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An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word

The world is ruled by darkness.
What appears as harmless is theater,
what pretends neutral is already bent.
The macrocosm corrodes;
and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams..
even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth.

A poetry site,
born as refuge for broken voices,
becomes another stage of control.
Here too the phrase resounds:
neutralize the threat.

But neutralization is not annihilation.
It is paralysis.
It is psy-ops.

It is the removal of anxiety..
not a side-effect, but the aim itself.
Darkness builds its stage for this alone:
that the  "angel of light"
may drown his own reckoning
beneath a world of gaslit self-comfort,
so he need never feel
the truth he already knows.
Comfort is his curtain,
numbness his crown..

the removal of his own anxiety;
    his game

This is why the world is his theater--
Darkness does not destroy at first..
it sedates, comforts, smothers.


Hence..
The whole world is his gaslit stronghold,
    ..for now.


Fade back into the moment--

The young poet arrives,
bringing her unspoken pain,
her hope for words to heal.
Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds.
Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation.
Not to strengthen her voice,
but to redirect it.

She is seduced into belonging,
and her trauma becomes currency.
Unresolved, her ache entwines with lust--
a sacrifice prepared  for false altars.
The angel of light  has done his work:
offering inclusion without transformation,
belonging without responsibility,
“light” without source.
The poet is neutralized.
Her searching silenced,
her voice absorbed into fog.

Those who carry this fog
cling to cowardice.
Unable to face the judgment within,
they align themselves to the herd.
They replicate themselves,
so their refusal of Light
is never revealed.

The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
What nations suffer,
individuals now endure--
   Comfort without clarity.
   Belonging without truth.
   Safety without healing.

Yet the living Word endures.
Every attempt to humiliate it
only makes its fire burn clearer.
Carriers of darkness can swarm,
******, and smother..

but they cannot create.

The true word cannot be erased.
Unfiltered, unedited,
spoken from a reconciled temple,

it pierces fog.

It reveals.
It heals.

And so we speak..
not for ourselves alone,
but for those who come searching,
hoping that poetry
might still be a place
where pain can meet truth,

where silence breaks,
where Light is not withheld
  but revealed.


Said she:

"I look into the mirror
See myself, I'm over me
I need space for my desires
I have to dive into my fantasies
I know as soon as I'll arrive
Everything is possible
'Cause no one has to hide
Beyond the invisible"

The Word:

Close your eyes
Just feel and realize
It is real and not a dream
I'm in you and you're in me

It is time
To break the chains of life
If you follow you will see
What's beyond reality

Ne irascaris Domine
Ne ultra memineris iniquitatis:
Ecce civitas Sancti facta est deserta:
Sion deserta facta est:
Jerusalem desolata est:
Domus sanctificationis tuæ et gloriæ tuæ...

"Ne irascaris Domine
"Do not be angry Lord,
Ne ultra memineris iniquitatis:
Or remember iniquity forever:
Ecce civitas Sancti facta est deserta:
Behold the Holy City is a desert:
Sion deserta facta est:
Sion is mad a desert:
Ierusalem desolata est:
Jerusalem is desolate:
Domus sanctificationis tuæ et gloriæ tuæ...
The house of your holiness and glory..."


Close your eyes
Just feel and realize
It is real and not a dream
I'm in you and you're in me

It is time
To break the chains of life
If you follow you will see
What's beyond reality

https://youtu.be/f8mMWh62XpU?si=jq_7b5XYaTSq9qnj

xoxo
Some of those I stand against are still
very special to me..   Some..
But my heart is for the many new poets
being so horribly misled

concerning  where  their true healing comes from--
  ..and how.

Sorry.. but not sorry
#Wellsprings

#UnforgettableFire

#OneTreeHill
~P
bucky Dec 2014
"oh, there you are", and i’m not sure
where i’m supposed to have been
here we are again angelflower
tying stones to our chests and waiting to drown (this is okay,
i swear to god, or something like that
isnt that what i’m supposed to say?)
i want to set the world on fire, gaslit galaxy
isnt it so fitting? isnt it just perfect?
i wonder how many astronomy problems you havent solved
and you say, "god
this isn't important right now
how can you be a god when you're not immortal"
sometimes i think you can feel me bleeding from 1643 miles away
this isn’t neverland anymore--
what are you afraid of?
something about cornfields and misery heartbeats and
almost like you said something you shouldn’t have,isn’t it? you’re always
so proud,
you’re always so hungry.
by god, you old man, you weathered, withered, beast
grab a shovel, grab whatever you can
this isn’t neverland anymore--
this isn’t andromeda,no galaxy here,
no stars or planetary confinement,
and you were never icarus.
veritas Jul 2018
gaslit streams of dreams
and now you're psychedelic
soaking in highs and higher you're
throwing me over the bridge
and under a bus but
     >is that a bucatti?
and im telling you
     >no, its just another dead thing
and that seems to catch your blown eyes for a moment
because you smile at me
as if I can't already see the phosphenes dancing behind your gaze but
not before you say
     >what if we could make it one?
and now i'm smiling too because
     >who's to stop us?
the night seemed impossible and
unfortunately, we were still awake.
Damaged trust and marriage schemes
Held hostage in each others' dreams
Pinned to walls but flailing still
Forgotten values, failing wills
True love waits, we tell ourselves
True love gladly stacks the shelves
True love sets conditions and
True love does the dishes and
Slowly, slowly, we forget
Just why we're here and who we met
Another notch in wrinkled frowns
Where I keep getting lost and found
In roller-coaster ups and downs
I'm lost and lost and lost and found

Missing flights and toxic tongues
Catharsis found in tar-filled lungs
I lost myself in who I wasn't
And in what true love does and doesn't
Not quite gaslit, not quite safe
Playing back the ancient tape
We envy death for constancy-
Besmirching our own consciences
We forgo our emoluments
Too traumatized by precedents
But hush you tell me, no one knows
The pretzel-bending ways we grow
Forever twisting round and round
Lost and lost and lost and found

Now freaking out, now breaking down
Now glaciers found in evening gowns
Now agonizing 'Who am I?'s
Now dying fire in your eyes
At last the sunset settles debts
We tally up our last regrets
Relenting to incessant ghosts
Abandoning essential posts
'Til all that's left is loss and hurt
It burns and burns and burns and burns
And now I choke on orders filled
And mourn alone the youth we killed
I scrape the comb across my nettles
Pricking feelings, bleeding mettle
Finally free from ups and downs,
I find myself on solid ground
Inspired by:
Motion Picture Soundtrack by Radiohead
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EayN_Jj0740
True Love Waits by Radiohead
Rivers by Tallest Man on Earth
A Simillacrum Oct 2018
It's looking like
history books
and web pages
tell what once was
as an instructional
or, how to
for the future,
as every trend
spins on the same
blueberry,
and what once was
shall be, again.

I used to think
I might not have
the best grip on ****
because of that Cindy, and
her gaslit basement.
But my eyes are valid.
I'm not slitting throats,
I'm just taking notes
on this tragic situation.
Joker and The Fool.

I'm part of some kind
of severely ****** up system,
whether I wish it or not.
I better learn to smile.
So watch me. Here:

^_^

Everything's bound
to a simple rule.
Everything dies,
and everything is alive
with some participation.

I can't shake it from my mind.
        Why should I?

All of my ancestors made the mistakes
I can't help
       but bear repeating.

Why shouldn't I?
roxanne Apr 2019
Violet Valley
Violent Valley

In unison
a painted progression
possession

Seen to the point of intrusion

Illusive
In a cloak of mercenary wander
A violet valley
of a crimson dawn

Drawn from scarlet billows

Where I seethe
Into a prison I saw
A vision blurred from yours

Under the heath of an adolescence
comes a lapse of time
in a spiritless essence

Godless

Unsheathing itself
In the beds of silence
the voice of a cobalt rebellion

Freedom stricken
Gaslit onto your lips

The index of incendiary

Rearing fruits of wonder
Where knowledge is set without bound
born from the dusk
of a violet valley

No truth knows where it has risen
For curiosity is kept unkempt
inside obscure tides

of thought from yours to mine.
Taylor St Onge Feb 2022
How do you measure the once-was?  The invisible?  The void?  

                                 The ache in my heart is not physiological,
                                   although it may feel like it sometimes is.
  

I can measure the words I write,
                       the words that get stuck in my throat.  
The boxes of belongings left over.  (You can narrow down a person’s
                                                               physical life by how many trips it
                                                                ­                          takes to Goodwill.)
How many songs can I now not stand?  
How many scents are now trigger trapdoors?  

Shall I count the number of times I’ve thought of you today?  
No ******* thank you.  
                                          Measuring is for the birds.  
                                                        ­                                    The doctors and
                                                                ­                                the scientists.  

I keep reaching inside and pulling out my still beating,
                                          but rotting and decaying heart
                                        only to be told it’s perfectly fine.  
I refuse to be gaslit on my grief anymore.
write your grief prompt 28: how do we see the gesture, the mass, the gravity, of the one you love, now that we cannot look at them directly? how do we know the shape, the weight, the being, of the one you love, by what we see in you?
Within his paw
smeared bloodied red
by a deliberately mocking thorn
sat a
blanched ripple-y
guarachera strip of cloth
confined narrowly
between the love and the life lines.

TWO ROADS!

what remained of her
remained of the underthings
beneath

fluffing rows of silk
the heavy skirt had been raised
above the ankles
the creases no longer hidden in shadow,
one leg hoisted over the back,
the reigns held expertly.

Hey Beauty!
As it happens, the card numbered Eight is
Strength (also Lust)

She had surely fled
She has surely flown
through the trees and away
Not on foot at-all
while the three saw her pass.
great speed.
The two sisters
with that prince vulgaris looking on
curiously
Three daemon goblins watching from a distance
a disturbance
a smallish crashing
and afterwards
a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed
within the leaves that shudder
and give up the delicacy, slyly
into stubby fingers

Lovely
Dark
Deep
The Woods are Laughing!
Did you notice any scent?
Did it linger between
the thumb and the ring?
the remnant of her flowers,
Petals flouncing, swirling
in odorous potentiality.
a scrap, yes
a deep seated souvenir
Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think?

we want her.
there are things that we want to do with her.

dangerous, they lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly
searching for the ambergris or the sticky  jasmine
sweet,
settling instead to gaze upon
the still clutched
still a little springy
sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness
and ***** and yet
No memories

3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built
with a clean sheet for the curtain,
paper cut-outs
and some sticks.
it’s called acting.
the wine and the wafer.
hidden in the trees’ darkening
‘the mattress’ lays where
the leaves will crumple

meanwhile, he’s petulant:
- why, if you’d just get off of that high horse!
- how long are you going to resist?
- are you STILL angry?
- why won’t you just let me stick it in you?

she telegraphs her response, cough:
‘you do know that in this
particular scenario
(fingers pointing downward and across
as if to suggest
that the scenario
had a specific location)
You are the wolf, right?
The wolf...

I, the girl,
am in the forest with my basket and
I have got a
cute little
blood red
crushed velvet
swing coat
With matching hood and a single task
And YOU
(with those other two *******) have decided
to bore ME with this ****?
Daresay slow ME down?
Of course I will get rid of YOU.
Wait, who am I talking to?

Let me also add that
there never has been any
high-stepping on my part,
nor ankle twirling,
no mandate to impress a stale balcony,
no sign of gaslit
illuminated
pink bows
that lay down flat
perfectly upon the straps
that snap
perfectly at the thigh,
NOT to be slid off a buttock (mine)
NOR crumpled into a dubious ball, ripped and torn
and yet I know that
that determined creature,
a hairy monster
more faithful than Argos,
is prepared
to wait a lazy eight
at grannie’s cozy house
in a sickly corner
over-eager and overwrought with
pandered fantasies
and explosions of once sort or another, irrelevant to me.

What I WILL admit to is
that the touch of those grubby fingers
transubstantiated at my waist
invisible
approach
as usual from behind
impatient and
impractical,
always too quick to make himself a beast
to rid himself of being a man

knowing how way
leads onto way
but I doubt if I should ever come back’
In shape and life more like a monster, than a man. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen
Chris D Aechtner Nov 2021
BLAST   —   direct focus on a terrorist virus
that swims in breath and touch,
in globules of spittle and ssnot see,
waiting to plant roadside RNA bombs
in nostrils—from flesh to newsflash fantasies

with

a Fear-O-Meter Lockdown grip
of Crisis Management Economics:
Gaslit Fiat economy crash test dummies
tested within psychosocioschizological
experiments of the psychobacteriological

transfer of power, control, and wealth—

stats data for thinktanks and simulations:
which strategies are best to get the peasants  
to willingly offer up their lives for an illusion
of safety and protection, what causes people
to remain compliant or to become renegades.

Capitalism, the revolutionary meant to usurp
Queens and Kings, corrupted into a negative
Technocratic Corporatocracy: a Royal Trash
death cult that feeds on its young, sacrifices
its youth to scams, wars, and stolen futures:

a Technocrat Herr Doktor drug pusher
that plies the skin of trial control groups
for the venom of Warpspeed fangs—wraps
its coil around a bundle of willow switches
supple with youth, its victims kept alive

as a fuel source to burn in the corporate engine, and kept weak enough to require another fix "For the betterment of the whole."

(Gaslighting fills mandated shower-coops:
"Trust us, you're sick, and it's your fault.")

Pollute people into isolation against an enemy that has never been truthfully isolated and purified—
an Orwellian leap of faith that breaks:
a crusher of foundational laws,
a crusher of critical thought and bones.

"Destroy (transform) your dreams, milestones, and livelihoods for your safety and protection. We are doing this for you. We care about you. These numbers, these awful numbers are your fault! You're to blame! It's all your fault!"

"Make sure to vote for me come next election."

As much as North America is a globalist,
the New World is also its own experiment.
Fortress North America: the Eugenicist Manager founded upon colonialism and slavery that outsources its crisis economics—
highly contagious, bit with its own snake oil,
an experiment observed to show symptoms
of AIDS, North America attacking itself
in many ways, symptoms of having been
grazed and groomed for decades

in contagion-based sociopolitical templates
that result in acquired bipolar autoimmune
disease: past enemies and geists attained
boosted immunity to defend, adapt—learned
to deflect Sun Tzu's Art of War into itself

with its own momentum. "Unrestricted
Psychological Warfare": a process of confusion and doubt that leads to the demoralization and dehumanization of the target enemy via the subversive tactics of propaganda plowing, cultural memetic warfare, the infection of economy, politics, military, scientific and educational institutions and systems—
cybertech and media espionage and warfare,
all of it leading to symptoms of extreme

polarization and social moral tribalism—
a decades-long psychological, physical
and spiritual draining of the enemy
into a weakened, toxic state, barely worthwhile to conquer fully. The enemy does the rest,

finishes itself off with:

Acquired (Red Auto)ImmunoDefiency Syndrome

Red CONtroll COVID-19 debt slavery—
pandemic crisis, CoVfefe crisis, energy crisis,
population crisis, climate crisis, racism crisis,
market crisis, war crisis, terrorism crisis,
ISIS is is cry sis in crisis and crisis
in crisis debt slavery to the State: Toadies

for the "New Normal" Big Pharma-Big Tech
mechanical heart engine that thrums
with a beat that Zooms in on, Zooms out from
false-positive test results amplified

and distorted into AIDS:

Amplified Information Distortion Syndrome

and

an Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome
in conjunction with a near-infinite number
of variables and determining factors—
an Auto-ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome of
body, mind, soul, and political systems
cruising along an acquired, contagious loop
of a negative-sense RNA socialist Autobahn—

highly contagious, highly experimental in
unprecedented moments of crisis and mirrors: reflections of reflections of reflections
amplified and bent
in sleight-of-hand misdirection and deflection with the virus holding a mirror's face outwards

while

an mRNA 'treatment' infects human cells
to conquer and command them to become
bomb making factories that create
SARS-CoV-2 S-proteins—yes, yes, "inactively" teach T-cells with double-think McCure-all bandAIDS to 'help' identify SARS-CoV-2 RNA. Understood. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction

(for the Terrorist within)

"Here's a fast-tracked vaccine that supposedly boosts the immune system that you're being commanded to weaken."

GMO sleeper cells and non-celled sequences
that can attain causality and symbiosis with
drug and antibiotic resistant organisms,
are sold as the cure that ills

and

misdiagnosed and misunderstood symptoms
of anything and everything
in-between that we've known and seen
are blamed on a laboratory Chimera:

the scapegoat terrorist virus designed
to be highly contagious and gentle to its host
for vaccine programs: Mary's Monster attaining the flame of life within
its Promethean host.

Who made who?

Who knew that the FDA NIH CDC
WHO-Fang North American China Flu Clan

flew the fear and media spread. "Wait for our
next update." Live TV, live virus

with billions of shortsighted treatments
adding ripples to an overflowing soup bowl
of trillions x trillions of RNA particulates,

inactive/active — off/on — negative/positive

Switch:

Spin PCR in the Petri dish:
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish!
What a lot of fish there are!

This one has a little yellow star.....

("Mission Accomplished")
1 17 2021
Verity Lane Apr 2021
I'm not crazy.

I lie to myself,
I ignore my body,
I eliminate my heart.

I'm not crazy,
I'm just dead.
-D Oct 2012
--jonah’s Lot
gravel-stricken streets & gaslit lampposts;
I close my eyes to take it all in—
this new solitude I’ve found to host.

a sacred sort of song I sing--
[oh, how does it feel to be alone?]--
though still wrapped in Love to ward off the sting.

& though I feel strong in my shield of Stone,
I cannot help but turn back in slight,
& a saltiness creeps up from my anklebones.

--at the dock of the bay.
in the distance you shine with your Father’s glow,
a smile&touch; I have longed for since that June long ago,
& the knot in my stomach continues to grow.

greatness I see as your eyes blink to me
when the smoke billows between our twin heartstrings,
though Ben strikes that it’s time to be free.

so though my travels lead me in opposition to hellos,
you are loved, Eternally Loved,
is what I have always said & have always wanted you to know.

--a fisherman’s courage
His mast is rising & His sails are billowing &
I step out on the dock, reluctant,
then the sunset pours through the Captain’s hand.

“child, you know what you truly seek,
among the waves you’ve yearned&desired; a storm detour,
when I was the one in control of this Sea.”

He reaches out to pull me in,
“you’ve always been free to walk on water,”
& that first step resonates like an eternal din.

--resolve&glory;
*I depart in peace & with all the contentment I have discovered
[that I have found, that I have found],
& all I ever had to do was cling to the Anchor.
inspired by the grappling journeys of Peter & the reluctant obedience of Jonah.
The McG in Me Apr 2018
You're here you're here and we finally meet,
I've been searching for you, surely life's biggest treat.
Feelings of trust, of bonding so strong,
Two lovebirds together all summer long.
Wings spread through the valleys, high over the clouds,
Sweet songs hit the shoreline as we danced with the crowds.

We do all that you like, you're so fresh and so new,
I don't mind that the song is all about you.
I give all that I have, my love's professed near and far,
I sing from the roof tops, you know every scar.

It's been a few weeks now and I'm starting to see,
Questionable behaviour that's harmful to me.
You don't sing the same song, how can this be?
Lies and rumours of cheating, theres no harmony.
"My minds playing tricks", she whispers to me,
"You're just a broken young child with CPTSD",
"I have the solution", she chirps so softly,
"Just listen don't question and come fly with me".

"You're not being gaslit, please my love have no fear,
There's no flying monkeys, but you asked for them dear.
What now shall I do, with all that sweet song you've sung?
Swoop forth to my noose dear, till emotionally hung.
The flight of your emotions so rich and so high,
I drool over your pain, my nutritious supply.
My love you're just oversensitive, you plot your flight right through hell,
Play this strings attached gift, while I poison the well.
You took flight with me dear but I'm keeping score,
I clipped your wings once you opened that door.
There is no escape, the hooks are now deep in your heart,
Don't try to set boundaries, because we'll never part.
I lie and cheat but I'll never tell you,
I deserve all this power,
Because you don't have a clue.
I control your inner thoughts, toxic shame is your guide,
I'm morally bankrupt but self love is on my side.
Nobody shall believe you, I'm the martyr to all,
They think that your crazy, singing your victims call.
My family and friends, they flock by me strong,
I laugh while you're helpless, though I've done you wrong".

I've left the cell but I'm empty inside,
I'm so confused as I contemplate suicide.
Did this just happen, was it a nightmare should I hide?
I'm hypervigilant and my hopes for the future have died.
I wake in cold sweats, I'm bound to my bed,
No contact is broken, another blow to the head.
I'm frantically searching, there's no peices to be found,
to that evil puzzle, she seemed so safe and so sound.

It's been a few months and I'm stitching the wounds,
Her guilt trip game is brawny, as the hoovering looms.
Once again dropped my gaurd , I must be a fool,
I guess it's time to enroll in affirmation school.
This time though I'm sure, no contact I'll fly free,
Never again empathetic, to the narcissist's plea.


04/03/2018
Amy McCudden Jul 2010
Beneath the fiery lit town, a small girl glows
burning embers making a show.
Truth bleeds from her limbs, deep from her soul
seeking to win

His heart of course, bound with a lock
but she has the key to make it all stop.
They fit, clearly, despite the hopeless hub
can this really be love?

Stars raining to the soft earthen scene
dripping from smoldering lamps, their gaslit kerosene.
His eyes full of spectre and awe
hers swelled with hope in what she saw.

karmic-ly enchanted lovers from the start,
forever entangled with the vines pumping through their hearts.
Chrissy Cosgrove Jan 2017
an abundance of words is just as easily a void, and
i am dangerously close to forgetting how to speak.
there are jagged lines, meticulously spaced--
hues of lavender, rose, and pearl.
they tell a story of silence that has gone on too long.
look closer, or look away; silence.
when it was convenient, she would wipe up spilt blood--
but what about the knife? left sharp as ever
in my vulnerable hands, controlled by an even weaker mind.
so try to tell me you helped.
the brain is fragile: handle with care; vulnerable; easily shifted, moulded, changed, altered; the brain is the world and my world was in a state of collapse because in there
i killed my father (but sometimes he left me)
and i could trust my mother no matter how many reasons
she gave me not to.
but what's really ****** is that i'm not writing about what i was
trying to write. i am silenced. in my own writing,
in my own thoughts, i still struggle to put into words
how exactly it feels to question an entire reality,
to not even know who i am,
because my sense of the world around me is constricted,
restricted, and warped for a reason i couldn't understand
as a child and still don't understand now.
it feels like the middle of the ocean.
you can drown or pray for decent weather.
Maia Vasconez May 2017
I guess it was cuz he grew up an only child but
he never learned how to share.
I ask him how his day went
and he doesn't answer.

Sit in the silence and hate god for all his violence.
I want to take a break,
He tells me to empty my pockets if I need more space.
Why do they always make it feel like it's your fault when it starts to fall apart?
I'm not the one who ****** it up, I'm not the one who ****** this up!
In this night of swords and word
I've heard stories told by trolls and listened to them rigidly,sat on a log while fires burnt,and around me later,
learnt that all stories are not the same,do not come from the falling stars nor from the acrid fumes that spill from gaslit rooms or garrets where the poets and tellers of tales would groom their pens and sharpen wits
but rather from the little bits of life that we pass by
forgotten
and yet blink the eye and they appear again
quite clear
and here the ink runs dark like blood across the written page,stark and bold
more stories, listened to be read
and held tight in the whispering of the lightest breeze
as if I should sneeze, it would blow the words away
I stay forever
in the stories never heard
the unwrit of the spoken and not a word will pass me on the blind .side or pass wide of its intended mark.
More stories in the dark
more logs upon the fires we light
and more of more of things to
read,
just write.
Matt Bernstein May 2020
Where is the beholder,
deigning beauty from a glare?
Through gaslit haze, mirrors tell stories.
Reflected distress, framed in antique oak.

How long have you longed
to pass through the glass?
Just to prove what you're shown is real.

Is it you looking back?
And how can you know
they're not still staring
once you turn away?
I S A A C Sep 2022
the rose that grew from concrete
fossilized in my dreams
gaslit to believe, you were my everything
each deep breath, every spring it crept
my dreams reveal all secrets kept
i saw you cheat, i saw your deceit
i expose your lies, i burned the fleet
nobody does wrong by me without repercussions
your lies were dozens on dozens, webbed my worries
my first and only until you tainted the holy
Sarah Villaluz Feb 2016
Hum
Starlight dances
in midnight blue
I wonder if
they can hear
this secret roaring
inside me

Gaslit tracks
running loops
over and over
reminds me
of drunk mad
chaos
stilled
by your steady pulse.

Small infinities
I don't want to let go of
I don't want you
distracted
of wild racing things

You ask me to breathe
and all I can take in
is lungfuls of
you you you
and the night sky                you
and the cool wind drifts    you
and dim light streets          you

I am sober enough      
again
But can't you see
I'm mad drunk on
you

Everybody's got a secret to hide
Yet it's the one I want
desperately told
on every inch
of skin on yours and
why don't eyes unfold
to meet mine

Don't you know it
In every strange flutter of me
trying to seek you out
small cramped excuses
like
the furtive soft lips on your cheek
when all they want to be is
somewhere else
anywhere else

I love the way it feels like
a new, strange, unsure hum

And another sleepless night.

Would I risk everything
just to feel something
again
Harry Roberts Aug 2018
You Know Who You Are
You Know What You've Done
Here Are The Furies Get Ready To Run.

You Dampened A Star
You Said It Was Fun
Now I Think You Should Swallow A Gun.

I Think You Are **** & I Hope You're Undone,
I Stare At The Sun & Know No Body Won,
Blind Spots Still Stun Then I See & I Shun.

I Will Never Become,
I Am My Own King,
Solve My Own Sum,
& Fortune I'll Bring.

He Took & Kept Taking,
So Gaslit I Was Shaking,
Is This My Own Making?
Was I My Own Breaking.

Wolves Wearing Cotton,
I've Never Forgotten,
Climb From Rock Bottom
Not One With What's Rotten.
Harry Roberts - Rock Bottom © 24/08/18
Ken Pepiton Aug 6
Happenings that just happen to happen,

-- oh, serious, we said this with no debt, we
-- ah, saw this is just what I was hoping for,
-- I up and posted a bunch of this on X.
grok link and all, honest cyberbardbyterbits

this is not the art of the bards and vatic arts,
we aimed at inheriting the wind, in spirit and true,
mimetic authority, we see, we saw, as so say see.

the use of a person or a team of persons, an army,
or a work gang, hunters and skinners and packers,

not those, nor many normal nonnoble lines, stinkers
gatherers of batshat nitrates for cannon fodder,
and to speed the forming of cornfed beasts,
-- ai, if it isn't the spirit, in the craft, do tell
isaiah assisting a little here, a little there,
ai, if may were my word now, precept
upon sighing and chosing riverwise, think on
assume not that, is a bit a leap, use wise
it's not that
nor is it the efforts of carbide gaslit
miners and grinders and fuelers and fanners of flames
cornbread fed

-coal miner's daughters and steel driving slaves, racing
steam driven hammers on steel stakes marking iron rule,

in service of the golden light from Christmas Astrologers…

rush theatric, imitative mirror neuronic, laughing together,

easy laughs or easy tears, easy joy of conquering,

memes formed
by infants watching colored lights, not burning,
bushy Hualapai pinion pine Christmas trees

shadows presented memes on our mental walls

after all have projected camera obscura concept
captured on silver nitrated cellulose translucent film,

- so few respect the science, the art in alchemy

as art is a cathedral in a cavern, let us pretend, good is good,

sad is bad, bad is evil fruit, wrong thinking poetical pleasance.

Make believe, let go our mundanity, attempting katharsis,

purged of mistaken privilege,

as virtuous as the entertainment's audience socially informed,

this is us, we as seen consistently for a brief while,
in the funny papers,
a century or so ago, whence all our own tales rise,
wherein reversing discoveries put us in receipt of tragic news,

woe, pathos, o, we do believe, we are free from the worst,

tranquil reflective contemplation, imaginable pity and fear,
survived, hormonal success, purgative pity and dread, right
ritual usual daily drill, respect, look at the price we all paid,

pledge full attention to the teacher teaching this
important ritual for inclusion in this class, this room of
competitors for prizes in the seven liberal arts, noble gnosis,
as demanded by the liege under which we are a people,

res publica, governed by its own self, using aliegiant defenders,
just like our fathers and uncles and cousins who just now,

used the second and third atom bombs, names of which,
are extra credit for those who know them, Fatman and Littleboy

in the right amounts, at the right time, ah the effectual work
of meaning projected on the audience…

lead an intimidated soul to be as brave as the presented models,

imitation, memeing may be, inner me, seeing another just my type,

the character in the grand opera operating even as we sleep,

sorting our given evidence,
hate must be associated,
we shame
together,
given gatherings where oracular professionals reset us,

after the ongoing violence has gone elsewhere,
to free other slaves,
-- right here, I saw James Joyce with his left eye patched,
but I still never enjoy the experience reading him
maybe I grant that age of readers, passe se no

we the faithful illiterate believers pray si se so
go on with the story we find ourselves in
as happens around reading children,
who leave books in the bathroom
for the King's Armies, and act
as if our duty,
from the age of six, is locked
with our personal pledge,

surity, sworn
on penalty
of any liar's just dues, just watch, and learn.

* for your historic recollection, with all due respect
Little Boy vs Fat Man

The bomb that hit Hiroshima was "Little Boy," not "Fat Man"  
"Little Boy" was a gun-type nuclear bomb that used uranium-235
and was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945,
by the B-29 bomber Enola Gay  {August six **** left most key
we already know, use one nuke, we all die,
and a we not me set voices like mine wild\

like all the freedoms, are from, from thirst, first
for ever, free from thirst, if not for ever, first
imagine having made yourself thirsty, first

to feel cool water's worth when you know,
it's only three more miles, then you know,

we had these friends, so rich, they were, yes,
Children of Pioneers, like us, really, but scale matters,

ours was a tiny world to mature in, though, in science,
at the time, faster that light was still tellable, in text,

once the idea, in letters organizing, around a recent
bend that lets us see Enheduana as a meme, recent

recovery of a person originally novelized, in recent

Thirst induced trance states, of course, in recent memory


"Fat Man," which was an implosion-type bomb using plutonium-239,
was dropped on Nagasaki three days later

the second bomber lacks first responder honor,
too bad, so sad,

how easily may we share instances of I just don't know, but
we can ask
and have an imminent answer fact checked thrice and sharable,
verbatum, as this is what I learned when I first read the lines:

the lines you just read, so we can share realization, those
who built those bombs… made good money.

Even today Donald Trump's Pride lets him rattle such a saber,
and fancy himself the world's most powerful man, demanding

respect, look again, see the hell we can imagine, so easy,
even such a one who never dropped a handgrenade, or shaped C4…

Our AI's all can recall the act of readiness, for our local August rodeo,
where we remember the downwinders in lower Mohave County, Arizona:

The crew of the B-29 Superfortress *Bockscar
, which dropped the "Fat Man" atomic bomb on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945, did not experience the same level of immediate fame as the crew of the Enola Gay, which bombed Hiroshima three days earlier This relative lack of recognition contributed to feelings of frustration and perceived injustice among Bockscar's crew. The mission was fraught with difficulties, including mechanical issues with the fuel pumps before takeoff, a missed rendezvous with support aircraft, and obscured visibility over the primary target, Kokura, forcing a diversion to Nagasaki By the time they reached Nagasaki, the crew had been airborne for nearly eight hours and were critically low on fuel, adding to the tension

Historical accounts suggest that the crew felt their mission's complexity and risks were overlooked in the public narrative, which focused predominantly on Hiroshima and the Enola Gay's crew General Leslie Groves, head of the Manhattan Project, later admitted confusion about why Nagasaki was included as a target, noting it had not been part of the original reserved list and was only added at the last minute The Bockscar mission was described as a "JANCFU"—a Joint Army-Navy-Civilian ******—highlighting the disorganization and near-misses that characterized the operation

Despite dropping a more powerful weapon—“Fat Man” had a higher explosive yield than the “Little Boy” bomb used on Hiroshima—the Nagasaki mission received less attention The Bockscar was piloted by U.S. Army Air Force Major Charles Sweeney, and the bomb detonated at an altitude of 1,640 feet over Nagasaki, causing massive destruction However, the crew’s role in ending World War II was not celebrated to the same extent, leading to long-standing sentiments of being historically overshadowed
Life gives se cura freedom from asking per mission no a whole experience trial mind dump on Hiroshima day, hoping memes make peace here in 2025
Austin Campbell Dec 2019
sketch a thought
for the girl who wanders
the echoing halls of my mind,
depression’s cold cousin,
smooth as a seal’s fur,
reaching through barriers -
wrapping your fingers around my heart,
only to pull, pull, pull;

i am belly-up
my guts exposed
like the tears that dissipate in the wind
for her.

I once knew her:
mirror, mirror,
held up to myself
and i scream -
have i been a monster?
does the gaslit lamp provide enough light?
it misleads
disfigures
we mould ourselves to marry and martyr
before we know how to speak
truthfully
love is as real and painful as the scars on my back, your wrists, my lips, yours eyes,
my mirror mind
shattered.

you gave me magic,
i gave you happiness
and you returned it
signed: “return to sender”. packaged,
parceled-up,
compartmentalized,
fragmented;
pieces of a beautiful thing
cast out across the tide
pulled along by the current
then sunk
below the water’s surface -
freezing cold
and isolated.

i washed up on shore
in a land not quite Europe
not quite America
with all of the problems
both have,
lovelorn and lost;
i survived there,
somehow -
fresh eyes
drew me forward
to explore this land
in the wake of exploring
so much pain.

now my heart is full
but so is my mind:
with the knowledge of seven years,
who i’ve been,
who i will be,
because we have to change
because i wanted change
because i’m in love and too scared
to utter those words out loud
because i don’t want to rush
or ruin
or reverberate the madness.

i will love new
i will love strong
i will love genuinely
(even when it hurts)
and
i will not give up.
I S A A C Aug 2022
gaslit, bad trip
told my reality wasn’t happening
the present, in the moment
my cover is rupturing
for years i let your words cut me down
for years i let the shame run down
my bleeding face, kept up a violent pace
for who, for what, and why
for me, for you, why do I try
can never be right, stuck in wrong
can never be white, soaking in swan songs
Clarkia Dec 2023
Maybe it was unrequited love
Maybe it was limmerance
Maybe it was unrequited decency
Maybe you truly are my twin flame
Soul contracted to sleep forever
Maybe you were guilty
Maybe you were innocent
Maybe you gaslit me
Maybe I was a predator
Maybe you are a narcissist
Maybe you are just like me
Good intentioned, misunderstood
Then again the time has come
And I want off that ride
December 15, 2023
Bryant Aug 2018
An utterance
A manifestation
An animation
Simple silence
Malignant migration
Brilliantly blind benign
Lumpy grouser
Projecting a gaslit shadow
Lambasted silhouette
Crooked contorted glimpse of reality
Line strung; hung languishingly in a beguiling brume
~............~
Slim plastic blast pack
Cardiac cavern, mimicking the undulating spree of the metronome
Selfish inclination
Selfless mutilation
Intrepid imp
Gullet fluttering with love's gestation
Inevitable indigestion
Retching the wretched
Peristalsis current
Acrid slurry
Piquant palate eternal
Melding the morrow
Flavorless aggregate collective
~----------~
When will I die?
Sooner is truer than a second longer
~----------~
Listliss vivacity
Sloth like drumlin
Upward lurching fixation
Stiff and frozen between the knees
Descending the function of speed and time
Caught in the current of a concrete stream
Molecular progression
Atomized and pass through the neddels' eye
~-----------~
When will I live
A second longer is truer than sooner
Hawley Anne Jan 5
I once thought I was crazy
I doubted you were even real
I thought I was in a psych ward once
But reality has been revealed

I wasn't in a ****** bin
You and I had really met
And you did everything I thought
Now you claim that you regret

You beg for my forgiveness now
You say just one more try
But you made me think I was crazy
You made me wish to die

You lied and cheated and gaslit me
Till I was nothing but a shell
Then you left me for dead
You chose somebody else

It wasn't until I told you
That I had nothing left to give
I stopped giving you my time
And I remembered how to live

Now suddenly you need me back
News flash but I'm not blind
I finally see the truth for what it was
My whole world was realigned

You forced me to come to terms
With the full picture of us
And honestly I can not believe
I had ever gave a ****
Michael Oct 2021
one foot in front of the other you'd say
yet for some reason all you do is downplay

"it's just a phase," "its because your stuck in your ways"
but even when you'd abandon me on the holidays

you were my best night, my worst fight
a reason to stay up till the moon light
half of what I'd write, yet we ended full of spite

it was the sneaking behind my back
all the qualities I seemed to lack
and how you always made me feel like I was the maniac

you never truly cared for me
don't you dare say you love me
or even begin to talk about how great we could be

because real love should never be this absentee.

— The End —