Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
Weave we've woven a web...
What I said, what I said, what I said
we been sayin all a long

Oh the futurists mythed the inter-resting-time

This man fears population explosions, he is speaking in 1991,

I'd built my great 100 by 75 miles ten stories building resting place where ten billion story tellers could hide and watch whaat's
comin' down.
By then, decades before, in the desert twixt Vegas and L.A.
I asked this guy who actually wanted in my pants,
I sat on the window silly V double you, did he know,
I asked, no, I told him, after I had been starring at the stars for some time, this time that'ime, when I think about it,
I told that guy the whole world was waiting,
suffering,
await'n' the frontal cortex maturation of the sons 'oGod.
I said "and I'm one." Don't touch.

My private calfornia became my private arizona and neo and river chose idaho, ( no, that idaho, that was a movie-story)... not part of the rite

that was the legend of the clan, when we had electrix. That ride set an I'll-go-rythm of if/then/else switches to HIGH honor if-ic.
If.
If you can keep your head... the rest, true rest, is history.

we know a voice who swore he was there when "Been there, done that"
became an
eternal cliche of the gods.

We are participating in the future. We are thinking.

---
that hapt the same night as the discovery of the perfect-ish
four sided pyramid of charcoal brickets burning one
at at at a time
touch another to the glowing pile on the sand...
(audio)
=====
why are ficts so far from the facts in the matters that matter

re-lig-em leg-it-am-it-all, damitalkenslowdown

so re-lig me to my ide-idea, beware

We seen this coming do you? This is thirty years ago we know, this we know this we

we are in sanity, as insanity is the only way to packitin
sane sorts of things that all must touch in order
to re
main sane. You know, you know. That makes lying im-possible or null-possil-be
per se.
Word.Righton. Trooph truckah! ToA allaway Found

a calico cat of the old school sawdust variety.
if you,
if you see her, please de-if her re-onance, it's chipped.
You can keep her, if I can say such things here and not be thought an ownery old cuss,
clammering through empty lobster tails to see what the attraction may have been,

Back. Then we are not
off track or trail, etched acid canyon of silicon paved with godelsufferingold, by golly, I'd be live if I could see my way clear to walk such streets at
the speed of light
no, gravity and no, too slow,
thought.
ought... that's a thought
not... that's a thought
ought... that's a differ'nt thought, takes time...
that's a thought you could spend thinking it. You get nowhere.
now and then we find clusters of ideas in time, as if they buble from some spring in the headwaters of the mind we matter in

Der Lesenmann, bitte, kanst do lesen? O h, dear reader, take my hand, my phantom hand, the one I never lost, tell me

did you enjoy our journey, so far...

Weave a ways, weave a ways to go. If this and that cross
again
we may hear what that preach meant to say, thaat day
o'visitation, way back when.

olden time. grand mals time to meditate sign-ate de-sign-ate,

Dada do we know when we know, when we are two and the past is, too.
Papa do you know the big bang is the answer everyone found, in the olden days when you were ten?
Oh I read about that backthen, I was twelve. Weekly Reader kept my gang informed, or Me, and I told all my friends, my listeners who did not read but needed to pass the current events test.
Now, we all a passin' those ****** one time at atime

Upon my word, begin...
This sprang from a 1991 discussion about the world wide web, in which Terrence McKenna  Ruper Sheldrake began to imagine the world we live in post Y2K and  9-11 and 420 and Prop 64, where are you
onlylovepoetry Jun 2019
head to toe kissing


I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and overcomes...so when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
cliollistic Apr 2021
I hate the city, all the noises all the smells, the heat scattering through the asphalt and making me choke. I hate the futurists, God I hate them, stupid as they were, thinking the city had something great to give them, thinking the noise, the heat, the pain, the screams, the sweat, the feeling of a thousand bodies packed together, had some love to give them.
At least they were constant in their thoughts, in where their loyalties lie. Not like me, I'm like water, mutable, never in one place and never feeling the same way. I make noise too, but it's not loud, it's a murmur a tiny thing that you could miss if you weren't paying enough attention. I'm cool, refreshing, the sun tries to touch me but it can never warm all my extremities.
I'm also alone, like a stream tucked away in a hidden corner of a forgotten forest. I could never be as big as the ocean, as demanding, as present and imposing, and I don't want to.
It's simple really, it's the law of nature: I'm small, cool and quiet therefore I hate everything that is big, warm and loud.
Opposites do not attract, that's the ugliest lie ever told.
God, I hate the futurists
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
3 weeks in Poland, and i'm naturally depressed...
this place really has that feel about it...
don't know, living England
feels worse than living in Alaska,
Scandinavia... or god forbid...
Siber.
      i swear i could hear a sober
me talk in Siberia at some point...
then look at a meteor
falling to a full-smitherings' load
of *******...
i did say 3 weeks in Poland
and i did say: not in any major city
as noted by weather forecaster,
didn't i?
       i see english society,
not so much: looking up its a-hole...
but more akin to looking at bugs
and their ontology.... their way of being
remotely too near but best described
as human... i don't get this
need to glorify d.n.a. and monkeys...
i simply don't get this *******,
given i spent 3 weeks in a country
that doesn't seem to care much
about such "discoveries"...
   i can seem old fashioned
but half the Tudor...
          maybe i'm just a senile
example of man... maybe it's just that...
i'm drinking and i have half the wit
of an intelligent person giving
a snarky reprimand... while the other
half of me is just saying: huh?
why are books supposed to
be akin to movies in the west?
what's the west, really?
       i'm with the chinese,
complately bedazzled by these futurists,
these positivists, these:
   i'm god-clad eternal aged 20...
wait for a video when i'm 60!
       i'm originally Polish
so i can speak to the subconscious of a nation
alien to me... well... why...
because the consciousness of a nation
is given the pinata whack on its testicles...
   i don't speak for super stars...
  there's Joe, and there's Alfred...
i'm so apathetic with my life
(counter claim: given the a-
meaning without: i'm brimming with pathologies
that can't be counted, or be worth
   a medical student... **** the doctors:
i need someone moved from  a McDonald's
drive-thru moved into a Michellin
restaurant, and geared up to be "ready").
with a mass influx of man, there comes
a person, once in a while: who has
the "delusion" of necessarily feeling
       lost, but more or less about to *****...
it comes when civilisation arrives...
   this pendulum... this
                   whatever it is that makes
people so **** adamant in being
constantly vehement on being solely
momentum prone...
    and yes, the meta- prefix
really does show you alternatives...
  it might as well be called counter-
physics... but it's still a case of pressure,
being pressed against a brick wall...
my neighbour is having a baby,
he's circa 55 and she's 44...
i admit, i was a bit of a rascal
writing poetry and laughing,
sometimes imitating a fox's howl
(dry laughter)... but i became motivasted
to live next door, and sorta stopped my
antics... now i'm not smiling:
i'm frowning...
                    the peacock is about:
he's just less demanding to showcase
his feathers... but at least the t.v. works...
      but that's english society for you,
i should know... spending 22 years in it
has left me... sick... alias Christian...
the fern in a flower-***, a negating-ease (dis)
animal...
           and i really do feel only capable
of writing ******* after ******* to make
the day make any sense...
         i really have no competence
to deal with the metaphysics of pebbles
to make up a mountain:
   coins to make a bank...
            it's too amphetamine for me...
      but coming from a "failed" culture
               with its Marx this that and the other...
i have come as a zoological curiosity:
in that i simply, don't know, how to compete...
   it's one thing championing
democracy against an autocracy...
       but another when the democracy
is a thousand ******* Hitlers...
                and all their proxy wars...
  i don't see the point of wars anymore,
all of them are proxy... like the 2003 war
in Iraq... it was proxy! proxy by was to
revise the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait...
          you sorta lose the will to live
anything true akin to: blood sweat and tears,
9 to 5... a pension... life insurance...
each day the point of these "truth"
constructs clings to you like an asbestos...
and you start peeling like a *****...
itchy... just itchy...
     you give up, not because it's the easiest
thing to do... but the hardest.
      giving up is hard...
       people going about like horses in a race
that people gamble on
  becomes easy to watch...
          and not engaging in these
examples becomes hard...
it becomes hard to give up,
          to not give a toss...
     such as England, a hopelass land
of what i best remember having come
here 22 years prior: grey skies
       and red double-decker buses...
it's hard to not guess why Scandinavian
made this place...
        i can't see a ******* candle
of hope in rising above this grit...
for miles...
         and then the media states:
oh *******...      22 years though, mate,
and i'm not exactly feeling a Disneyland
vibe... or that i'm peering into
King Solomon's mine of opportunity...
            it's bad to be exiled...
but it's doubly harrowing to write in a foreign
tongue...
                        because if i wrote in
my native tongue: i'd probably buy a gun
and shoot and shoot into a cave
to hear a very profound echo...
                writing down the meaning of sounds
and then overpowered by incorporating
the tactic of onomatopoeia, rather than
just leaving a dog barking alone...
reducing language to strain a barking dog
to a woof! then going a step
further with a wolf and a howl and awoooo!
that's the tip of a baboon's pear-pink buttocks...
   oh sure: flamingo-step next to the goose-strutters
why don't you...
           England is naturally depressing,
i must be a ******* living here...
but at the same time i can only say:
it's so refreshing to hear a non-global tongue...
a niche verbal...
                      at least it's not as insomniac
as the four coordinates:
   new zealand / australia, south africa,
                                  england, u.s.a. / canada...
where do people get so much energy from?
Miłosz? lazy **** wrote in his native tongue
till the end...
   i have an accent and it's not helping...
i have a knowledge of the tongue... and it's not helping...
    and what is it with
literature-movie-making hyphen akin to parabola dip?
if i write a hyphen orientated word,
i really can't see a =, however much i try...
readings books is a bit like
doing arithmetic, although the difference is:
you are less rigorously puzzled...
    you're not suddenly gauging your eyes
out to find out what's underneath: 1 + 2 + 5 + 8 - 1 + 9 = ?
and the result? probably a chance to set out
to handshake mr. dictionary when the answer
comes back as taciturnity...
   how can you live an interesting life
and then end up writing a book?
what compels somone like Don Juan
to write a memoir... what makes someone like
Alex Ferguson write an "autobiography"...
  you hear of pillage and **** in history...
      it's a standard unit of the complete
capitalistic individual...
                ghost writers... ****!
   capitalism is less venture and discovery
and more Las Vegas...
           it's less colonialism... and doubly Las Vegas...
well i do get the original principle...
but what i'm seeing now?
  it has no principle...
               it really is starting to look
a bit like Germany post world war i...
   what with the deutsche mark spiraling out
of control...
       no matter how many 000000 you put onto
a banknote beginning with 1... wouldn't
make you do anything with it: other than burn it
in a stove to keep warm...
    the same with the concept of a book in
western society...
      it's dead...
     i don't even know why people bother to write
books or print them...
             care to tell the Uber team where
the last taxi is stationed?
                      can you imagine this coming
from someone aged 30? i should be writing this
and be aged 70... but even i can't keep up...
        perhaps its darwinism and its gaping hole
for a mouth telling me to look to imitating
insects and reptiles and discarding mammalism
(ha... minimalism)...
     you go to Poland and there's absolutely
no fascination with the big bang, there's no mention
of a black hole... and there's seriously no
darwinism... what you get instead is:
news... current affairs... all the motives for
a carpe diem shabang...  
         which means i have to be a *******
of some sort and give a care to live in a language
that has: so many important answers to
give unto humanity...
                             white boy to white boy:
man... why do you even bother?
i'm exhausted just listening to it all...
never mind next Tuesday!
            well... you can't get any more raw than this...
it's a misery speaking in a foreign tongue
incubated in an alternative ethnicity...
i'm starting to wonder why african-americans
adapted so well...
               looking at the native americans
who commit suicide in their youth,
and given they live on "nature" reserves with
yogi bear...         african-americans are a perplexing
sort... maybe that's because i'm 1st generation...
            i guess it sorta passes you by
after the years and allows you to make a living
from playing basketball, and talking really fast (rapping).
well, saying that: 1st generation and last...
    god forbid i would have to *******
into a *****, wait for a cake for 9 months
   and give it social securities... too much darwinism
and the impetus to survive, reproduce
   and keep the d.n.a. diesel running... sorta dies;
oh sure, god comes into it...
he's the only constant in it... the constant that
    gives... but only nurtures via a crucifix.
i just heard it too often and i'm yawning -
too much history in between
and too much biology and physics theory
at the start.
Michael Marchese Aug 2019
At first they’ll say
It’s set in gold
Longevity
No growing old
Prosperity
For everyone
As boundless growth
Eclipses sun
And underneath
Utopian
Pretensions
Lies the rot therein
Mutations
Modified to be
Perfection
Specimens to see
What we in all
Our vanity
Have made of genes
And cells
And DNA
And God itself  
Just fades away
Awaiting Brave New Worlds
In which
Our human nature
Is the glitch
And with it switched
For automation
No more signs of life
To station
Out in space
Among the stars
Replaced by colonists
On Mars
And flying cars
Are eco-friendly
All remaining species
Envy
What they promised
Was in store
For those who pay
A little more
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
the problem with most psychiatrists, is that they treat their patients like paediatricians - a terrible flaw, actually: psychiatry is a very subtle form of paediatrics: among the few that i saw, i found one uttering aloud the phrase: he was abused as a child - which i inverted and boxed him in, meaning he was thinking aloud about himself; well, he was Asian after all, and we all know the deal with tiger moms instilling sadistic ambitions into their children, just so they can look the part, right? indeed, psychiatry is an elementary form of medicine, they can shout their theories on the brain's chemical imbalances all they want, deaf ears here from London to Aberdeen... politics is crass... yes, i said alcoholism is a variant of metabolism, a prime sedative, i could be a killer, instead i'm cool, it's raining and above me the Icelandic smog of grey skies, i love it: please post those "wish you were here" postcards from Bahamas to Santa Claus who desires an: unwanted gifts policy. i like this ****-hole, akinned (should be a word, variant of likened, i.e. rather than akin to, akinned) with - ah, godly be: we insert the ****** и               in the indefinite article if a word subscribes to start with a vowel, tongue tornado tie off the Latin - basic unit of sound (æ) - you can become an atomic linguist within a blink of an eye, always the humanists' rebellion given the grand scientific oratory belittling us - but we never write then                when the index vector points at an ear... or a nose; the ear, the oat meal sufficiency to size up to the ordeal of the day ahead, starters, fibrous delayed energy. poets? rhyme has been stolen by pocket pop and grizzly rock, poets want to imitate rappers... just do what the r.e.m. lyrics of man on the moon did to the nirvana yeah yeah yeah... quick rhyming... debased, anything but the whitey expression is far from the supposed "cool"; i don't know slang is fashion, or a revision of the 20th century: the futurists haven't really given us anything but extra flare of the 70s donned on the shoulders. still, i think that psychiatry is a form of paediatrics - it demeans people, they haven't realised the extra limbs, offshoots from the abstract version of the brain: the mind - the fear of the lost narrator, when thinking becomes automated and with recurrent themes, the Narcissus frozen in the mirror... and that's scarier than a vampire without a reflection... the automation of thinking rather than a narrative, that's the fear, and indeed few people can still attract a cognitive narrative in later years, given the clogs and cogs of our daily activity, jobs so trivial, jobs so pointless... but this is the world were we have limited elemental invasions of safety, tamed the earth, tamed the seas, tamed the waters, and suddenly we have no room to breathe. from a world of Coliseum antics and survival thrills, we're being squashed by our own improvements... thinking has rarely involved an escape from Alcatraz, but thinking is a variation of being, when thinking becomes a medium of escapism, not necessarily righting the world with fiction; enter philosophy and grit. when thinking can also include in its many other facets a variation of entertainment, and memory becomes cinema, and imagination is squashed by the overpowering tendency to concentrate. retiring after a prolonged strain of repetition will make a few if not a growing minority succumb to the ill management of possessing money and living in a civilisation, rather than not possessing money and living in a tribalism; i always admired the bums, i figured: Diogenes of Sinope...  Rasputin...              i'll miss the music i collected paying due dues to artists, and my library of eccentric reading... that's what i'll miss... and with death: a thrill, a look ahead... from the 1990s and into the present date, so many changes: the shrinking of televisions and mobile phones... the internet becoming mobile... we've never had it so good... and that constant plea in our minds: god give us back the strife and the necessary physical exertion, for we have truly created the comforts of heaven for ourselves, but never thought that boredom would be the byproduct asset we tried to conquer with logical games, logical games that preceded the logical argument of philosophy: crosswords before Aristotle, or Kant... fickle things these games... i leave you with the notion: logical games can be prescribed by mathematical encoding, the Japanese su doku - but leave the encoding of sounds with the narrative, don't even bother pledging your time to crosswords: learn to internalise a storytelling that was once apparent among tribes by the campfire.
Walter Alter Jun 2023
I was clicking through the Sonogram Network
checking the rear-view to see what's next
it may be reality but is it a necessary reality
where anything out of the ordinary is signal
oh boy another uninvited anomaly
feeding time for my forehead demon
meant I had to go on vowel patrol
because the network was ancient with consonants
and invented malicious contours of meaning
that could be written but not pronounced
knowing that thoughts control other thoughts
if that were a key what lock would it fit
his crime was an addiction to accuracy
saved by measurement time and again
then another accursed round of inner blackmail
and extortion from the catacomb moralists
civilization had gone tiger ******* mad
riding the carousel beast to their doom
leaving the steps of their TV studio ziggurats
slippery with fresh blood and beating hearts
for the contemporary retro-futurists
storming the fortifications of ignorance
with the Sunday horoscope as a map
he threw up his shrugging hands
in collective handcuffed exasperation
sleep with a pistol next to your yarbles
if you want to make a difference
in the modern world paranormal or not
now that daring had devolved to hypochondria
storming the fortifications of ignorance
with the Sunday horoscope as a road map
the ******* had so many hidden agendas
underlying rather than lying per se
making me listen alert to my muse
because her beauty sees through me also
only in a manner I can tolerate
guardian angels scream in my face
all is derived from something else
oh well enough flickers and you have light
the air becomes pearly and serene
an explanation or two never hurts
**** the covert menace go play
rattle cages make the parrots squawk
how many ideologies preach fun
the last thing he said was
no time like the present
as moonlight bore into the earth
and sanity had become a necessity
even if there is no reason
there soon will be

— The End —