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usagi Sep 2018
We wreck havoc on one another in the name of love. We leave inoperable scars upon each others souls and leave one another strangled for air, plundered of all vitals. We call this love, and we recycle these events, these feelings onto the next person without realizing that we are generating and regenerating feeble souls, stripped of their ability to love. What a tragedy love has become.
Douglas Sep 18
God
demonstrates love

Life
is precious to behold

Land
experiences the scenery

Love
is building one another up

Soul
is generating peace within

Children
as extensions of you
Juhlhaus Feb 24
Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending eight hours a day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup
A whimsical corollary to my previous poem, Soup for Squirrels.
Star BG Apr 21
With our own truth,
we will rise inside diversity
to move to celebrate
humanities future.

Sun rises
infused with rainbow light.
Birds sing
generating vibrations
to make all sing.

With our own truths
we shall move in peace.
Dancing inside hearts
for humanity to be free.

Free to
radiate compassion
And see the hands
of each other’s God.
Inspired by a chat with Victor Lopez  Thank you
My eyes were beaming out,
onto the gloomy streets.
Fog was lurking in.
It adhered to my skin.
As the dew latched on,
after only seconds,
I slowly became damp.
Contributing to my silky skin.
Dusting my cheeks,
generating rosiness on my surface.
Glazing over my hair,
gluing each strand to another.
Coating my hands,
nipping at my fingertips
The haze in the back of my head,
It kept getting heavier.
Digging my fingernails into my head.
Tugging on each strand,
between my scalp and jagged fingernail.
Clawing as my nails trailed down my skull.
Blood dripping,
Streaming,
Creating tidal waves.
Fog was sprouting in my essence
The fog began to maneuver on me.
Blanketing over my body,
weighing down my soul,
overloading my carcass.
Eryri Dec 2018
The times they are a changin',
Algorithms are modern cupids,
Generated and perfected by...
Matchmaking computer whizzkids.

Log-in details now the key to love.
Name, gender, age and location
Algorithmed and matched to...
A potential subject of affection.

But I met my wife on a drinking spree
On the dancefloor and on a mission.
Wine and music combining freely...
Generating the perfect alco-rhythm.
I used to think it'd be nice
if people could brew their characters
and personalities to filter out
their destructive traits and twisted perceptions
derived from the challenges
that the world has ****** at them
to distinguish what kind of individuals they have become,

as if they had been freshly brewed
pitchers of dark roast coffee
that somewhere along the way,
got coffee beans jammed in the grinder,
generating grainy, polluted, dark, undrinkable water
so then they take a clean, white paper filter
and pour their mixture of grains
and water through it
in the hopes of salvaging some lush coffee
while removing clumps of impurities,

but life isn't a coffee maker that can easily be fixed
and me and you aren't just cups of coffee
that went wrong;
it is by nature that we will not make it through
the world unscathed and unashamed,
and we have not yet found the purpose to our lives,

every single time we go through the filter
and somehow end up with a trail of trash
following us to the other side,
it's not our fault; we didn't break any laws
and besides, every single person we visit
has a trail of crushed, damp, coffee grains
outlining their homes,
trailing behind them like their own shadows,
even spilling out from their clenched hands
and tightened mouths,

but every single time I ask if I can taste you
despite all the dark grainy beans polluting
your freshly brewed coffee,
you still taste so rich and savory
while burning the back of my throat
with your smiles, motions, and words,

and as time continues to flow,
I find it gets easier to sweep up
the crushed grains and pile them on the side
as I continue to savor you,

and the rest of the people in the world
and their polluted, grainy, luscious coffee.
In the past, I used to wish I could only experience the good aspects of people, while filtering out their bad traits and characteristics.

Now, somewhere along the way, I've realized that being able to appreciate people for who they are, despite their flaws and misconceptions, is a part of growing up and expanding my role in the lives of everyone I get to associate with.

We're all just products of the world and the environment of our surroundings, so we might as well accept that we'll all be flawed in some way or the other. However, we can still choose whether or not we let the flaws of others affect ourselves personally.

06/12/19
Sid soup Sep 1
I listened to her oh's and ah's
a hard life escaped my sight when she was right next to me
breathing the same air, I dared to declare, my love and an honest hearts epiphany
I caught myself focused intently on her supple curves around her waist
running my fingers along her thighs
letting my lips rest against her skin
I felt a pulse beating from within
these stimulations of touch began generating at least in my mind, visions of a distant time
it was in the memories of old, our love was buried
along with your touch, so warm and soft.
Ryan O'Leary Jun 28
The over heating theory
is a planet ploy to endorse
the profusion of nuclear
power plants, they are just
generating our consensus.


17˚ Mallow 07:00 am
June 28th 2019. Cloud.
Robert C Ellis Nov 2018
t
Decimal marks impart
their geodesic division of numbers into hearths
rimmed with gold inlay
and coffee top models rendered with display
cases for their ruby lips,
bronzed arms, delicacy conversation,
they are inert converts of arrhythmic
data mindscapes regenerating boardroom furniture.
The Politic were never starlight; just the murmur
of infertile gases, hydrogen clouds they class
in H20:HCI declination,
subvert to assured property
and make Nations so the numbers cannot exceed
proprietary altars without generating copyright fees
*** priceless clarets *** Ferraris,
bleeding history like seas
Breathed in the breath of the saviour,
To richen the soul of the poor.
I puffed out a portal to the cloud kingdom.
Holding onto the scales of a dragon.
The earth beneath my feet begun to shrink,
And the sky above my head started to sink.
I caught a glimpse of what was behind the cloud,
And was dropped from a million feet high down to the ground.

I met an angel with a kick,
Wanted by the government.
Eyes as wide as rabbit holes,
As bright as a solar moon.
Black stars in between white spaces,
Generating a reluctant mold.
There’s golden flakes in its hair,
Its string chokes my throat.
I thought it was my angel,
Turns out it was fool’s gold.

When the fog sets,
And everything fades away;
I turn off my car headlights,
And stear into the grey.
I like to hide in the clouds,
They make me so happy;
But when I come back down,
They make me so sad.

Digging in my grave to find heaven,
Inhaling the smoke of another dragon.

I think I might have found my God.
I’m melting in his eternal sunshine.
Smoked the crumbled image of his face,
It turned my tears into wine.
The earth's my grave,
The sky's my cradle.
Unearthing my new low,
To find the highest place one can go.
Gloriously swept away down a beautiful corridor,
both thought and experience.
The light seems purposeless, and the newest of all eyes begins receiving the inlaid context springing to life, and they all seem to like it this way.

No obstacles, only a clear path beset with many delineations.
It's the very real idea that any and all paths are yours to be taken without regret, absence of remorse.
The skin prickles itself to life. The body convulses, yet remains still.
It's the inward reflection, the silhouette just beyond the corneas that's dancing.
And even if you wish they could feel it, there remains a beautiful selfishness about keeping it to yourself.

No matter, you bring it forth with spring charged steps, composed breath.
It's the example you set, the smile cast forward as a fisherman's net, capturing all the unwilling fish.
No need for verbal explanation, they'll understand if they choose, but again this is simply for you.

Your touch carries a power far more kinetic than a lightening bolt, your look renders them catatonic. Filling with questions, but overwhelmingly more so joy.

"I want what they're having."
A simple sentence you now know as prophecy.

Urging them, "Dance with me, while motionless, speak with me wordlessly, carry me without the burden of strained muscle, exist with me amidst the beauty of this corridor, and its choices."
There is a definitive, deafening buzz, it's LIFE, you can hear it now in the purity of this silence.

This cannot be contrived, so you open all of what was once you, to forcefully experience it.
You no longer feel your heart beat, only the rhythm of others, who like you choose raw existence over questions; which would only serve to break this incredible transition.

It's not from where you came,
or where you're going.
It's stationary simplicity, and everything
seems to move with you, not around you,
almost through you.

Leaving reflective vibrations which resonate not to be felt,
not listened to, but understood, not explained, remaining a ripple generating outwardly without pause, without cause.
"Please don't explain me, don't expose me."
In this silence it's truthfully the loudest.
Simon 3d
Probability isn’t the luck it deserves for wanting desperately to be noticed by any appeals. Generating new focuses never thought possible. If so… Who is the recipient? Who is the lawmaker? Who being the justice department? Goods to making essential markers on productive velocities. Justification is outweighed by department alone. Growing ever scarcer without benefiting attitudes in place. Conjecturing solvent pleasures across many fields. Fields of accessory dependents ensuring a collective term is agreeable. Except, what if probability is outweighed not by something further from its own attitude? What if it can’t benefit itself? In question, becoming misshaped, mispronounced, or misinterpreted. Depending on who’s right, or who’s wrong shouldn’t matter until claims are assured. Propagating across the many fields of accessory dependents. Dependents outweighing the logic one is misshaped by. Demonstrating probabilities mispronouncing sense of terms for oneself. Wrapping up in a crumbled conjecture. Propagating a newer field of already surveyed products. Truth is in the stream that propagates those fields. Accessory moments dependent on gaining tension through the rise of the recipient. That’s the only way probability will ever learn. Hence why it shuts down if it ever involved itself. Itself without its own recipient. Its own justice department. Lawmaker without any dependent ideas would ever appeal to its own logical making, if it’s never dependent on itself. Only flashing the accessory dependent on other influences. Influences going way down the line of certainties without pleasure. Urges relapse. Furthering its own clustered rut! One without mistakes diverging deeper into uncertainties. Taking risks isn’t noticeable. When probability taking risks enough to (blush) down the line of certainties without an aim involved. Scattering their rut from within. But how does it involve probability? It doesn’t. Probability is the representation of how one constant judge itself for pleasure. When pleasurable actions are dependent with a blank impression never sought out. To focused on probability. When probability isn’t fruitful by its own design either.  Only way it works. Never looking back in itself. A reflection of tempted attitudes fluttering in a swift, but rigid wind. Wind never tempted by its own sway. If one is to admit what they aren’t even aware of changing. Another shutdown happens! Justifications for probabilities own reckoning depends on other solvents. Solvents who don’t even understand the probabilities of there own life makings. Able to learn what is dependent onto others. Never within themselves directing their starry performance. What happens when things are finally noticeable within probabilities that will exceed probable actions of the force that dictates fates majority complexes? Complexes without variety. Varieties misshaped by mishappenings of trust. Which includes a basic awareness of some factor never hesitating to judge within the core of being itself. A view fate designs in its weapon of probability very well. What is fate up to…? Never can guess when probability shuts down all appliances out of contact with no one but itself left in the dark. Probability is. Everything has just become disowned. Fate exchanging glances with itself for one last second, before rapping up this little diverse expression. Pinpointing its weapon of probability without knowing why that is? Hinting at fate not being the only recipient to follow in its weapons obstructed desires.
Probability without luck is forever undetermined. Having faith in itself, will redeem the actuality of actions placed without words. Luck? Faith? Lots of hints one hasn't fully realized.
Breathed in the breath of the saviour,
To enrichen a soul that is poor.
I puffed out a portal to the cloud kingdom,
Clinging to the scales of a dragon.
I reached a height as high as heaven,
Given the chance to look past the cloud,
As I put my head through to look,
I was dropped down to the ground.

I met an angel with a kick,
Wanted by the government.
Made my eyes as wide as a rabbit's hole,
As bright as a solar moon.
Black stars in between white spaces.
Generating a reluctant mould.
There are golden flakes in its hair,
When I swallow, they choke my throat.
Thought it was my angel,
Turns out it was fool’s gold.

Who am I,
I don’t know anymore,
I lost myself,
So long ago.
I lost pieces of myself,
In those inner landscapes.
I’m struggling to find the pieces,
I can’t remember their names.

I forgot how I got here.
I can’t feel anything here.

Are you out there!
Shine a light on my face!
Oh, I want to die,
In a beautiful place!

I am so tired,
Of keeping these ghosts inside of me!
My eyes are ****,
Take them away from me!
My thoughts are ****,
Take them away from me!
Everything around me is ****,
Take it all away from me!
When I die,
Will my god die with me?!


I think I, may have found my god.
I’m melting in his eternal sunshine.
Breathing in, a crumbled image of his face,
It turned my tears into wine.
The earth’s my grave,
And the sky’s my cradle.
Unearthing my new low,
To find the highest place one can go.
Dying In A Beautiful Place
Ken Pepiton Jun 10
If peace were a state we all agree to imagine, a state
we
envision as uni-
versal in any song, peace, calm, flowing deep, state
of being
in any man, wombed or un,
in any family, any tribe, any deme of agreements unbreakable,
any hermit cell

any bubble of believing generating proper people to fit
tradition and mystery myths without

re-tying truth to may, the verb. That's vainity.  
Religion.
(re-ligamentation,
like muscle to bone wit sinyew,
same stuff strangs a bow, for a fiddle ora arrow,
y'know)
that's somethin' else.
Religion could mean read the instructions, too.
All together
----
stopping to live. slowing, not stopping. pre-stop.

whisper,
say, earth,
hey, earth,
can you hear you now?

---
the dictator dictated the dictionary,
he/she/we/me

learned to speak as spoken to, in the boss tongue.
Ma or pa,
or whosover was fustus wit d'mostus
taught the good ol' boys.

But wisdom saw a way. We've been woven in a story.
We are in the code. Ethos, Pathos, Logos.
Those old Greeks examined them some life, I'd say.

Language rules the iron fist's grip,
meaning empowers
laxation, re
loose
gut brain pain fraught fear of the iron fist crimping
the flow of solidity
punch in the gut

Knock thashitoff! Now, flush

in ifity, boo, be bop, I'm an ice cream cone,

like those alien ones, mebbe,
moving stones the weight of 737s,

my cones of power defy your hour of suffering patient
per fection of...

what, wait, allusion to "Let patience have her perfect work"
what is her perfect work?
Quote that San Francisco band. Oh. Did that. Love.

you ask. The reality I see, you say, no, I say, me.

I am patience, the feminine form, 's perfect work.
Patients must put up with me,
you see

----
fear is terror's weapon, am i right?

And it is written, the fear of the LORD (KJV)
yhwh, in the unsayable way, God's name, only name, eh

is why that started?
Old Job let out a yelp, hey, earth is great, but you have no idea
how this feels.
You know lots of stuff I don't know, but mortality is not one of em,
as far as I can tell.
How 'bout a referee betixt us?

Hey, sus, pect me a spectacle

of the great contro
verse un ifiable, unif, once possible now, nullift.

got it.
Every other direction known. Take a fearless, peaceful-
feeling
path past all that.
Peace, be unto  you, earth. For my part.
The examined life is worth the living. You are in this one with me,
a very important part, an object, an aim to see what

could be there, a like mind, washed ashore.
----

A.P.I. Art Pax Intel

act as if they are listening with interest, paying
actual
attention, add pieces
of life stuff

I am 71, my window is my horizon, or
better said,
my horizon is my window. I have mini-horizons,
i think
like this... chromebook attached at finger tips,
I can and may be making some counter wave that clears
the crypto frost from my window to your
realm.

Who took your may? Do you recall the day?

It was a teacher who took my may,
but I won my can, That's a plotted point, I
ponder on my porch
partaking in curds of ways to do so saline a work

Fantasy education system U of old dudes like me,
tired old dudes who have no desire to argue,

but, really, don't tread on me.

the old greeks were at rest, the slaves were under control
but we old American men in twenty nineteen
we have A.I. and pensions enough,
my examination can go far deeper than Aristotle's.

Part taker, trope positions, anonymous wisemen's roles in
this generational take on
we, the people, by realization, not revelation
of the
traditional worth of wisdom found under hoary
or shiny-fringed heads and grey beards and
amplified through ear hair
like antennae.

Admiring and worth. Hmmm.
Mira, look upon the ozimandian heir and
wonder, why am I a part of this, an eight billionth of this

interesting time of changed time,
time duration,
it is known relative now,
a precocious child of twelve can explain the paradox.
But time travel, imagine...
The ships,
The captains venturing where... slaves and would-be thieves
would, or could be made to, row or man the ropes,
whether any sweating soul endured to the end,
or not,
Who cares-- we recall only the history of kings.

Aha, there were teachers paid to teach
Admire-alty of the strong who keep us free within our walls.
That was the meme, be like
obediant to
the man on the horse.

Extreme Narcissist rises as the needed leader, least meek
of men morphs materially into the Nuclear God?
the opposite of peacemaker becomes hero?

Endure. In your patience, you possess...

Here's the deal. Life ain't fair. No war ever worked to settle
the mixup over the actual reason
for con fusion. Fusion sticks stuff together that has a pro

pensity to repel.
En-trope, we wrestle that, we fight it with
weapons un-carnal on any fractal level where matter matters.

Settle down, we say, by being at rest, fretless.
Let my peace, you say, come in me,

now, in your bubble of peace,
where no damnation can exist, begin
to grow, feed on knowledge proven no lie.
Start with one, unproven
reason you have for laying down or taking lifetime from anyone,
or for anyone.

Plus and minus, up and down. Mere words.
Confusion is mashing things together to make stuff

like earth. You look close, **** augmented us,
we inherited the only biosphere in the known universe,

and some ******* hell's angel wannabe...

Nope. Fractally can't happen, time being duration, not
an arrow on a gravity bound arc.
From "it is finished' going viral,
Nailed it,
no contest.
Yep, peace makers won. Deck was stacked.
The idea of the act of
Nuclear war launched the tyranny of phobias,
including an old idol word bound fear.
Logophobia
fear of God idea is the beginning of wisdom. think this, what if

wisdom began in you when you imagined the evil
men have realized from their shared imagings,
Logos imagined it first. What if that?

for lack of vision,
my people perish. AH, fractal up
about a thousand Mandelbrot tics, okeh.

Did we come away with treasure, or are we lost in the war game?

---
how many is enough to make the effort,

ef fective effort to learn.... check. didit, still am. one's enough.

ef fective effort to use the learning right ... check, workin' on it.

Whee gotta cut some traditional slack to the clowns
who keep the poor man happy for the hell of it,

y'know, life's hard at the bottom.

but it ain't
no fun.
And happy minds bounce. No lie. Bi-polar on demand, kinda.

K'mon down. The price is right. Got moonshine in the evenin',
after-the-cool-of-the-day, unquiet late spring night,
Stars aplenty,

laid back, leanin' on the tree of all I can ever know or
ever know
already. Ever knowing, you know. Feels good. Starry night,

in focus, with our shared augmented eyes beyond

the base-bubble of life, where I fit.

---- bored old man? is that pathetic, or what?---
Is this a good that you can do, asked, but I allowed no quest to form.

The point of any story in my mandlebrot set of stories never imagined,
is why I make the daily efforts, find the point, mark it a peaceful
place at the end of a hard row to ***.

Making the point in ever, where you notice your role,
this is the peacmaker's privilege, for the prize of playing your role,
the rest that remains, is mine to use right, examing life
amidst confusion you may have stirred up on your own way here.
Joe Rogan 1041, Dan Carlin, in the background, sittin' on the porch after tearing part of the roof from the garage because it leaked all winter.
Johnny walker Mar 17
Today I feel like doing nothing at all but to lay here safe and warm In my bed wrapped In the all those wonderful memories of my one time
sweetheart
I turn on my side and Imagine her their Oh how  
pretty she look I can almost smell the scent of
her beautiful perfume generating warm radiating from her
body
She snuggles In nice and close I gaze those eyes that
could express more than any words could ever say
and her smile Oh that of an
Angel
she rests her head on my shoulder whilst looking
up at me, she would lay her hand so soft upon my
chest
sometimes naughty she would pull the hair my chest making me squeal like a big baby I'm ashamed to admit but you could never fault In any way
But Oh so lovely her
laying beside me sometimes hurts so much to think I'll
never experience any these beautiful things with her again not at leased In my
lifetime
But Imagination Is a wonderful gift because to there I can bring my loved back through all those wonderful
memories
I have spent so much time doing this of late It's difficult to no what's real and what
Is
Imagination through losing Helen I have learned to do this so well I believe Its what has got me thus far
Imagination a wonderful gift
to where you regain take of back control any situation by
creating from one own Imagination
You visit me like an omen from the past
If you knew me now, maybe it could last
I can feel my body tense and tight
like that old night, like that old good night

How you broke my heart - you are the point
where it all starts
Now that I am slave to a fickle rhythm
Thomas, if I catch you now, ai se eu te pego, man
Let me show you what I learnt so far!

I am not the same girl - scared and so in love
Now I am free and I roam till I get lost
I felt the force, this time it could work
I felt my breath as shook as it was back then.
If I could step in time and catch back my strength!
A dream to keep breathing, a dream to go on.

— The End —