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(The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages
      — is a small group of rocks, with a beacon, off the N.E.
      coast of Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Salvages is pronounced
      to rhyme with assuages. Groaner: a whistling buoy.)

I

I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god—sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities—ever, however, implacable.
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.
His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom,
In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard,
In the smell of grapes on the autumn table,
And the evening circle in the winter gaslight.

The river is within us, the sea is all about us;
The sea is the land’s edge also, the granite
Into which it reaches, the beaches where it tosses
Its hints of earlier and other creation:
The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone;
The pools where it offers to our curiosity
The more delicate algae and the sea anemone.
It tosses up our losses, the torn seine,
The shattered lobsterpot, the broken oar
And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea has many voices,
Many gods and many voices.
                                       The salt is on the briar rose,
The fog is in the fir trees.
                                       The sea howl
And the sea yelp, are different voices
Often together heard: the whine in the rigging,
The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water,
The distant rote in the granite teeth,
And the wailing warning from the approaching headland
Are all sea voices, and the heaving groaner
Rounded homewards, and the seagull:
And under the oppression of the silent fog
The tolling bell
Measures time not our time, rung by the unhurried
Ground swell, a time
Older than the time of chronometers, older
Than time counted by anxious worried women
Lying awake, calculating the future,
Trying to unweave, unwind, unravel
And piece together the past and the future,
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending;
And the ground swell, that is and was from the beginning,
Clangs
The bell.

II

Where is there an end of it, the soundless wailing,
The silent withering of autumn flowers
Dropping their petals and remaining motionless;
Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage,
The prayer of the bone on the beach, the unprayable
Prayer at the calamitous annunciation?

There is no end, but addition: the trailing
Consequence of further days and hours,
While emotion takes to itself the emotionless
Years of living among the breakage
Of what was believed in as the most reliable—
And therefore the fittest for renunciation.

There is the final addition, the failing
Pride or resentment at failing powers,
The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless,
In a drifting boat with a slow leakage,
The silent listening to the undeniable
Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation.

Where is the end of them, the fishermen sailing
Into the wind’s tail, where the fog cowers?
We cannot think of a time that is oceanless
Or of an ocean not littered with wastage
Or of a future that is not liable
Like the past, to have no destination.

We have to think of them as forever bailing,
Setting and hauling, while the North East lowers
Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless
Or drawing their money, drying sails at dockage;
Not as making a trip that will be unpayable
For a haul that will not bear examination.

There is no end of it, the voiceless wailing,
No end to the withering of withered flowers,
To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless,
To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage,
The bone’s prayer to Death its God. Only the hardly, barely prayable
Prayer of the one Annunciation.

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.
Now, we come to discover that the moments of agony
(Whether, or not, due to misunderstanding,
Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things,
Is not in question) are likewise permanent
With such permanence as time has. We appreciate this better
In the agony of others, nearly experienced,
Involving ourselves, than in our own.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Time the destroyer is time the preserver,
Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes, cows and chicken coops,
The bitter apple, and the bite in the apple.
And the ragged rock in the restless waters,
Waves wash over it, fogs conceal it;
On a halcyon day it is merely a monument,
In navigable weather it is always a seamark
To lay a course by: but in the sombre season
Or the sudden fury, is what it always was.

III

I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant—
Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing:
That the future is a faded song, a Royal Rose or a lavender spray
Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret,
Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.
And the way up is the way down, the way forward is the way back.
You cannot face it steadily, but this thing is sure,
That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here.
When the train starts, and the passengers are settled
To fruit, periodicals and business letters
(And those who saw them off have left the platform)
Their faces relax from grief into relief,
To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours.
Fare forward, travellers! not escaping from the past
Into different lives, or into any future;
You are not the same people who left that station
Or who will arrive at any terminus,
While the narrowing rails slide together behind you;
And on the deck of the drumming liner
Watching the furrow that widens behind you,
You shall not think ‘the past is finished’
Or ‘the future is before us’.
At nightfall, in the rigging and the aerial,
Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear,
The murmuring shell of time, and not in any language)
‘Fare forward, you who think that you are voyaging;
You are not those who saw the harbour
Receding, or those who will disembark.
Here between the hither and the farther shore
While time is withdrawn, consider the future
And the past with an equal mind.
At the moment which is not of action or inaction
You can receive this: “on whatever sphere of being
The mind of a man may be intent
At the time of death”—that is the one action
(And the time of death is every moment)
Which shall fructify in the lives of others:
And do not think of the fruit of action.
Fare forward.
                      O voyagers, O ******,
You who came to port, and you whose bodies
Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea,
Or whatever event, this is your real destination.’
So Krishna, as when he admonished Arjuna
On the field of battle.
                                  Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

IV

Lady, whose shrine stands on the promontory,
Pray for all those who are in ships, those
Whose business has to do with fish, and
Those concerned with every lawful traffic
And those who conduct them.

Repeat a prayer also on behalf of
Women who have seen their sons or husbands
Setting forth, and not returning:
Figlia del tuo figlio,
Queen of Heaven.

Also pray for those who were in ships, and
Ended their voyage on the sand, in the sea’s lips
Or in the dark throat which will not reject them
Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell’s
Perpetual angelus.

V

To communicate with Mars, converse with spirits,
To report the behaviour of the sea monster,
Describe the horoscope, haruspicate or scry,
Observe disease in signatures, evoke
Biography from the wrinkles of the palm
And tragedy from fingers; release omens
By sortilege, or tea leaves, riddle the inevitable
With playing cards, fiddle with pentagrams
Or barbituric acids, or dissect
The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors—
To explore the womb, or tomb, or dreams; all these are usual
Pastimes and drugs, and features of the press:
And always will be, some of them especially
When there is distress of nations and perplexity
Whether on the shores of Asia, or in the Edgware Road.
Men’s curiosity searches past and future
And clings to that dimension. But to apprehend
The point of intersection of the timeless
With time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given
And taken, in a lifetime’s death in love,
Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender.
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts. These are only hints and guesses,
Hints followed by guesses; and the rest
Is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
The hint half guessed, the gift half understood, is Incarnation.
Here the impossible union
Of spheres of existence is actual,
Here the past and future
Are conquered, and reconciled,
Where action were otherwise movement
Of that which is only moved
And has in it no source of movement—
Driven by dæmonic, chthonic
Powers. And right action is freedom
From past and future also.
For most of us, this is the aim
Never here to be realised;
Who are only undefeated
Because we have gone on trying;
We, content at the last
If our temporal reversion nourish
(Not too far from the yew-tree)
The life of significant soil.
Agony and Pain,
Filled in the eyes,
Gaze seeing beyond..
Future is unpredictable
Life is futureless
Yet,
You, My Farmers you toil the soil...

Year after year,
You keep on working
Tilling the land,
Sowing the seeds,
Waiting for the rain..
And watch clouds pass by...
The shower doesn't happen,
The seeds don't germinate,
The crop doesn't turn up .
Yet again,
One more year of despair...!

The pain in eyes..
Hurts the heart
but,
Lips always smile..
They have a task of,
Explaining your child
About how next year...
We will buy
New dress
New toy
New shoes
New bag

It's been years since your child saw anything new...
Since your wife bought a new dress..
You anyways are not even in list...

The family understands..
The years foods is collected,
Bare minimum...
Child education should continue
Regardless..
But...
The loan goes
Higher...
Bigger
Humongous..

You cannot bear the thought...
The farm being in mortgage..
You don't know what to do...

Finally,
You are tired,
You decide, as your neighbor..
You shall too end your life...
Go away in peace..
Away from all these...
Hurt is too much
To bear,
Pain is too much
To wear,
Life is miserable
And
Lips refuse to smile..
Child s haunting eyes,
You can't decipher...
Finally...
You end your life....
.
.
.
Your wife now bears it all...
All alone...
Life continues....!!


Sparkle In Wisdom
Dec 2018
CORNEL PUNK Oct 2014
A stupid and futureless wino,
was heavily drunk as you know.
He fell in a gutter
and shouted "its better.
This home is the best for a wino"

#limerick
Ben Nov 2014
Addict.
electrifying
steel to skin, metal caress
most intimate touch
intoxicating
pleasure and pain mixing bold
sketching hearts on sleeves
exhibitionist
walking canvas, ****** art
permanent war paint

*******.
unhireable
regrettable decisions
just wait till you sag
appropriation
tribal skull, rose indian
meaningless symbols
rebellious act
futureless punk ***** loser
nine to five. conform.
perspective
sincerity
irony
Seductive Poetry Jan 2021
A cold room so stark and bleak,
Except for this day,
This day it was warmed,
Warmed to a boil,
Boiled over to a blaze,
Blazoned to an inferno,
An inferno of passion and energy,
Two souls colliding into one,
A fusion of sensual eroticism,
The magnitude to which is immeasurable,
On this day of spontaneous togetherness,
This soulful rendezvous,
Marks were made; left,
Fluids flowed and exchanged,
Bodies intertwined; entangled,
Only for a brief and fleeting moment,
But oh what a moment it was,
On this day something amazing occurred,
Two futureless souls,
Found their future,
Each other.

© Seductive Poetry
Walid Abdallah Jul 2018
As long as we are ruled by madness, hounds
will devour fetuses still in their wombs,
mines will sprout in wheat fields, and even
the crossed light of morning will be eye-fire.

We’ll see the young hanged, wronged
at the dawn prayer. It’s an age witness
to a snarling pig fouling mosques.

When madness rules, there are white flowers
on the ruined branches, emptiness
in a child’s eyes, no kindness, no faith, no
dignity held sacred. All fates futureless,

everything present worthless. As long as madness
rules, the children of Baghdad can only guess
why they wander hunger’s thorns,

why they share the bread of death, why off
in the distance, American Indians
hover in the cold, why greed shouts them down,
every race crawling ghost-hearted.

Through blood-colored streets, between humiliation
and disbelief, crippled shadows creep,
and the madness-hounds howl in our minds.

We are on our way to death.



The children of Baghdad scream in the streets
as Hulagu’s army pounds the city’s doors
like an epidemic; his grandchildren roar
over the bodies of our young.

The wings of wild birds are blood rivers,
black claws claw eyes—all this cracks the silence.

The Tigris River remembers those days, so look
behind the curtain of history—how many
aggressors have passed through the centuries
of our land, and still we resist?

Hulagu will die, and the Iraqi children
will dance in front of Degla. We are not
to be hanged from all corners of Baghdad.

*


A river can be a weapon against injustice on the earth.
A palm can be a weapon against injustice.
A garden can be a weapon.

Among the water, in the silence
of tunnels, though we hate death,
for God and right we will set fire forever
to your refusal that Islam is holy.

Baghdad, ***** by tyranny, your children
are raising flags. Where are the Arabs
and the white swords, wild horses, glorious families?

Some of them were condemned, some
fled shameful, some stripped and gave away
their clothes, and some are lined up in the devil’s hall
to get their share of the spoils.

And people ask about a great nation’s ruins,
but nothing remains of that shining empire
that spans from the ocean to the gulf.



Every calamity has its cause.

They sold the horses and traded in
the knights in the market of rhetoric:
Down with history! Long live hot air!

Death comes to the children of Baghdad
in the smallest toys, in the parks, in restaurants,
in the dust. Walls collapse on the procession of history,
shame upon civilization, shame from a thousand borders.

From the unknown, a missile charges,
“Where are the weapons of mass destruction?”

Will daylight come again after the ****** smile
has been erased, after planes block the sunrays,
and our dreams spurt suicidal blood?

By what law do you demolish our homes,
and flood fire upon a thousand minarets?

In Baghdad, days pass, from hunger to hunger,
thirst to thirst, under the gaze of the master
of the mansion, the thousand-masked face.
Will there never be an end to this nonsense?

The curtain rises: we are the beginning.

To starve people—is this honor?
“To prey upon supplicants”—that’s the glorious slogan of victory?
To chase children from one house to another—the joy of tyranny.

These days, people have the right to humiliation, submission,
death in every atom, and the chronic question,
“Where are the weapons of mass destruction?”



The children of Baghdad are playing in schools:
a ball here, a ball there, a child here, a child there,
a pen here, a pen there, a mine here, a death there.
Among the fragments, the cactus.

There were children here yesterday,
fluttering like pigeons in open spaces.
One of these days, dawn might lighten the universe,
but for now the sun of justice is far below the horizon.



Despite sacrifice, there is a dark gluttony:
some are faithful, and some are sellouts.

Oh nation of Mohammad, my heart longs for Al Hussein.
Oh Baghdad, land of Caliph Rasheed,
oh castle of history, and once-glorious age,
the two moments between night and day are death and feast.



Among the martyrs’ fragments,
the throne of the universe, shaken by a young voice.
The dark night leaves when a new day flows.

Oh land of Al Rasheed, don’t lose hope, every tyranny ends:
a child adores Baghdad, holds a white notebook and flowers,
paper and poetry, some piasters from the last feast.

*
*

Behind his eyes, a tear that won’t break
but flows like light deep in his heart: the picture
of his father who left one day and never returned.
The child embraces ashes, and stays a long time.

A thread of blood runs through his mouth;
his voice and shed blood are one.
His features washed out; all of this world is separation.

The child whispers, I long for Baghdad’s day.
Who said oil is worth more than blood?

Don’t ache, Baghdad, don’t surrender.
Although there is dissent in this blind time,
there is, in the far horizon, a wave of visions.

Although the dream is distant, it rises. Rise,
and spread my bones in the Tigris River,
so daylight will one day rise over my funeral procession.

God is greater than the madness of death.
Who said oil is worth more than blood?
Translated from Arabic by Fogle and I.
Paige Error Nov 2018
I don’t believe in the future. I’ve spent almost all my life knowing that I’ll never make it there. That one day I’ll finally get the courage to end the time line. I know that no one will miss me anyway. I see all these people who tolerate my existence. After a week they’ll forget I ever existed. I see me parents. Their tense marriage. I’m the reason that tension is there. I ruined their lives with my presence. They would take a month then realize how much money their saving and maybe even fall back in love. They’ll be fine. My old class mates would perhaps like and comment on a face book post about how tragic my inevitable fate was but, that would be all. I know that the world will keep turning without me yet I’ve never pictured the world turning with me still here. I still can’t see a future past this year. I’ve never considered it a possibility. I don’t know what I’m doing because I never thought I’d make it this far. I fear the future that I never planned for more than the oblivion I’ve been avoiding. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally be courageous enough to end it. If not. Maybe the next day or a month from now because I don’t believe in the future or rather I don’t believe in my future.
Niobe Dec 2018
Teach me where I belong in
A world that believes in absolutes

No place takes reason for reason
A cruel world it is where the liars are in
Control where the truth seekers are paid
In pennies and pain and where
Can I find you here

The absolute truth is that nothing
Is absolute but no one believes
Little red

No place takes good for good
For good always ends
I am no good at fighting but fighting
Is the only good these days

Teach me where I belong in
A world that doesn’t accept indecision
I am on one side or I am on
The other and I don’t want to be on either

I just want to be allowed to live

I miss the days when I did not
Know the good old days when ignorance
Was bliss five years ago
I was still innocent
I didn’t know

My home is drowning and
Nobody cares about whether we can
Breathe because we don’t breathe
For him because lives are only numbers
We are only stories in the end but these
Days people only care about the
Past is the past and no one can forget it
Not even me even I cannot
Escape the allure of the rearview mirror
When I’m running
Out of road my future is futureless when
He doesn’t want me to
Succeed he thinks he is God but he is
Sinking like a lead zeppelin and he
Will have to drown with us unless he is
Dead before he can

Teach me how to belong in
A world that does not exist
Step one is to find forever where hides

The future doesn’t matter anymore
It is futureless unless we
Save it now but now is over in
A decade or so
I do not know whether I will live
Past thirty I think not

I don’t want to live in
A world without color without coral
My home is on fire and I
Cannot breathe but we have already
Established that my lungs are full of water
Anyways we have
A decade or so

I feel I am the only one left
who cares
who cares
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2015
Our love— futureless,
Lost in a sea of memories,
  .  .  .  Driftwood in the strands.
Onoma Aug 2019
the cicadas know where the wind

went that quit my window--their

branches refuse to conduct.

yet their cadence remains perfected.

singing the wind's futureless window

under a summer sun, is not a punishable

offense.

it's the application of sound to the sense

of some perception, steadily building...

till marooned.
To the French couple whose lives were claimed on August 4, 2015 by the desert on the Alkali Trail, White Sands National Monument, New Mexico,

Of this flown away couple
Whose existence was stolen
In the winds of a dry desert
Remember, arid earth
Their last journey
Their tired faces
Trudging, panting
Walking, they kept walking
They were your children
France, they were parenting
And in the landscape
Their image reunited
With the hills far away

With those who passed away
In the winds of a dry desert
In the New Mexico
Of an arid America

They keep on walking
Their remote memory
On this long, long path
Looking for some glory
A futureless glory…

August 12, 2015
Lyon, France
Katy Allen Feb 2015
Old enemies follow me still
Lurking in any wardrobe, any bed, any state of mind
An erosion of happiness
I haven't the strength to control
A futureless tomorrow haunts me
Please, let destiny smile on me again
And grant me this dream
No more heartache
No more break ups
Please let him be my last boyfriend.
Cole Hearn Sep 2015
Brutal baby,
futureless is a brutal heavy extravagant
word to describe what we're going through.
I know I shouldn't be rhyming but,
Would it be better if I were lying?
Hopeless absurdities are slippery slopes,
Blast one single truth reminds me of what I know.
Don't tell me I can't count all the times you bailed me out I tried to        
forget but ****, your sadistic love is my main drive.
We have our house the excess *** one bottomless pit
Got the future next in line betting on us.
Rileigh Shanks Aug 2018
The river stretched out before me,
elven and expanseless.
I faced my opponent without fear or trembling,
my enthusiasm to succeed a far cry beyond healthy trepidation.
I dove headlong into the icy, brackish waters,
brazen and breathless,
determined to reach the far shore before first light.
I did not consider the confusion that would ensue.
The air was forced from my lungs, leaving me hollow,
hagridden and hapless.
I could feel my panic mounting as I pressed onward,
its thin fingers winding around my heart and clawing up my throat.
My vision began to dim, the world around me growing dark,
laden and lightless.
My teeth chattered, my muscles seized.
I could feel my flesh begin to convulse
as I was suddenly watching myself from above.
“Heartbroken and helpless,”
were the only words I could muster as I watched my struggle.
I was taking in too much water but could do nothing about it.
I’d strayed too far from shore and found myself stranded.
Misbegotten and meaningless.
That is what my death would be,
its story going unuttered and avoided,
the lips of my loved ones never being tainted by its recounting.
Panic-stricken and powerless,
I didn’t have the strength to keep swimming.
My arms and legs and chest burned with exhaustion.
I could no longer even see the far shore glittering in the distance.
Even and emotionless,
I allowed my limbs to go limp and my lungs to languish.
I slipped below the waves and let the weight begin to crush me.
I did this to myself.
Laden and lifeless;
I’d breathed my last, my cause of death an uncalculated gumption.
I took the leap with uninhibited lust for the journey ahead,
failing to count the cost or acknowledge the danger.
Misshapen and motionless,
my corpse danced beneath the surface, bobbing and swaying with the current,
cursed to float downstream for an endless eternity.
I’d done this to myself.
War-ridden and wordless,
my spirit writhed in agony.
If only I’d fought a little harder, been a little smarter, held on a little longer…
Maybe it wouldn’t have ended like this.  Maybe then I would have made it to shore.









A bend in the river gently curved before me.
Craven and colorless,
my corpse glided silently along the glassy surface of the water,
a sojourner doomed to serve the current as my unforgiving master,
drifting outside the realm of season and time.
Ashen and aimless,
the waves lapped insistently against my face and arms,
bidding my lifeless form to arise,
reminding me that I did not control them, for they owned me.
Oaken and offenseless,
I heard a voice whisper through the trees and along the river’s surface,
breaking the deafening silence of death
and causing the forest to thrum in tense anticipation.
Beholden and boundless
the motion of the river suddenly broke,
releasing my limp body from its eternal clutches,
expelling me from its unquestionable cycle.
Frozen and futureless,
my corpse moved toward the shore as if propelled by some unseen force,
my hair and clothes being tugged at by the low-hanging arms of willow trees,
drawing me closer to my destination.
Sudden and seamless
the still small voice came again,
beckoning me by name to breathe,
to return to the land of the living and carry on undaunted.
Awe-stricken and angstless,
I gasped as air was ****** into my lungs, a spear of Life driven into my chest.
I trembled as my hands gripped the earth,
feeling it move through my pallid fingers for the first time.
Golden and groundless,
I heard the voice once again,
inviting me into abundance and life,
promising me everything I’d died without knowing.
Forgiven and fearless
I stood up, the last vestiges of my grave dripping from my clothes.
I felt the world solid beneath my feet as I followed the voice of my Master.
My deathbed behind me, I did not look back.
Qualyxian Quest Jun 2019
The Catholic Church near complete collapse
But still I love Pope Francis

Priest abusers again relapse
Shiva does his dances

Bridges to build over walls
No need to fear the Other

Encounters with strangers mysterious
Ourselves we too discover

I go to Mass infrequently
Sit in sacred silence

The bread and wine I wish to be
Strength against Time’s violence

Solitude I often know
I sleep, I read, I write

What will remain in 10,000 years
When comes my cosmic Night?
Aa Harvey May 2018
Oceans have been born from the tears I have cried.


Life is an endless suicide.
Every day is a razor blade.
Oceans have been born from the tears I have cried.
I have nothing worth saying.


Nobody is worthy of my worthless love.
All things are above me;
I am your bug.
Squash me underfoot without a second to thought.
A liar is sought to take me to the sword.


Life is an egg-timer-paper-canvas.
Paint my reality.
Use only black ink to capture the essence of me.
No colours of light to be seen in this dystopia.
Futureless backdrop of eternity.


I coulda, I woulda, I shudder told ya,
That reality *****,
Like an endless vacuum cleaner of the space in-between,
Dreams and meanings.
When speaking of dreaming,
Never forget to tell all,
For the elapses we leave sheathed are the truth.
Let it be seen.
Do not hide beneath leaves,
Awaiting the spring of hopeful youth,
To wake you from your disparity.
Positively never, nothing but negativity.


Daylight is past,
We are tomorrow.
A day to mourn the loss of sorrow.
A day so hollow it cannot be followed,
For it is not worth discussing;
Things do not need sussing,
Or to be succinct;
I am out of ink.


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
You're fat!
You would never make a good mum
You're ugly!
Flat chested
A *******!
Selfish
Self centred
Manipulative
Futureless
Unaware
You're not getting any younger
Past it!
You don't have money! I have more than you!
Lazy
You've not done this right
You've done this wrong!
You're too weird!
If only you were a bit more like this>..........
Why haven't you done that?
Be more ladylike
Your a ****!
You're! Not Your!

Carry on
Pass it round
Fill the cup!
I'll just smile and sip my tea!
Would you like one?
Everything's better after a nice cup of tea!
Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh...........
Written to Matthieu,


Loving

The pain of a doubt .
Seeking.
Perhaps, perhaps, seeking.

Healing

A futureless
Sentimental Wound
Meeting you again


In your words.
Isn’t that just
In real life
Role-playing?

Feeling
In lulls

Your long absences
That’s not a lie

Not getting

If we should take
What’s left to us
What we’re testing.

Remembering

For a few minutes…
Whether we were lovers
I watch you wither.

Thinking

About giving you back

What you thought
You discovered

Seeking, seeking,
Seeking.
Where desire
Has gone



I could tell you

That the past

Must have engraved
What happened


But giving up
Repelling

This memory
Everything is nighttime…

Writing

To know

That darkness
Is hard to drain!


Translated on August 7, 2015
Satsih Verma Sep 2018
Let's go to search
ourselves, in our bewilderment,
to defeat each other.

In our home, what
was this game of the
infinite mystiques?

I will ask the blind
moon, are you
a futureless theme? Validating sun?

A hallucination effect
ensues after choking the
missives. The reject it was.

My dream becomes
a volcanic glass, crying
for a mother's hug.

I was losing the Midas
touch. Clay was shrinking away.

Inheriting the unending wars
of human beings.
Penne Apr 2020
Jumping
Jumping
Jumping

We're not testing the waters
Finding for that deep, deep hole
And hope to never come back again

Don't shout at me!
Your particles
Yes, you and I hate it
But they're too passionate
To realize

Whenever I see you, all I can see is our futureless future

A puzzle for you is different from mine
Honey, you will glow without me
Please believe me

Why did you even like me?
Oh why why why

I'm sorry
But I know this won't do
But have some patience too (Ooh)

I might be insane
I might be insane

But all I want is to throw a grenade
And be floored in your hall of shade

Yet you will never fully understand a person
We are all heavily lip tinted

Why were you lit up first in the cover?
My hypocrisie is dripping and melting
Ironie
Ironie du destin!

Why did we start and crave this direction?
All of it was just a theatrical play

You were a craftsman
So idealistic that you were too good at it
And I was your puppeteer
Together, only looked perfect in the images

Yet you persuaded me in light years that dancing in the pool was to drool
Games and merits
Such concepts are unnecessary

Why everything is blurred?
I see no lines drawn
Could that bring me breath or rosy colors?

No ending to our story
It's not that we won't
It's just that we can't

Darling, I can't see the reason why are we living
Such concept is unnecessary
Yet you feel

Why am I out of my norms?
Such concept is unnecessary
Everything is real

Can you describe a star for me, darling?
Why can't I picture one?
Sing-songy, 1950s to 1980s style, a bit jazzy and mellow, 9/10 would suggest to imagine this in a starry night? But interpret it as you can
Qualyxian Quest Jan 2020
I think I write the poems
Because of all those books

Have to see what I can do
How my own word looks

Future forming futureless
This country is for crooks

But the students study silently
In their reading nooks

In Vietnam they tried to ****
Those that they called *****

Lost boys look for Wendy Darling
Peter flees Captain Hook

— The End —