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A A Mar 2018
I would apologize but it would be futile,
Since an apology is meant to serve as a promise that one will never let something of the contextual nature happen again.
But I can’t promise you anything
Because I know this'll just happen again.
Of all the facets I have
You just had to find me wearing this one.
Third Eye Candy Oct 2012
These soft stones you call stars
claw at ravens, underneath the skull of your irony.
We are not without our useful futilities -
That function as the only spiral
of our narrow chasm

yawning in the wicked mist that tingles in the nerve-dead breath, your charms are few -
well met    and the hour has lost it's keening dread...
Where the hourglass slept -

Things are not the things we name things, alas
Our lexicon corrupts the numb jest -
the dumb joke that chokes the joy out of dominion
and bloats the vulture
till it simply

explodes.

You're next.
CharlesC Mar 2013
our journaling discipline
formed in six steps:

Narration
some warmup words
perhaps drawing or photo
pen now at ready
where we jump in..

Emptying
first we list
what's to be emptied
put it all down
pleasures and pains..

Removing
these are obstacles
label future and past
futilities recognized
we've trimmed our list..

Anchoring
with shorter list
peering behind entries
find lurking there
Light of the moment..

Listening
this is Creation
WE are creating
cleansing the old
Writing new birth..

Reflecting
mind now diffused
a Cycle made clear
a Voice was heard
new Narration appears..

*Now WE step
into our day
riding our Cycle
pedaling our Way...!
after a journaling
presentation this
weekend....
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
so this nun mary from the school
of the sisters of notre dame
(dame or Dane?) had her brain removed
and probed: full of plaques and entanglements,
advanced Alzheimer's the coroner said,
aged 101 the brain,
yet up to her death no symptoms of the disease...
she was one of 678 subjects of the nun study,
American experiment genesis 1986 a.d.,
(journalism is really a true ally of poetry),
the 678 were told to write a character assassination
in range between poetry and diary (in their 20s),
"low idea" density they did produce,
but like Sister Anastasia: an amazing poppy-seed cake.
indeed dementia, the western medical anxiety,
10% of people over 60 and 50% of those over 85,
the grey plague i call it (grey matter, no
vermin scuttling about);
men are particularly less at the risk,
long gone the vogue of smoking tobacco -
could have asked the Apache indians about
peace-pipes long into their 90s... but no.
Aloysius Alzheimer / Oppenheimer
discovered the anti-ego unit and the atom bomb
with the neuron, in the latter case the 'd'uh' gene...
cave in the vowels on discretion
saying 'y Dinosaur kno'w, but i saw
a big mushroom boom' caving in meaning they
have to sound more hollow than you thought before
(the vowels, the vowels)...
like the article states, is it really a dis-ease?
i.e. a negation of ease? only if you found learning
at school to be torture and equipped with
a mentality for menial tasks like sunset on a monday
or summer 1904 so too summer of 2014...
no dementia in the giant Galapagos turtles,
they outlive us and still have a brain-rate
on a scale of: take one step here, plop a **** there...
lettuce, lettuce, lettuce... munching this greenery
will take forever! indeed the backlog of libraries of
knowledge and the result of those pioneer futilities
never tapped, still fucky fucky, toow dollar sucky sucky
on the cranium donning a crown.
the rest of the article concerning 4 inches closer
between the finger that dipped into peanut butter
(a closed mouth, eyes, and one nostril)
and identification of nature's diarrhoea (mm those
crunchy bits of fungi and corn undigested) -
but i'd tell you the experiment is faulty,
the peanut butter served up probably wasn't warmed up,
sense of smell and gaseous imprints, like
chlorine the disinfectant in public swimming pools...
not watching television a big give-away,
leisure time spent watching Plato's cave
at 27% of the sigma elsewhere and 18% by those
not afflicted...
then there's the whole dementia diabetes debate,
vegetables versus fruits... vegetables win...
Alzheimer's (also known as type 3 diabetes)...
imagine a creature coerced into disbelieving the
existence of water, and that alcohol is water
and a hamburger, that's me...
remember that nuns are cloistered yet sociable...

general hardbacks
1. the unmumsy mum (50,195 examples sold)
2. how it works: the mum (119,830 examples sold)
3. how it works: the husband (312,910 examples sold)

general paperbacks
1. the road to little dribbling (68,270 examples sold)
2. SPQR (26,765 examples sold)
3. the shepherd's life (61,000 examples sold)

want the fiction statistics of the publishing industry?
here goes:

fiction hardbacks
1. the last mile (4,190 examples sold)
2. private paris (3,225       "             "  )
3. predator (22,430            "             "  )

fiction paperback
1. career of evil (16,865    "              " )
2. the girl in the spider's web (55,625 examples sold)
3. make me (127,395 examples sold)

so there's that and there's the 148 diaries found in a skip
(a life discarded): apparently only 148 diaries remained
from a total of 1,000, the universal truth after seeing
Iolanthe, running incompletely from 1952 (Cambridge),
a "true thing" at 30 words per minute ranging between
1 and 3 hours of composition daily (handwritten,
imagine writing with a keyboard ***,
hand-crafted in Israel, yes the *** is an Israeli invention),

so there's that, all the intellectuals bits and bobs,
but there's also:
#instawoman: 'mostly non-fiction - so i keep
them in the loo. a paragraph is better than nothing,
even if it takes me five years to finish a book.

agony aunt "mrs. mills'" replies to modern truffles
(sorry, trivialities): my b/f wants to have ***
on trains on the Glaswegian side of scotland
bit tipsy bit turvy (turdy?) and popping to do likewise
on the Cornish coastline, her reply?
****** pervert... fetishism (Freud believed)
derived from a man's unconscious terror of once
having stuck his head out of his mother's ******...
(hey! my bladder man! my ****! that ****
didn't develop till i was outside that annoying
oven / aquarium!) - so she replies and says:
whisper "the seven o'clock London Liverpool St.
to Norwich", and as my own input:
for a premature *******.

that's Sunday sorted then.
Aditi Mar 2017
Love me through all these uncertainties,
Love me all the way,
Till I find everything I loved in you,
In myself.

I'll love you, when it's inconvenient,
I'll love you when it's you I most hate,
Till the love wins over the raging hatred,
And in your embrace, I stand.

Love me like the sun does not care whom it burns,
Love me through the envious glares,
You'll find me next to you shining, not shadowed by your brilliance.

I'll love you when clouds surround you,
I'll love you through the rain,
I'll be your unwavering faith when you need it,
I'll hold you when you get tired of the weights you shoulder, all this heaviness.

Love me in all the realities,
Both yours and mine.
Love me in our ever clashing worlds,
Till you find the similarities.
Love me when all I'm is flaws and skin, tightly held together.

Because
I have loved you beyond the scope of futilities,
I have loved you beyond the words,
I have loved you through the striking thunderstorms,
And I'll love you when it's quiet and dull.
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2017
.
In whisper— shadow sings a song.
My call is joined within the hollows,
Only tiny dimpled crests of the sea,
My voice, for rains, round familiar                                                       As patch into tune of old shattering
Light.  I search for love, sloe in slips
Thru ******* eyes, outcast beyond
And ghostly move into monumental
Futilities of unbearing, leery in flesh
Undeciphered.  Make me one lattice
To bind the wind and mark shallows
Mine as I trudge into black, blue sun.
This song— I sing is for lost keeping,
Hear my hush as it breaks for darks—
And I shall love in box, buried, forgot,
Kept at one sight so grave, remaining
As smudge onto stone burnt in a dial
Etched by firing rays of timeless star,
Hear my song— whispers of shadow.
Lydia B Jan 2011
In New Mexico,
My toes never tasted the red mud they
Craved. Four souls in a ton of tin
chased storms
Dreaming of warpaint but
I only breathed dust.
I ran at everything with twitching fingers
and choked on dry lightning
that tasted like highway tar and ***** *****
futilities
But I licked my lips and asked for more.
1 & 2
Seán Mac Falls May 2016
.
In whisper— shadow sings a song.
My call is joined within the hollows,
Only tiny dimpled crests of the sea,
My voice is for rains, round familiar
As patch into tune of old shattering
Light.  I search for love, sloe in slips
Thru ******* eyes, outcast beyond
And ghostly move into monumental
Futilities of unbearing, leery in flesh
Undeciphered.  Make me one lattice
To bind the wind and mark shallows
Mine as I trudge into black, blue sun.
This song— I sing is for lost keeping,
Hear my hush as it breaks for darks—
And I shall love in box, buried, forgot,
Kept at one sight so grave, remaining
As smudge onto stone burnt in a dial
Etched by firing rays of timeless star,
Hear my song— whispers of shadow.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
to write against using paragraphs you prevent eye-strain, you increase speed of composition, paragraphs are what you might call the leisurely pace of writing, a promenade with a sun-umbrella, poems can never be written in paragraphs, they need the snap snap snap momentum, obviously unfavourable in times of printing on paper, not economic enough... well, digitalise my *** if you may, we're going to save the amazon rainforest this way!

the 21st doesn't really allow the perks that a 20th century
poet might have, first of all the typewriter has changed,
but so has the page you write on,
back in the 20th century you
lived and wrote,
in the 21st century you write and live,
back then you'd go to a cafe for
about ten days, or to a pub for seven
and talk talk talk, drink, talk talk talk,
play intellectual ping pong,
you lived and wrote,
you didn't write and live -
it's changed, everything has changed,
the pages are like brick walls
everywhere you and can see,
so you apply the rule: well, someone
might see it immediately, so it
must be graffiti rather than poetry,
because a. it's not really written in
public, and b. anyone can take it
immediately, on a random scroll through
this jungle maze of information,
yet poetry written in 20th century took from
the 19th etc. written with that glorious word
ah* or O, that wind of inspiraton, so light,
so breezy entering the heart... the 21st modus operandi?
the word **** **** ****, i.e. it's the ******
hoover dam cracking;
but the other thing is, you also have
the perks of a 19th or an 18th century writer,
a writer like Alexander Dumas or Balzac,
you have time, and you know you have
time to write prodigiously, you know
the audience is a niche of salon corset adorning
perfumed and pampered ladies,
with the gents reading the books to rid
yourself from the existential angst of having
someone bring you peppermint tea in the
afternoon while you lounged and tilled
the field of yawns and un-amusing gatherings
of, well, hardly ecstasy fuelled chorea minor
(st. vitus' dance) dancing raves...
but that's the thing, these days a constant
profile / presence is also a shady presence,
the background noise, ambient refrigerator noise
type observations of your own voice...
it's the 21st century after all,
we have a global world of mass tourism
and easy access to Turkey, Singapore or
Indonesia... but find our neighbour's house
to be Mt. Everest in terms of access...
impassable, well at least it's like that in England,
England and that damnable passive
voyeurism of neighbourly ordeals of staccato -
so you become a mole, you dig into
hades that your self becomes, and you expand
the horizons a little...
but still the perks of writing in the 21st century
is that you can speed up the publishing process
not really minding any material gain,
because, remember: in the 21st century
you write and live, it's not the 20th
century where you can live and write,
that's gone, it's like the idea of what Europe
used to be with free-movement of people
across the union, all the publishing wire fencing
are gone, you have to use this opportunity
to move quickly, use this opportunity,
otherwise it will suddenly disappear in the murk
of what writing used to be: the
ghoul of the infamous Vatican Index -
i mean it's still the early 21st century,
what of the end of it? history can be easily
condensed into an evolutionary theory,
pin-pointing dinosaur fossils and all that,
but i'm working in the framework of a range
of about 100 years, and the dynamics of a century,
nothing more, i'm being realistic like that:
as a poets' poet said: 'you know,
i want to become a philosophers' poet,
i want the shawl of even greater obscurity,
a mythology as it were, this paparazzi
***** and glitter of insect procreation speed
frightens me, i'm not the one for being
encapsulated in some sort of amnesia -
amnesia of the people, people's amnesia,
come one minute, gone the next,
i need to set a coordinate for people who
like to think.' and he was on the money, truthfully said.
people are always talking about all the futilities
of justice: but it's the 21st century!
makes no difference if you can't compare two
centuries and what we do that does not involve serving
our justice... the count of monte cristo always
said what was needed, start embarking on revenge
and your sought out justice will never end, for it
will never really exist, and you will not find
satisfaction in revenge, emotionally you won't,
but obviously cognitively you will, but certainly
not emotionally - since feelings have no aim,
whether in seeking revenge or in pardoning someone
for their idiocy or gluttony or whatever,
emotions are chaos, thoughts can become methodological
to the extent where you will gain revenge,
but up to a certain point, the point of exhaustion,
and then what? give your ear to zatara a while,
your emotions might surprise you, esp. if you're not
thinking out something, make your thought
a coordinate, and send out 360 vectors of the heart
where they please.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2015
In whisper— shadow sings a song.
My call is joined within the hollows,
Only tiny dimpled crests of the sea,
My voice, for rains, round familiar                                                       As patch into tune of old shattering
Light.  I search for love, sloe in slips
Thru ******* eyes, outcast beyond
And ghostly move into monumental
Futilities of unbearing, leery in flesh
Undeciphered.  Make me one lattice
To bind the wind and mark shallows
Mine as I trudge into black, blue sun.
This song— I sing is for lost keeping,
Hear my hush as it breaks for darks—
And I shall love in box, buried, forgot,
Kept at one sight so grave, remaining
As smudge onto stone burnt in a dial
Etched by firing rays of timeless star,
Hear my song— whispers of shadow.
Nostalgic Oct 2018
I’m not sure if you’re introverted or broken
If the purple in your heart is sincerity or it’s swollen
Could it be tears along with blood clashing against the narrow pathways of your veins
If that’s so then you’ve mastered pain withheld in vain
Escape vs design
Sacrifice turned into a shrine

Do you refuse to share because you conserve strength or fear burdening
Your indifference is frustrating
Are your moments of solitude spent contemplating or are you hurting

You looked in the mirror and swore an oath of silence to silence
You made a covenant to never speak about the pain you never wanted to speak about

Emojis and LOLs I’m thinking I passed the test
I’m here thinking you’re impressed
When each giggle represents another slash to your tongue
You’d shrug a smile and oppress thoughts of living in the moment
By picturing the past and how it presents itself
Like a portrait of regret placing you in regression whenever growth or transformative change is brought up in question?

Are you happy?
A phrase in the lane of impossibility
That you’re forced to reluctantly agree to
I’d have a better response asking if the colors saturate better in your dreams
When was the last time you licked the joints behind your knees
And if God forgot your name again when the queue for blessings and good hopes was read out

I hope I could suggest better comfort than “I’m here for you when you need me”
Because that’s the equivalent of drying the ocean of its tears with a bath towel

But I want you to know that I’ll do it regardless
That no soul should exist solely
That deserving is an understatement
Even when my attempts are nothing far from inevitable futilities
Regardless
I know know repeated actions for different expectations are *******
But even Einstein couldn’t escape depression
So regardless
I hope the mere thought of my existence is cathartic
You can stop hurting
You just have to believe so
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2015
In whisper— shadow sings a song.
My call is joined within the hollows,
Only tiny dimpled crests of the sea,
My voice is for rains, round familiar
As patch into tune of old shattering
Light.  I search for love, sloe in slips
Thru ******* eyes, outcast beyond
And ghostly move into monumental
Futilities of unbearing, leery in flesh
Undeciphered.  Make me one lattice
To bind the wind and mark shallows
Mine as I trudge into black, blue sun.
This song— I sing is for lost keeping,
Hear my hush as it breaks for darks—
And I shall love in box, buried, forgot,
Kept at one sight so grave, remaining
As smudge onto stone burnt in a dial
Etched by firing rays of timeless star,
Hear my song— whispers of shadow.
Mitchell Aug 2021
It's all make-believe
Until it's not.

Each position is a step
For another spot,
Another title,
Another

You.

There is no place
But tomorrow.

The present
Has already passed.

I think of novels
That have stood up
Against the onslaught of time
And tried to learn
From their prose, only to
See past their spell
Of literary-ness.

Take me on a hike, I whisper
To myself.

Show me you're as afraid
Of the dust on the
Untouched pages
Of library books
As I am.

Tell me something
You won't tell
Your readers, for once.

Please don't post it
Neither.

It's just you and me here
Me and you
No beacon of great words or beacon

Lead on by dead hands
Of un-Instagrammable

Morality.

What happens when it happens,
I often wonder.

Will there be a sound?
Or solely silence?

Will, we look on our elders,
Our parental paradigms
As bottle caps
Or finely written pages
Within a ledger,
Like novelties, we forget
As soon as I remember

Our parking is about to expire?

Eternities echo
Mark my words
Will be

Short-lived.

But really,
What can you do
When
There is futility in a rainbow?
Mirza Lazim Dec 2017
Sometimes you tried to be punitive
And I felt your inner worries to save,
I perceived your deep anxious initiative,
As every time you suggested a new colder grave...
To be protected from your frigid attitude
I used my profound senses to flame,
I tried to heat with the warmth of solitude
And with your such approach, you could only lame...
You had a right decision with erroneous cures
That's why nothing's changed and all are the same
Namely, punishment cannot better,
The one thing it can do - it is just to tame

It's like trying to persuade or hit a hedgehog
Like other furry ones you usually treat
In any case, your clement hands are injured
And if you're hurt, you know, I am also hurt.
Because you are my contentment and serenity,
You are the peace of my disordered mind
All my instincts would have taken me to you
Even though my heart was completely dull
Even if my eyes were absolutely blind,
Even though my legs were reluctant to go
And in spite of all adversities I would undergo.
You console my misery with your existence
You create new values inside my heart,
You make all futilities gone away at once
You are my savior angel I can't take apart...

Anyway,
One day,
I will have to leave,
Maybe anything will link neither me nor you.
But now I have a solace - the thing I always hated,
And hereafter I love it just only for you
How I cannot love this solace, tell me,
If it cuddles me and embraces all time?!
We live in the same world, in the same country,
Even in the same city, even just in a distance of half an hour...
So, regardless that even I will never be able to reach,
It lets me fly forever between me and you
You have to be glad and respect what you have created,
But conversely, for this, I am happier than you.
If you have built a fire in someone,
You must not either burn your hands or you mustn't blow it out,
Understand that you can also warm yourself
Yes, if it is a fire, sometimes it will try to flame,
It is a fire, to burn is its character and you cannot blame,
You can calm it only with your generosity,
With your deep understanding,
Letting it scorch in your drizzling looks
With the reflection of happiness in your eyes
And then I would be serene, I would feel no pain,
But I think you would use your hands again
You would use them very well for shaking your fingers at me
Oh, your remedial hands and fingers...
I wish you used them to correct vital mistakes,
As you did always in my writings,
I wish you used them instead of your feelings or thoughts
I wish you used them only for protection and caressing
I wish you mothered all my fears and miseries
As you have that potential inside
And I had seen, had experienced it before
So, I would not want anything more...

But you are again moving on the wrong path,
It silently takes you to a wrong destination
You are trying to save again with wrong ways
You try to find all differences to help,
And I feel your worry when we are similar
I do not explore similarities between us,
Understand, you are for me just who you are!
Oasis Apr 2016
Futility of Futilities
useless toils all ends
Fruitless gathering
Filling up water in a basket
.
.
Soldier go
another comes again
the barrack remains still
.
.
Won't the sea be filled up
despite the constant running of
the river into it
.
.
Eyes not yet satisfied
causing the hand
Into hard labour
.
.
What had been
will always be
So nothing comes
new under heaven
.
.
Quest for popularity
Power
Prestige
All ends a grasping
for the wind
.
.
Peculiar treasures of
royal hands are
consumed and turned
under earth
.
.
Effortless chase
Vain panting
after searching all seems
taking off the creator's hand

#aftermathofthequest
#chasingwind
#outsideHiswill
#waletoke­speaks
Mirza Lazim Apr 2018
As you restricted the flood of senses in my soul
and slammed the last window
where the light entered my world,
I became the slave of my rampageous rage,
tasting a bit chagrin and a bit revenge.
Could you feel my silent bleeding
in this ****** and blackened silence?
Which was violently leading me
to non-compliance?
You slipped away from my dismal and absurd destiny at once
as the brightest and sibylline star.
I wish you were something else,
either a compelling dream or a lucky talisman
however what to do so far,
the most dangerous you are -
a femme fatale - benevolent, nice woman...
You sparkled in the mass
like gold is distinguished from all other elements.
You can run away,
but anyway your spirit complements
my dark futilities forever.
Even from afar I can feel your laughter,
like an instant thunderstorm lightning upon my head
and leading me to the madness
with the conversations inside my brain:
'- Believe me...
- Leave me...
- Trust me...
Get me...
Please...
- Forget me...
- Keep me...
Keep me...
Keep me!
- You hurt me!
- Forgive me...
Just roughly try me!
Yet you are my essence which cannot be evaded
neither by you nor by me...'
I remember everything even with my awful memory...
It was autumn,
Leaves were falling like my last esperances,
but then and in that small room
blossomed the trees of life with your laughter
shattering all the gloom and after,
the whole ruins of my existence
were covered with colorful flowers
and turned into a scenic place...
I will water that meadow
which you brought to me as an early spring
and I will keep it evergreen.
Now you are in my pale palms,
like my broken, foolish fate
as near as you have never been.
I see the clouds and storms approaching,
The fiction of destiny is completely plain
My sketchy anger and self-destruction  
are crying and calling again,
I am falling again
and I have to cling to!
Have to cling!
Have to!
Keep me...
Keep me...
Keep me...
You are in my pale palms,
You are in my palms,
So, nothing can hurt me,
Nothing can hurt me!
Nothing!
TheSaneSaloon Sep 2018
The Unknown between ears...
Its destruction evident,
its peace illusory.
This hope for tomorrow,
that eyes will open anew.

A hope that is futile.

This night does not end,
these eyes have forced shut.
I am without,
my wardrobe I burnt, naked I walk.
In the ruin I made my peace.
In the pit I found rest.
In the depths I built my forge.
Refining hopes...melting away futilities.
I forge Myself,
My pas de deux with darkness.
Mark Addison May 2016
Once invigorating, now banal and blasé,
Their veritable magic was surely to stay.
"It's only your tolerance," is what I was told,
But idly waiting has begun to grow old.
I'd have paid more attention had I known just how soon
Her magic would wane, like a post-harvest moon.
Though indeed much was learned, elusive flashes remain
Of her psychedelic wisdom, gone like a flame
put out by the rain.

O to return to that meadow of mirth,
Traipse through dew-strewn grass, greener than turf.
Blessed with joy were those days in which I could feel,
Whence I’d discovered their uncanny appeal.
Perhaps a memento, some nostalgic reminding
Of depression unwinding, uncovering joy,
The relief of a father who hears, "It's a boy!”
The triumphant return of that happiness lost,
Only just for a minute, without thought of the cost.
I will surely be moaning once I have found
The specter of gaiety I feel lurking around
The bend beyond which I shall surely remember
The reason for which I feel wholly dismembered
Until then I will wipe away tears as they come,
Which descend from my eyes although I am numb.

Though such heavenly feelings are not meant to last.
An arcing foray like a fisherman’s cast,
It soars to its peak before gently landing,
Briefly submerged before rising and standing
Upon unplush plains of pain and sobriety,
Most fall to their knees as if praying with piety.
And though they might pray with utter sincerity,
Promise to both those alive and posterity
That if they are taken around only once more,
That never again will they knock upon His door,
Nor will they ask him a favor, blessing, or chore,
For only one taste is desired of yore.

That Feeling I chase like a ray of the sun,
Head down, charging forth, even deigning to run
But invariably, ere two months have gone passed,
Dullness descends, ending joy’s songs of the past.
It replaces contentment with grey, tepid numbness,
I remember the time I saw Mr. Tumnus
With Jake and Nadine, each now an alumnus,
Of the College of Psychs, where learned we of oneness.

The bell jar is descending, I cannot escape,
They call it depression but more aptly it’s ****.
For I feel as though life has taken its ****,
And shoved it in my ***; oh boy is it thick!
It ***** me as if I'd done wrong or owed it,
It’s a good thing I'm numb; I might have imploded
Long, long ago, perhaps upon entry,
The two weeks since using feels like a century
Strange sirens from without harass me within,
Each cell in my body writhes as withdrawal begins.

For whose mercy do I plead? Or is it a pinch,
Do I hope I might wake from a dream and unclench
My fists which I plan for our God to receive?
One in each eye and then one in between.
Mysterious indeed are the ways which He works,
Confounding enough, in fact, He causes to perk
Up the heads of the miserable wretches,
Who believe in His lies. O how one retches
At such a shamelessly scandalous, immoral regime!
If the Church is His house then His words are its beam
From which hang their ropes, creaking taught under the weight
Of pallid, limp bodies; this the inevitable fate
Of one who will do and ****, even think and say
When and how He commands, with a joyful “Hooray!”
And who would not obey and cheer at this grand fate
Promised to those Souls upon reaching His gate?
But have faith O they should, nay they must if they are
To escape life’s futilities, the looming bell jar.
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2018
Patience is an easy taste to slide across the tongue
When dull grey clouds accumulate as this long day is done,
When orographic clouds appear through every feeling sought
And rationale deteriorates with atmospherics bought.

Panic feeds the tendrils leading downward to my ****
As shards of eccentricity wind these turgid thoughts to lock,
Lock out all solutions to banish a release
Of all vestiges of patience from a tenuous sought peace.

War worn in a weariness, I cast about for friend
Full knowing this miasma deep within, may never end,
Full knowing the genetic flood engulfing DNA
May hold the key unlocking fragile answers to this fray.

Slouching in the shadows feeling tenuously spent
Reflecting that the best of all intentions often vent
A release, as a tear drop slowly trickles down my cheek
In accepting realisation of futilities I seek.

M.
Feeling so much better with that off my chest!
Hamilton
28 January 2017
ConnectHook Apr 2021
Then they shall be afraid and ashamed
of Ethiopia their expectation and Egypt their glory
.
                                                         ­   Isaiah 20:5

Pulsating freak anemones’
Protoplasmic revelation
Netherworld futilities:
Darwinistic thought-abortion.

Permanent Egyptian *******:
Eggman dragging Pharaoh’s ark . . .
Droning superficial sondage
Rises in black light of dark.

It’s Pharoah’s sub-Erythrean grave !
Sun Ra drones within the vault;
Atonal mode that cannot save . . .
(This is all Chad Van Gaalen’s fault.)
PROMPT#1
write a poem inspired by this animated version
of Seductive Fantasy by Sun Ra and his Arkestra.

https://youtu.be/bX_xh2do3eM
CharlesC Apr 2018
There is an approach
to self-recognition
arriving daily to many..
A direct recognition
of what we are
comes from a
very subtle noticing..
A soft kick
off the line on which
we have walked
in years of practice
and assumption
and fear..
A quick quantum
recognition of some
arrangement of nature and
past futilities of a sudden
are bared...
Tipon Aug 2019
August Moon.

Plutocrat, august moon. Golden fires from lost stars in
your chandelier, a hall that was for the pantocrator. The
steward left for home, submerged in the crowded city,
something of a good sense is left. The story sails the wind,
trophies are your favourite futilities, thousands of them.

The wall between you and the sky, if clouds would be like
cows and grazing on the blue line of your terrace, than
take it as a compliment. August moon, this is a golden dream.
When do we understand, you are nature. East, west, south and
north, and tomorrows. A penny for your thoughts, autocrat.
August Moon 2019
Yenson Dec 2020
I see lots of lonely people
looking to belong and grasp validation
in a lonely city with no promises
amongst fellow debris and the liked misshapen

I see milling fixed minds galore
where rationality is too arduous to befriend
and solace fares in futilities as real
all on point to do as told and never question why

I see them dreamers of lost dreams in now
throwing dismayed spittle and retching dark spite
to find comfort in pained remembrance
choking in shared tableau of miseries and guilty as sins in chapeau

I see bible pushers hiding in sins
playing Caesar's games and licking onto Caesar
to sell themselves for devils rewards
and harbour waste and deceits in their brother's stained coat

I see the pretenders singing gospels
and concocted choristers baying refrains inglorious
in saturation and salutations to the gate keepers
who see sacrilege in finery of a lions mane but money in ivories

I see the underbelly of corrupted slaves
brooding in the markets of lesser choices for survival
and earn ***** lucre and a place on board
for in the forests of concrete jungle no one is brothers keeper

I see a lot of sad and forsaken souls
under control hanging in fear and terror of white lights
a million secrets hidden by distractions
anything and anyways to keep on breathing unseen and unknown

I see all of them and they see me
I am not of them neither they of me for its a tale of two cities
and the drama is not that black and white
rather the disingenuity of thieves in disingenuous politics

— The End —