is dangerous and the man said, ‘dangerous’  a wild dog can be dangerous

a tiger can be dangerous.  better still a knife reeling bandit is dangerous, but mumma rose is ever so gentle, and the computer generation

are protecting her from you quacks and cops.

ron sat there and took a photo of the guy with his phone and sent it to the police and then went to his HDU and the inmates were getting restless

and charlie chaplin said did you hear the news, they caught mumma rose, and she should be back in her psych ward soon and ron

said, when did this happen and before he can say anything else, mumma rose was walking into his HDU, and florence said, hi, my name is

florence white, and i was arrested for having a website, just imagination in this day and age, getting arrested for having a website.

ron asked mumma rose, you were a NSW lady, what brings you here, and mumma rose said, i had a sure plan to get my daughter back

from those evil so called family people irene roberts and tasha andrews, i was ready to pounce till i got a visit from the police, and ron asked her

did you have a lead, and mumma rose said yeah, there was this little 9 year old girl really got hooked on this website and i thought, ella, this is ella

i know it, she is my daughter who has been taken away by irene and tasha and i am ever so determined to reach out, and when the police came

i lost all hope of ever seeing her again, so are you happy mr ron cooper, and mumma rose added i am not taking any medication, because there is

nothing wrong with me, give tasha and irene medication and send them in here, and let me go, i have my new found friends to look after

and ron said, ‘NO’, you are staying here and while you have still got thoughts in harming that child, you will stay here as i prescribe largactil to you

with a dash of serenace and mumma rose walked away saying, i am not participating in any childish games until i get out of here, i will take your

wonder drug, to get me better so i can be with my daughter again and ron bought out the lunches and mumma rose had nothing and charlie said

eat this, it’s great and mumma rose said, if i wasn’t missing my daughter, i would punch you and patty roe went up to florence and said i am

george washington and florence said ‘SHUT UP’, and went over to the television yelling at every word said on the television, and that meant a

lot of yelling and ron tried to settle her down and brought her medication to her, and mumma rose said, my daughter is out there with evil

and ron bought out the sandwiches as well as the rest of the medications and mumma rose went up to charlie chaplin and grabbed him

and said to ron, i will **** him if you go home now, ron said, no you haven’t got any weapons so ron went home, but when ron went home,

mumma rose continued with her threat to **** someone and she killed george washington, saying go back to the USA in a coffin and the nursing

staff rang ron up and ron came straight away and went into mumma rose’s room and said, you ain’t going to see your daughter if you **** everyone

in here, ok and after yelling at florence ron went to his office and put a do not disturb sign on his door while mumma rose was pumped full of drugs/
Was so fragile-
She could be cut by callused palms.
Could be bruised-
With the stroke of her makeup brush.
Lays so sound-
She could wake up to the car door slamming in the garage.

She is so thin-
Light shines not just through her eyes-
But through her chest, hips, lips, and-
No warmth is transferred through her kiss.

She breaks like hardened mud.
You could sink into her like quicksand.
Her body, is built like a storm.

You can watch the blood in her veins-
Meet your fingers at the surface-
You can still see what you have drawn in the morning-
If you can even crawl out of bed to crack the blinds.

She likes thunderstorms.
She likes the smell of dirt.
Her eyes were gray-
And her tongue is stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She can dance in the sun-
clumsily-
And still be the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

She could sing-
Off key-
But her emotion is what makes those notes gold.

She lays like stone.
She moves like running glass fast forwarded.
Her voice is thunder-
And her eyes are the winter.

She lays hands on you-
Only to heal.
She can mend you-
as easy as bending a wire coat hanger.

Her skeleton is like flint-
How it sparks against mine.
Her body is so fragile-
A word could hurt her.
and a stick or stone-
would certainly **** her.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2013
The TSA won't let me fly
It seems when airplane-jailed,
My muse sneaks aboard
Without paying for a seat.

Another airplane poem like 30B,
From a long ago flight,
Found dusty, in the poetry sewing box


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

with every breathe he tithes
a packet of whispered wishes,
a blended osmosis of
past and future scenes,
reviewed, previewed,
moments in time,
actual and dreamed

some received,
airborne plucked,
in his chest stored,
prepared for future
takeoffs and landings,
for ultimate insertion
in both
your recesses
and
your abscesses

some native,
combobulated, containerized
packets of seconds,
of joyous moments,
bytes of historical
hugs n' kisses,
as a child
to a child
from a child

those are vanilla frosted,
residual payments for the
good done and given,  
forwarded with all clear signals,
to his loved ones,
now resent, to you,
fellow travelers and sojourners,
intersectors of our peculiar
coded dots and dashes

thirty five thousand feet high,
composure lost,
he swoons as
Bocelli's voce del silenzio
releases tears so sweet,
which are by nature,
gravitated and transformed
into snowflakes to decorate
the Sierra Nevada's
breasted peaks and valleys,
over which his physical notion
is at rest, yet in motion,
within a Delta flying ship

Yet his fevered chest
beats rough,
for every flight seems
a time warp interlude,
a forced reflecting rhyme,
not of his choosing,
a lawful, thoughtful, imprisonment

having donated to you
his best, the remainders,
the man tallies, recalls:

ancient slights, scaled heights,
requiems for his forefathers
scored by cantorial choirs,
liberation struggle weariness,
offers taken and refused,
aces in the hole that proved
insufficient to save his soul.

goal line stands made,
onslaughts refused,
true lies and false truths,
moist lips and monster tears,
occasional A's and calcu-hell-us,
hand me downs received,
help me ups got n' given,
buildings pricked by airplanes,
death wishes granted
and nothing thereby gained,
children, found and lost,
mine, yours, ours...

The sums, always the sums!

engine noises and pilfered winds
are dulled and semi-silenced,
yet the silvered chamber prison
resonates from end to end
as each ledgered memory,
each packet of the
hidden whispered poems
he does NOT choose to send,
dents the man,
leaving claw marks,
screaming pay attention to me,
as if they were the priorities
of a six year old child,
refusing to be ignored

he does,
attention, he does pay,  
allowing rocking guitar heroes
to overtake weeping violinists,
just as newer transgressions
surfeit even his
most really *****,
ancient sins

No matter how he counts,
unable to master the additions,
no matter how many times
counts are initiated,
taken and retaken,
the tally's net net is
concluded, numbered
"forsaken"

his life's W-2 is black n' blue,
deductions falsely enumerate
and thereby underestimate
dues he has paid summarily,
earnings, distorted,
taxes paid never enough,
to satisfy the justice scales,
so wearily he
cries and enunciates,

The sums, always the sums!

THEN COMES HIS SHOUT OUT,
at his most vulnerable,
when a thin veneer of alumina
separates him,
from a fall inglorious
to an end most gorious,
a rapping beat moderne
insists that he go all out,
disallowing no
airy fairy poetry
to disguise that:

If the integers are false,
the entries of a life lived,
are sucker lies
black eyed flies
toxic shockers
that bust open
stinko lockers
where the B.S.
mocking stories
are kept

don't look close
at his documents
they ain't exactly
heaven sent
and the government men
be back on his track
their aviator shades
protect them from
burning light of the
man's furnace
where he burns their liens,
and the agent's ear pieces
drown out his screams of

The sums, always the sums!

God bless you,
keep and recall those packets of
whispered wishes, good tithes,
that the man bequeaths,
gift baskets of
expresso essentials
with God's love delivered

Tho his words,
amateurish and unvarnished,
silly and pompous,
nonetheless, they are the
return on his investments,
his yearnings for your happiness
are the savings accumulated,
though meager jewels are they,
they are ad valorem,
mixed into his confused murmurings

here then,
are his summings up,
what he wills you,,
the tally finale
the best wisdom is
found on coffee cups
at 2:47am.

Dance
Love
Sing
Live

to which he respectfully amends with a
Write.
(See banner photo)
See Nat Lipstadt
Juggling Thoughts Re Proximity, in Seat 30B
Mark Williams May 2013
An old year was fading; and, as the time drew near
To celebrate the passing of a thousand years,
The world grew thoughtful; and the governments decreed
A festival of love for the devout and the sincere,

In which no thought, and no expense, indeed,
Be spared on marking so momentous an occasion;
And nothing was required in the matter of persuasion,
For, to these plans, the people readily agreed.

* * * * * * * * * *

A great enthusiasm fired the multitude,
And wealth was lavished freely for that day of days.
Brass coin converted into banners and bouquets;
On cloth and candle, showers of silver spent;

Vast sums of gold discharged on fireworks and food,
And greater sums discharged on wine for all.
Music and verse set down, bright blooms arrayed,
Felicitations forwarded, and invitations sent.

And later, as that sacred eve began to fall,
Loved one met with loved one, as had been arranged;
Greetings and platitudes and kisses were exchanged,
The wine flowed, and the people were content.

* * * * * * * * * *

As midnight fell, the towns and cities roared
In testimony of their faith and love.
Church bells rang joyously, and rockets soared
To vie in transient splendour with the stars above.
And many a heartfelt prayer to heaven was raised;
‘Allah is merciful!’, the people cried.
‘Love is to all of us!’, ‘The Lord be praised!’,
But then; ‘One nation under God!’, they lied.

* * * * * * * * * *

For, beyond those charmed circles of love and light
Were others, huddled miserably in outland places.
The outcast, the untouchable, the dispossessed;
The starving and pitiful, who turned their faces
Toward the joy of those whom God had blessed.

They saw the fireworks illuminate the night,
And blaze a cruel message of betrayal across the sky.
A tale of blind hypocrisy and thoughtlessness;
Of fortunes squandered in the blinking of an eye.
The distant bells chimed faintly as the rockets flew;
The poor looked on, and some died, even as they stared.
And, as life dimmed and mercy came to them, they knew
The true extent to which their brothers cared...

* * * * * * * * * *

A new year was blooming; and, as night turned to day,
The world turned heedless on its outworn way;
In dawn’s first brightness, the first shell screamed
A song of hate to those who dwelt in Palestine.

Bodies were dismembered, and blood flowed like wine;
The dead were known only by the clothes they wore.
And those who dreamed of peace a little time before
Awoke, and realised that they had but dreamed.

And soon, they saw the sight of refugees in flood;
Screaming for mercy as the bombs rained down.
While, over many a shattered city and a town,
Aurora’s hands adorned the sky with blood.

The world caught fire, and the streets ran red;
Hell visited on earth as nation fought with nation.
And all, by way of fervent oath and imprecation
Called out on the Almighty to avenge their dead.

Ah brothers! There would be no answer to your call;
For, in seeing the crimes committed in their name,
The Lords of Heaven but bowed their heads in shame;
A thousand years had passed, and nothing changed at all.
Lorenzo Soldera Apr 2014
I do not claim to represent.
I humbly present my claim.

______(Begin Forwarded Message) ______

3 April 2014
Classification: UNCLASSIFIED
From: me@example.com
To: THC@TheHumanCondition.net
RE: present

To whom it may concern:
I have been subscribed
To your service
Involuntarily.
Two springs ago there was an anniversary.
An old friend tempted me
Under the guise of celebration.
That is not to say
There weren’t suspicious omens about;
Oh, what I would give
To have heeded them!
I’m afraid you provide
A service which far surpasses my needs
(Such that it is the only thing I want).
Your free trial led me to believe
Led me
To the promised land
Only to enslave me there.
The fertile grasslands,
The forests, and the island shores
Mock me in my imagination.
Your service has been
deemed surplus.
The benefits
no longer
justify
the cost.

______(End Forwarded Message) ______

I humbly present my claim.
I do not claim to represent.
3 April 2014.

a lyric addressed to & written under the influence of tetrahydrocannabinol. first poem from the "Disclaimer" series.

© 2014 by Lorenzo Soldera. All rights reserved.
Zowie Georgia Apr 2012
They walk beside me
                                      always late for something.
                                         Quickening loafers
                                   compete against themselves        
                                  emphasising their importance.    
                                                       Go!
                                       Choking on their breath
                          in an over-zealous attempt to identify
                                             What's freedom?

                                          This fastened reality
                                         Punctures inner peace
                                          my energy disperses
                       Like a balloon buzzing as it loses momentum.
                              When did Life become a marathon?
                            When will I decide where I want to be?
                                  
                         ­         Conversations shout themselves out..
                  an energetic argument before their words reach the air..
                          Will you ever confront your disguised pains?
                                            My mind's elsewhere..
                                           I'm trying to figure out
                         the last time I saw your body unclench itself.
                                    
                           ­                 And i'm a little confused,  
                         because I don't know whether to accept your denial
                                                          ­        or
                                    continue to disconnect from reality.  
                                                     And I question,
           If we all mirror eachother, what part of myself cannot find peace in you?

                                      
                   ­                      I observe this anxiety in motion
                                               stuck forever in a hurry
                       leading itself down roads that end where they began.
                                                  And I wonder,
                                           If their legs were to rest
                  would they have to pick their head up from the floor?


                                         
              ­                             Like buddhas in a city,
                               their lives are a fast forwarded tomorrow
                                       as the present hurries along.        
                                                   And I ponder,
                   Does the truth stop blinding when silence doesn't teach?

                                             A quickening motion             
                                         Changing with every step.
                                                   Acceleration..
                                                 human race...
                                                       ­ Go! 
                                            Chasing of thy death..
Keiko Larrieux Jan 2010
Forwarded impact
Tampering with instructions
Designed to distract

Simple extraction
Of a words retraction
Windowed to sounds
When insanity surrounds

Where can I find
Where they draw the line
Intimately confined
To the criminally designed

Rebellion to the failed
Melting the walls
Of those jailed

Bored in governing planets
Murderous, supernova
We now live
In blundering expansion

Forwarded impact
Tampering with instructions
Designed to distract
Harry J Baxter Mar 2014
I downloaded my honest expression of feelings for you
but it came as a zip file
and I’m hardly tech savvy
so It sits in my hardrive with the other long lost files
like that first bike ride without training wheels
and christmas back before it all got so painfully awkward
two spaces above it
is the memory of being chased by angry farmers on tractors
and the file I edited last
was my self-image profile picture

I want you.
but sometimes wires don’t connect and the connection tends to
falter - lag
so I sent my mind to the pornographic district
where the lights flicker so red, like your favorite shade of lipstick
and for a few minutes there I committed biblical abomination
which is a fancy ******* way of saying I jacked off
before checking my local news site for the five day forecast
rain, rain, rain, rain, but a hint of sunshine

Woah! That’s a risky site! Are you sure you still want to continue?
not really. But last time I checked I never asked you for anything
so I’m buying the ingredients for happiness on ebay
two parts forty ounces of malt liquor
three parts resin stained smoking apparatus
two parts the wrong crowd
and ten parts stupid *** decisions
now I’m stumbling upon locked door keyholes
to see bootleg copies of your next summer blockbuster
they’re worth the ten dollars a pop - I’m just broke

I tried to upload a **** shaming video of you to youtube
but it was taking too **** long to process
so instead I tweeted all 140 of the characters I have played
and wrote you a bittersweet, scathing review
4.5 stars out of 5 - would not recommend
#FuckYou
I would still swipe right to your front door on silent nights
smelling like a bad rock and roll cliche
saying the same one liners over and over again

I listened to your swan song on spotify
and yeah, I’ll admit, It had me swaying
but that might just be the new “Twenty dollar a week diet”
I was forwarded online
so skype with my self-esteem
and IM me your holy of holies
and I’ll pretend whichever God you follow is up there somewhere
maybe I am just a post on your blog
maybe I’m just the virus causing you to curse at low speed internet
but I think you should leave your ISP a nasty voicemail
because this headspace is corrupted
and this computer is crashing towards an eternal shutdown
SøułSurvivør Sep 2017
In an age of persecution
When Christians died
For their beliefs
Apostle John wrote
Revelation
To encourage and
Bring relief

First century folk
Who held Jesus' tenants
Were martyred in
Most horrid ways
But John wrote about
His coming
Christ described the
End of Days.

The early faithful
Found their solace
In the Gospel
Sweet & pure
The Bible's WORD
Was ever spoken
And its precepts
Still endure

Modern man cannot
Believe it
Because he has
A hardened heart
But when tribulation
Finds him
Rest assured he'll come apart!

So we put our trust in Jesus?
IS He simply "fairy tale"?
Why did Christians
Sing their hearts out
When lit on fire and impaled?

How could they endure
Having their heads drilled
Molten lead then poured within?
How could could they
Be so calm & joyous
When lions tore them
Limb from limb?

Their contemporaries
Could not believe it!
When Christ was preached
It was received!
The Gospel forwarded
By each man dying
By their blood
The folk believed!

Now Christian people
Won't mention Jesus!
They give sin a little wink!
They're afraid of persecution
By caring what the
Lost may think!

Wake up, folks!
The toast is burning!
Give witnessing
The college try!
There are hearts
Who're out there yearning!
Cap'n Crunch waves us goodbye!

I may get flack
For this assertion
I may get comments
For to spare
I may get called
A backward person
People... I don't really care!

If I don't warn of
God's Judgment
Tribulations in this land
I'm not a Watchman on
The Wall here
And

your blood is on my hands!

I'll read & preach
From Revelation
The ending always
Helps us cope
Read the outcome
Of our suffering

It will give ETERNAL HOPE.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 9/27/2017
I'd love to write out the entire last chapter of Revelation. It is NOT a book of doom & destruction for believers at ALL! But a treatise of HOPE! Please find a bible & read it. It's not just a metaphor. It will be a TRUE EVENT! HEAVEN WILL COME TO EARTH!

♡♡ LOVE YOU ALL! ♡♡
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
come on darling take a chance with us
our meat is on the seams of a blue-blooded funeral
a **** body burial, and the volcanoes laugh

the thumbs shake
as the fingers dance
makes the rain pull its roots on
for the showcase the generic plants
will perform a feral routine

every **** a command-stop forwarded
the nucleus inside of a vitrified half-assed colon
and if they shiver they will find their saw
tailored to the head of that aurulent god

a caterpillar reads the braille and follows my wrist
he condescends, and breaks notions causing new alarm
they are all special, green feet and orange sinewy lines
he casts his blame he curses across the myriad storms

gold minarets in the distance
serpents living under man-made rocks
counting down the seconds on armageddon's clock

a lion counts his livestock
he puts his socks on, he wears a headdress
in the shape of a flame

just outside the shadows of an autumn day
Devin Weaver Feb 2013
The following statements of truth were brought to you
Not through, but circumnavigating fated parameters
Of insane, yet normative, largely uninformative
Mechanisms that formally give birth to *******;
And instead, strategically splicing said bounds with
Ideal variables derived from the courageously quixotic,
Unrobotic, and outraged agents of, and for, capital Real:

The train of corporate reasoning derails so fast
To follow is to snap the head backward,
Far past angles within measures of pleasurable fit
And open gates to deluging tangled circular
Failures of logic that trick and co-opt the proletariat.

We are Present-Ambassadors with broken flux-capacitors
Demonstrating a consistent tendency toward error
In efforts to obtain diplomatic access to a future where
The same reemerging deficits do not manifest unfixed.
One of said deficits may include all positive freedoms.

For the record, it shall be noted that civil society
Currently arrives implicitly to find it compliantly fine
To promote systems of labor designed to illicit behaviors
That will eventually undermine the actors of exhaustive work
And make benefactors of those complicit in crime.

As case studies of this paradoxical paradigm, we observe
Nations signing trade agreements aligned with
Selling more of the goods whose extractions have
Cataclysmic exactions upon locals contracted not to resist.
Those who take issue with this are directed to appellate institutions.
The projected scarcity of over-consumed poisons causes fear
Which leads to faster hoarding and more ex(t/p)ensive death.

Thus, most human behaviors presently inflate pricing, popularity,
And rapidity associated with committing system-wide suicide.
As shackle-some power consolidation bends toward a transnational peak
I hereby slide-tackle these forwarded trends, seeking goals of the rational.
Xavier Quinn Apr 2017
Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. [Katherine] is not available. At the tone, please record your message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up, or press "1" for more options. [Beep]

Katherine, please, pick up the phone. I'm sorry that I keep calling, I know you probably don't wanna talk to me, but please answer. I can't just sit on the sidelines anymore. I haven't seen you smile in weeks, and some days, I don't even see you. I can't approach you without you turning and walking away quickly. You're isolating yourself, and I'm really worried. Please, answer my calls, please talk to-

Are you still there? To end your message, press "1." To continue recording, press "2." To hear more- [Beep]
At the tone, please continue your message. [Beep]

Everyone's talking about it. I've seen posts on the internet, heard people gossiping about it, even the teachers have brought you up. It has felt wrong not having you around, not seeing you doodling in your notebook during class, or walking down the nature paths admiring the trees. Everyone else doesn't seem to feel the same way I do. They know, but they don't seem to care. Maybe that's what made you think that nobody cared.
God, I miss you so-

You will be disconnected in thirty seconds. [Beep]

The funeral was today. I was one of the few from our school who actually came. I tried to give your family my condolences, and I started to choke when your mother began to cry. God, the whole thing was hard; hearing family members tell stories, seeing you lay there motionless. I was happy they put you in a long sleeved dress. I didn't want everyone to see that part of you; not that it matters much, because everyone knows that is how you died.
Everyone left an hour ago. I've been sitting by your tombstone watching the sun fall into the ground. I keep hoping that you are somehow hearing these messages, that you'll call me back any minute. I'm not sure how the cell service is six feet underground, but I'm still hoping. I'll always be hoping. People will be moving on, but all I can do is choke on my words and I yell into a dead girls voice mail.
I'm sorry, Katherine. I'm so so-

You will now be disconnected. Goodbye. [Beep Beep Beep]

...

I'm sorry. This number is disconnected, or no longer in service. Goodbye. [Beep Beep Beep]
[POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING]
Hello, everyone. I am new to this site, and I have thought this up recently, and decided to share it. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Quantify

We will ease into this twisted or rebellious look at what experts say is the top trend
For 2012 this quantifying was first done in ancient abbeys but they did it on the front end you were
Told how long to meditate, pray, copy older manuscripts but now technology is going to do it at the end
And it is called the quantified self a top magazine that writes about these things says there are already
Three big hitters geared and going already their data bases are going to record practically every human
Action then it will give you a read out numerically where you can strategies a perfect day even the writer
Knows how much he wrote last year how much the better writers wrote and with less words they
Received better results on hits or they will tell you how many steps how many calories they have a
Sleep machine that will use Doppler radar and it will tell you when you’re in deep sleep track your sleep
Cycle show when it is best to get up yes it has all positives cut down on wasted expenditure of energy
Come out ahead for the day in less time but it will mean you have to be self driven I never respond well
To the whip I don’t care who’s holding it and if they have sleep machines not far behind will be intimacy
Meters all of a sudden the geeks and nerds will be gods the woman turns on the **** his eyes light up
Like a plane ready to taxi and his bow tie will start to twirl like a propeller but listen to two regular guys
Man I can’t take it I use to beg like a dog now she smiles real big then she takes the only key turns the
Lousy thing on turns the **** to the slowest point you can’t even ride a bike at that speed you just fall
Over you think you have it bad my wife almost twist the **** off I feel like a greyhound at the track but
I’m the only one in the pack that knows the rabbit isn’t real who wants to chase a sock on mechanized
Rod you go twenty five it goes twenty six well you know who is going to have a career resurgence Kirk
Douglass all of this whooped up speed nonsense all he will have to do on screen is ride down the street
Top down doing ten miles an hour hey Kirk you’re my hero the one per centers will scream what’s with
That ole **** the new rebel will be the day dreamer standing idle watching a cloud pass slowly over head
I can just see all the animals going bald from the stress some jack rabbit wanting them to eat faster sleep
Less forget the flees one guy said he tried to shoot himself but the ammo is so out dated and slow he
Kept missing his head Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn will not only be classics but new best sellers and all a
Painter will to paint is a bare foot kid with a straw hat and a fishing pole they will sell like hot cakes to
Frazzled out over achievers we had a New Yorker move into our Midwestern town and take a job at the local
Factory that’s the way it will be he looked like he was on video tape being fast forwarded and we were
On regular speed and when he talked it was like the old LP records when you put it on the wrong speed
He was talking a mile a minute and sounded like Alvin the chipmunk where we were on the slow speed
And we fell in a vat of molasses turtles that talk my final word I miss the good old day
C S Cizek Oct 2014
Is it my counter-counterclockwise
mind wasting time? Elbows
on the dining table pulling my angel
hair into grid-like times tables.
I’m invested in this non-conversation
table. Ich liebe dich, mein Freund.
I’ve got commitment issues and four-ply
tissues for when my eye lashes start
peeling apart. My grandpa died in 2005
and I’m all but over it. I’m holding
his kite string, but the reel is almost done,
like VHS tapes rewound then fast-forwarded
to the good times. Power Ranger birthday
and everyone’s wearing dunce caps
with elastic chin straps ‘til they snap.
Snap! Snap! Snap me back to three-years-old,
and I’m singing in a Robin costume
‘cause I knew I’d always be second best.
I had an identity crisis around fourteen,
so I stopped buying sunglasses
because I found myself in other
peoples’ shadows. But now the only shadows
they’re casting are the ones from their headstones
and from the fields of flowers cradling
them like they once cradled me.

Fast-forward, I’m genuflecting in gym shorts
before myself in a mirror smudged with plum
felt. And I seem small compared to my life
spelled out in Expo marker markings.
I poem for my deceased relatives, especially my Grandpa Cizek. I miss you all every day.
kenye Mar 2013
One must suffer for beauty
But not in this self-destructive fashion
Maybe after we put ourselves out there
They'll worship at the pedestal
Some skewed mindset of what glamour highlights

Re-invent yourself
Not innovate another's identity
We're just templates
left to be traced by another
Who wants to be the photocopied poster child?

She just wants out
You can't blame her for exploiting herself
This was after the *sext
messages
Sent to his phone
forwarded to all his friends
sent to all their friends
inevitably the internet

Girl's got a sickness about her
She wants to go viral
Starving for attention
Starving herself for perfection

Caught somewhere between ascension of ego
and descension of the soul
She's lost like a lighter in a smoke circle
Won't somebody spark the way?
I was channeling an anti-heroine

...Happy Women's Day?
Kayla Manor Sep 2011
I will let you inside
Rent space in my head
and I'll take heed and make an attempt
To conquer whatever it is about me that you spend so much time devaluing
And when you're in there, would you kindly mind shutting off whatever longings and needs I may have
Just flip that switch and tie a rope to it that extends to a nail in the ground
And cancel whatever subscription I have to the "Pity Party" hotline
Make sure it is forwarded to you
For you deserve all the pity and sympathy for having to endure me
Go ahead and stab out whatever cortex may be responsible for my behavior towards you
**** it and bury it and don't be manipulated by it like you were in the past
Stuff me full of you-loving and you-respecting ingredients
Fashion me into the sort of a person you could love
L Smida Jun 2013
Channeling
Every emotion
To a setting
Where they
Do not
Will not
Can not
Be forwarded
For people to see
Subconsciously
Assuming that
The whole
World
Knows when
I'm
Mad
Devastated
Furious
For some ******
Up reason
That is unknown
To me
But if a detailed
Word
Isn't spilt
About the matter
Then nobody
Honestly
Knows such
Feelings
Are being felt
Thinking people
Can look hard enough
Care deep enough
See through me
Expecting too much
But expectation
Should be higher
Not from those
Of others
But of myself
Dealing with emotional
Confrontation
Is something
I cannot handle
Everything in me
Will push it away
Hide it away
Never speak a
Word
About it
But why?
Acting like a
Five year old
Instead of being
Forward
Upfront
And
To the point
Why is it so hard
To speak a mind's
Emotional struggles
Finding words
Or explanations
Is an impossible
Task for my tongue
To master
I'm stubborn
I'm miserable
I'm attention hungry
I'm self conscious
I know I'm all these things
But
Is
There
A way
To change
Those
Parts
Of
Me
When
It's
Who
I
Am?
I sure hope so
Death Is A Depth... Life Is A Miseries.!!!
Isn't it strange how $500 seems like such a large amount when we give it as offering, but such a small amount when you go shopping?
Isn't it strange how 2hrs seem so long when you're at place of Worship, and how short they seem when we're watching a good movie?
Isn't it strange that we can't find a
Word to say when we're to make
supplication to God, but we have no trouble thinking of what to gist about with a friend.?
Isn't it strange how Difficult and Boring it is to read one chapter of the Scriptures, but how easy it is to read 100 pages of a popular novel or magazine?
Isn't it strange how everyone wants front-row-tickets to concerts, film house or games, but they do whatever is possible to sit at the last row in the Holy gathering?
Isn't it strange how everyone wants a place in Paradise, but they don't want to Believe, Do, or Say anything to get there?
Isn't it strange how we send jokes in e-mails, BBM,Whatsapp, Facebook, Google, Globalshare, Youtube, Twitter, Linked-In,BC and
they are forwarded right away, but
when we are going to share messages about GOD, we think about it twice before we share it with others?
IT'S STRANGE, ISN'T IT? Now that you've read this message, forward it to anybody that we both consider a Friend. Let us build up Our Spiritual Life because its very Necessary.. I strongly believe, that GOD will Strengthen Ours more than a Soul. What breaks my
heart most, is that many
Mode And Made in the
Church Of Thy body will not make it if Jesus
comes now? Many are unaware
that the
End is Near.! If any Area of Our
Life is not in sync with GOD's Word
Repent
and be converted. If we miss
Heaven we can never miss
Hell...Think about
it. Hell is not a pretty place that I want I and I to go to, the
worst part is that it is for
Eternity...Please
rather than post and forward
Wordless messages. Send to
everyone that thy Love. Do the work of an
Evangelist. PLEASE SHARE THIS
MESSAGE WITH
ALL YOUR CONTACTS. Have you
ever wondered what would have
happened if we treat the Holy
Bible the way we treat our mobile
phone?☎
GOD Remain Our Strength...!!
Isabelle Nov 2018
you said you’d always be here –
(* *** is not available)
but I always knew you’d not.
because of all the times I cried for you
you’d be a bit caught up.
(at the tone, please record your message)
of all the times I needed you
I was told to leave a message.
(when you’ve finished recording you may hang up)
and this time I am telling you,
I'm giving up.
and you my friend,
have lost
me.
(or press 1 for more options.)
I H Σ
IHS HOMILIA

In the natural fatigue of everything created, the Duoverse presented its IHΣ, falling on the eighteenth letter of the Greek alphabet and on the duo hundred changes in physical memory. The PH (Hexagonal Primogenitor), is conceived in the presence of the Chrismon, but Hellenic with the Vexillum banner, to rescind the fatigued and depressed winds, since the quantum of memory was lost in its integrity of aerophobic to the earth, and therefore the subsequent one would be air-water, being for this reason, preceded the ceremonial that begins by stripping before the abenuz Diospyros, with its stamens usually in sixteen plus its hypogines or inserts at the base of the corolla; like those of the female flowers, being part of the gynoecium of the Tsambikas part, and of the androecium that will have to be of the Diospyros in Theoskepasti; with ovaries generally tetra ocular adapted, to be inseminated for the raids of the demigods of the Horcondising and El Duoverso, with the monogram HDD (Horcondising-Duoverso), for those who trace the bifurcations with Zefián; chaos computer, all the way to modulated Theoskepasti. Making the changes that have to be reborn in the stamen, being almost sterile, aborting in the memories of Galilee, signifying the pollination performance of the Diospyros and sprouting in the same stem of the whorl, even more in each hand of stigmatized Vernarth and Etréstles , bearing the IHS candles, the monogram and the Mandylion-Vas Auric, as a sign of the Olives Bern. Before the seams of the carved heels are erected and the one of the gutters of the annelids going up through the alabaster, to the chalice with the chrismon hat.

Filling the warehouse of Anemoi himself, and forgetting his deposit of the empyrean breath on the synaptic abbreviations, the argument of Saint John the Apostle continues in the network of Rhodes and Kímolos, for the cortex of the sensory past and the consequence of the gusts of falls by the trisomies, affecting to be regenerated on the oxygen-nitrogenous bases, from the activation of nemo-genetics, to specify the loss and egregious gain of channeling between the Cyclades and the Dodecanese. Carrying memories of Vernarth's cerebellum stuck and not trembling towards the lake of the hippocampus, where the Zoroaster carried the Magi, at the end of the span and first-last border in the vicinity of Ein Karem. On the evolutionary scale the weak air masses fluctuated, in the flood of the Meltemi over the Aegean, taking them to the bay of Dekas, on the knees of the colossus that impregnated with its fennels so that some delirium could replace its articulation. Remaining like this, on a scale of emptiness reminiscent and tacit ..., it continues to be and not, occupying itself and not, but it does rise towards the colossus from the ground of Vernarth, which had split bipartite from Rhodes to kímolos, like Verthian neuroscience, whose prose they emanate submissive glaciers of Intuitive Hypermeditation (as a technique of knowledge and meditation, for functional links of inspiration, purgative insight and yogic memory). All the nonsense is alluded to, breaking the rationality of the Vas Auric ceremonial, in its phenomenology, making curvilinear pauses to re-captivate phraseological keys, diminished in condensed memories equivalent to approximately ten terabytes, from a homologous half, almost surrendering when exhausted before both scholars and their debts exchanged when driving ..., thus recovering wave dips before reaching the bay of Dekas, Kímolos and ending in the necropolis of Hellenika ..., and vice versa before re-climbing in the middle of Mandraki, Archangelos and Filerimos, to finish in Tsambika, Rhodes.  As a parallel response to the archpriest of not altering the  IHS homily monogram, and of the association in remembrance, which may affect the conduction of the mediumistic trance, almost prostrating him in the house of forgetfulness and frenzy, if he is to recover not stabilized. The sulfurous and mercurous component of Cinnabar proceeded by acidifying the essences of Vas Auric, already prospering in the hands of each auric conductor ..., Archpriest and Saint John the Apostle, each with the sulfur from the mountain and the arc of the Aegean Sea, as genesis volcanic for its diametrals towards a change of chemical prisms, to the multi-angle of the topaz that Saint John the Apostle wore in his air, close to the reliquary, hanging from some fringes of the Vexillum, that he had arranged near the Vernarth. Immediately on the banks of the monastery, Raeder was walking with a lantern looking for those who might try to enter, he believed that it was his father from Kalymnos, the ones who came on another mission, to be carried away by the energizing power of cinnabar, more than a breath for those who observe by the quarters, stationed in the sandy areas of Rodas.  Petrobus, the pelican…, circled around the heights of the monastery, delimiting the laxity of his body's memory, in prayers in case they ventured through Kalimnos for a good portent, in waters for the tenth seeds for all the Rodines.

From the monastery with one of its necessary dependencies, all were with exacerbated white candles between the steps of each cell and their attached friars, they made a room of the nave near the church on the hexagonal floor, this being screened through the center of the garden where everything was dominated by the limits of the alabaster arches, which only now pointed to the closet of the books, this time being fed up and sparing their voices with devotion. Chapter by chapter it expired ..., for each cell, identifying each portion of the world in creation to the scriptorium and the refectory, where in this ceremony books were swallowed for the infinite world of the Duoverso, near the parlor, to do the times when He was teaching Saint George and the Dragon, vinegar the presses for the wine of the missal. Even so, Eurydice, organized the fragrances of the cells and intermediations of the southern called in the voices of Proserpina, coming dressed in proclaimed black, but with the appearance of Persephone in reality wedged into her face as a goddess woman, but with a hemiplegic collapse.

Sequence shot at Kímolos, Panagia Theoskepasti

Etréstles says: “according to what has been said in this dimension, the word will be the world of the Duoverso. Synchronously, it lined up with the monastery in Tsambika, by the third hour after noon, reflecting off the undisclosed walls of the chapel. On if,  in the radiosities of cinnabar. Thus entering electromagnetic lassitude through the trusses of the pulpit anchored in the Vox of the mystical vortex, towards those who entered and left thousands of times through the counter shutters of the chapel, colliding and colliding many times, until by the iridescent Cinnabar, somewhat Sulfur rial, mixed with the radiosities of some novae, which also acted as a decoy of the chrismon, which Kanti carried the steed adjusted in the saddle on his back, as a mount of syntactic esotericism, speaking of intangible brown colors of cinnabar, almost human. I know that the scrolls will write themselves, and that no word will have to be written or pressed by a mortal who protects it, the Diospyros, will exert anticipated redemption from the imbalance of the proximity of the Universe that slowly fell on Greece, while in the hegemony of the abenuz, everything looked with its graceful synchronous stamens that were usually sixteen, plus its hypogines or inserts at the base of the corolla; that attracted the essences of the Androecium with ovaries generally tetra ocular adapted, but according to the word Ebreh Ke Dabra, for those who carry it under a state of extended ******* and under a possession of psychopathies, to delegate them in non-demonized existences, if not emerging from the syntax of the verb, close to the intellect that works for the grace of the subsequent. In this way, all demonization would remain in the distractions of the annelids, who travel the coast of Kimolos, from Dekas to Hellenika, where they will finish the alternation of the gifts of the Vas Auric, teleporting in the vessels; or vehicles rolled to the chapel, to later be forwarded to the necropolis.

At three o'clock, after midnight in its antipode of noon, the psalms will shield with the wings of Petrobus all the government of Theoskepasti, and with its golden, feathers ..., and the heraldry of Vernarth with its Aspis Koilé, lavishing it in those of Saint John the Apostle, in the Shaddai that acts as a temple, towards the lower funnel of the Hetairoi, confined to the elect devotion of being protected towards the gates of the Savior, in lands of sand removed over the naked and reddish bodies of Archangelos and of Psathi with mega gallons of papyrus, falling like the blooming chrysalis of Diospyros on the litanies of the archpriest, who was interrupted in his syntactic diction, when permeating the sequence shot Cyclades-Dodecanese, Tsambika-Theoskepasti, Anemoi-Meltemi, Vernarth- Etréstles , low the Vexillum or mercenary banner of the Peltasts that in legions gathered to assist together with Vernarth in both chapels for the chalices of the fish that welcomes the dead in battles and takes him from his nets and enables him with his gills…; "Tel Gomel, Gaugamela and the Gordian knot in the hands of Saint George and the Dragon"

In the aftermath of the memory loss of Vernarth's body, he already had his chest full of Cyclops, St. George appearing to venerate his litany and wide pain, common to the one who, even in that state, can sustain the world like Atlas, but like Epimetheus of afterthought. Being triumphant in his imaginography, appearing with the snowy horse, in total synchronization at the moment in which he is seen appreciating Etréstles, on the bulbous clouds that enveloped the chapel, and haughty and shrewd the knight Saint George of Anatolia, Roman and Christian was seen . With his mother; Polychrome, having already been trained here in the town of his mother's origin, in Lydda, he was trained as a military tribune knight, and was later appointed as a Diocesan personal guard.
Vexillum
Keenan Felder Jan 2012
Faded fixations of foretimes fallen
Formally frustrated from forwarded fantasies
I visualize future fortunes forged from a forgotten flutter of flukes...

Founders folley forbids foreign flourishing
Kasey Wheeler Oct 2016
I am an ocean
Powerful in waves
I crash into anything that stands in my way
I have no heart
And I have no soul
I have already sank an entire graveyard
Of ships that were once great feats

Don't worry,
For you have no fear
You're just the captain
On a ship I held dear

You will sink beneath my waves
For that's what I do
I am a possessive being
And I'm not ready to give up you

You will die
Here in my reefs
And allow my fish
To home in your grief

And that's were you'll be
Another lost century

That's what's happens when people look to close to me
They lean a little to forwarded
And crash into me

And my waves has no mercies
For those sailing to get through me
Blah, this isn't that good. I should probably go to slpeep
Craig Reynolds Jul 2010
you do not know art, like i know Art.
though you paraded your passings in public
it was i who, Art, trusted with his secrets
it was my window, that Art, tapped when the arguing began
yes, you may have enjoyed a dinner or engaged in conversation with him
but he never trusted you with paintings of the english language
or pictures worth a thousand songs
you didnt get 6 stitches, with Art, when you tried to climb the tallest tree
to reach out and touch heaven but still fear the fall
you didnt find Art trembling in a bathroom from what he saw
that day. You didnt find Art in broad daylight dancing
to some invisible meter, some transparent beat
you didnt see the patterns left in the steps of his feet
and while you may have gone to the cinema with Art
it was i he forwarded the scripts
to reenact a lifetime of moments
because we, Art and i, wanted a silver lining
something vague, something inspiring
to keep this momentum going
and while you claim to know this being, Art
you have not participated in a drunken brawl
with Art, involving a few rotten Connecticut men
and things not in our control
you haven't discussed eternity and death
with Art, or any of his close friends
and though, i'm sure you may have wish you did
you do not know art, like i do.
Copyright 2009
The children of this town speak of vacation and travel.
Worrying about the summer before it's even Spring.
I tell them, "why, why, why are you
LEAVING here before you've fulfilled your night-
time fantasy?"
They board a train or ship uncoothed and begging for more time.
I tell them "the ones you want are here already, in your being. They are
present and ready to be called out of the closets and crawlspaces of your dwellings,
looking for the belongings
you forwarded them in the shape of skin and grain and blood."
I tell them "Alone you leave this city and your self returns with you,
empty, even emptier than at birth. This city is your womb,
you can't escape the placental waters of your home,
the umbilical rail, the breathing air."
But when it is summer, they go. To be gone, to starve
the children in the closets clawing at
the fastened latch and watching time escape their follicles.
While they are sitting in darkness, we tell them we left to get away, to catch a sky
that crashes into distant lands or hold up
stars with out bare hands.
We say "bless this city and the state of our birth."
We stand, alive, unconquered and surprised that closet children are dead when we get back
it's just us in this city
                                      With all stars surrounding
                                      Unseen with the same lights
                                      We saw out there which blot them out
                                      The sky has fallen and our hands are cleaned
                                      By the starving blood of closet children
                                      Whom we refused to feed
                                      Dried up under the moon.
MMXII
Amanda Nov 2013
a)* I …like you.

b) Letters and postcards are amongst strawberry lemonade cupcakes and kisses on foreheads. You know why? Simply because to read those letters or postcards and to know that their hand once brushed the page, its warmth kissed each word. With truth leeching it into the coldness. But nevertheless, it *was
warm.  To know that each stroke, each cross out was directly from their mind and from them.
And most importantly, their heart.

That each full-stop, each comma, each word and alphabet is all yours. No one else’s.
It can't be forwarded like a blank, generic email.
The letter itself was once something of theirs
and then now its yours forever to keep.
A little piece of their time and most importantly, them.”
charles Jan 2019
i asked why it was so hard,
to find the bottom before the start,
to weather clouds before they part,
the blackest night behind the stars.
i followed paths with all my heart,
just to recreate the same old scars.
Kimmy-Nichole Dec 2010
a million seasons
could pass
and for the last mass on a very special sunday in the fall
for just a few seconds
if you listen carefully down the halls
the white and black keys press firmly on the grand piano  in the center of us all
as you slowly sip the gin'
you begin to obviously grin
a smirk a smile short about a mile to thiin

i breathe your scent
masked under **** and cigarette buds

your the one my hearts requesting
forwarded with a can i have my turn again

life doesnt care
-
Unfortunettly theres no return policy.
Mitchell Aug 2014
Nodding at the daylight
I'm beginning to see
That everything in this world
Comes down to a simple choice

Moonlight on the terrace
Stars in the sky
The apples in the barrel
Oh' lady, why you gotta' cry?
It's just you and me here tonight
Everything's gonna' be alright

See that horizon blistering cherry red
What else can be said about beauty
That already hasn't been said?
Not enough of this world sees the simple
Your perry winkle eyes
Your dawn lit dimples
Scootch over here a little

These streets are nameless
The roads are dark
This soul of mine is feeling bare
Feeling downright stark
Can it be that I'm growing old
Or am I just beginning to see
A different kinda' light?
So many questions
So little time...
Don't know if I'm every gonna' make it
Out of this God awful town
I feel a hand reach out
But I've already drowned

Money is the devil
And love are our angels
Little sister
Little brother
Come on down and
Visit dear old mother
There ain't nobody else
You'll never find another

Take my hand
By the river
The moon hangs in the sky
Little a silver sliver
Toads are chirping
The birds have all gone to sleep
Walk soft through the reeds, you said,
Don't make a peep

I've attended all the banquets
I've seen all the scenes
I've burned all the trinkets
I've gone where all have been
Don't take my word for it
There's many things to see
But make sure you know
That nothing is truly make believe

The truth is a cheshire
Grinning in the shadows
Being there
As well as not
All construction goes asway
As Shakespeare once said
Make your bed
Watch the sun
Remember to laugh
And hold the hand of the daff

The heart attack machine
Is tinted yellow
Like the teeth of a thousand old
A cradled cat meows on the fence post
All ridicule in asides
When we were sending letters
And you read them upside down
I thought you said you were smiling
But you were actually wearing  a frown
At least we've got our lies
And our truths we whispered
Sitting on the bedside

Out of this chaos comes
No solution
Look at all of this
Thick tangled up pollution
We've got men
With guns
Sisters dressed in costumes,
But who knows
If they aim to be nuns?
I've got no present
I've got no past
All that can be forgotten,
Can.
Let yourself go
Soar where the wind
Tears you to bits and the cold
Forces you to forget
Everything you've ever been told
Little sister watch my palm
Read the songs
Past the music

All is not tragic

Chilly blade used on the foray
All stories
Have their
Ending.
Take no advice.
Record no spending.
All friends
Lost in death
Are the ones
That will
Forever last.

Butterflies on the edge of pen.
All your letters
Are sent away.
The trees outside are on fire,
The sky is too.
When you said you were one of them,
Your skin turned a deep blue.
All the bank men have my number
While I'm laying in my bed in slumber.
"How much?" he asks, "For one of your
Famous hummers?"
"Two-twenty-five," licked the lips,
"Aren't you a swell smelling stunner."

Nail in the wall
That holds no frame
Love in the stall
She doesn't have a name
Can it be baby
That our love ain't any different
That we're all just
The same?
Door opens wide
And I'm filled with pride
Can't believe my luck
That I don't
Have to choose a side.

Wicked car ride through the Appalachian trails
Most men I know
Have little or no luck.
The dead end is glaring.
We all plan our weekend trips.
Where are our spoils?
I'm beginning to toil
On the empty hopelessness of it all.
Wipe my eyes clean of this dirt
I want to see through them
One last time
You've made my dreams come true
You've let me see through
Give me my pen
Give me my paper
I've got one last ride in the rhyme

Heavy metal bars around my mind
All appetizers are served on the side
Bar down the street is closed - batter down the hatches
Every witch that was burned
Every son that was hung
Has a memory to bright to fade away
They take the place of stars
And the rifling engines of muscle cars.

Oh' courage
Lion's eye
Turtle's will
A favorite sonnet
For the blonde eyed bonnet
This grass under my feet is wet
With the dew of you
Tears were never your
Strong suit
Am I talking to you
Or the man behind?
The cracks in the sidewalk
Are breathing, winking, tingling
With the thought of you
And you only.

Praise the one walking alone
At 5 am
They walk alone
With all their bones
Revealing themselves
Like a hidden Sun
The winter comb
Hasn't yet made their tomb
There's no home for the wicked
Or a time too soon

Alright...we've had enough
Of the chivalry. She removed
Her hand in a vicious kind of way.
There wasn't much else
Left to say. Take what you want from her,
But me, you're gonna have to bleed
For what I've made. Daring
Blade, sinister trade, forget all that was
Made before you were released as sane.
Write down the pain.
Memorize all that was writ'
About your
Dear disease.
Take the handkerchief son,
If you're going to sneeze.

All postage should be signed
And forged
By the gorge on the left-side
Of the
Forgotten hillside.
All presents forwarded to
Dr. Nine Glen Opposites.
He takes no calls.
Secretaries hold all wishes, grants,
And mishaps.
We are the internet age.

Get used to it and
Forget
The day before
Yesterday, as well as today.

Signing off.

Presentable Shades
Of the miscued Actor
Number Two.

— The End —