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Marcus Lane Mar 2011
My Vellum

Alluring and demure
In your virginity
Never yet
Creased nor crumpled
Your tight young corners
Remain stiff and pert
In their newness
Your long lithe sides
Tense for my careful touch
Lest blood be spilt

My gold nib
I dip
In midnight ink
Piercing its surface skin
And lift

It drips
One

Two

Black
Secrets
Back to their bottle

My hand is poised
Over your pristine smoothness
And with calm precision
I carve broad majuscules
That twist and cut
To hairlines of breathtaking
Intimate intricacy

Quick teasing serifs
Long lingering descenders
Strokes of tactile
Joy

Then stand back

Empty
In wonder at
Your calligraphic beauty
© Marcus Lane 2010
I held his hand firmly on the fairground.

There were ferris wheel and rocking boat
even a flying saucer
of rides worth a few pennies

but the boy embracing that unlucky age
had his eyes stuck on the shining silver blue
beaming behind the sparking glass
full with rotor blades ready to take off
dreaming a ride to the sky
past the high tent of the circus
over the tallest coconut tree
into the haze of stars
where to only lonely pilots could fly
for being loved and understood
and not questioned for the cracked voice
for the thin hairlines on upper lip
for glancing at the girls
but inducted into the team of thirteen
for perpetually traversing between stars
on free rides into freedom
worth a lifetime.
Smiling liars, Laughing tyrants, Suppliers
Of the drug that keeps us spinning
The web of deceit for our precious
Exploiters of production, masters of destruction,
They can always spare a little time,
To turn their noses down at you.

Understanding Uncle Samson,
Receding hairlines never seemed so cruel.
Steady diets, Miracle migrants,
Poised and ready
To deliver the solution to you.

Glorified Ignorance, Celebrated Apathy,
The mixture slowly brought to brew
Industrialized dreams streamed directly,
Born of seduction and designed for consumption
Your ideas no longer belong to you.

The Answer is hidden, at the end
Of a sentence
The link to extinction will surely
Be mentioned
As hope rests
While peace detests
Those souls
Were they well intentioned?

Chemically altered, biology falters,
Murdering the sacred sphere
Who to trust?
The reason we must
Purge the demigods with spears

Beyond the philosophies
Man believes the falsities
The angry mob taught him
To enslave himself with
Fear
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...


     if you didn't know, already.
Ix Ryley Jan 2011
That velvety black rose from depths of cold ash,
Thirst quenched by the tears of the thundering red sky,
The crashes chase fiery hairlines, cold flashes,
From cold, thorny velvet, the wet petals fly--
Like the drenched rose could cry.

Whirlwinds whip, ash rose shrouded in black.
The blossom still fights through the rain, sharp as glass.
The glow of the sun’s what the thorny rose lacks,
But, at dawn’s dim grey glow, withered rose is cold ash--
Ash, like the others before it.

A rose, as it grows, is a rose, still, at death
Through wind and the rain, and the frost's icey breath
For a rose and its seed and the ash when it's gone
Will wither and die in the time before dawn.
What's ash can't come back.
It's gone.
Loewen S Graves Jan 2012
--painting by Chris Brodahl at the Seattle Art Museum*

Legs bent over the chair,
her pants wrinkle as she moves
rippling

My face tilts back and I close my eyes;
she bends her fingers over the table
like she’s playing piano.

Images cross over and I can’t keep track,
lost in eyes pasted over fingers
lips glued onto hairlines.

And still she moves,
staying silent but shifting
rippling

I had a dream the other night
of a farmland in grayscale,
black and white movies in my head.

My mother in her pink cotton nightdress;
bluebirds mocking me from their roost in a tree
And still this silent farmhouse, soft in its slumber.

But I can’t move when I’m asleep,
and she can’t move when she’s awake
We’re perfect in each other’s hands

I wait until her eyes are closed
and then I kiss her, her eyelids fluttering
rippling, as if to say hello.
Tom McCone Nov 2013
from the balustrade, the canopy,
comprised of leaves and rooftops and
a diminishing colour-set above
tastes of retreat. familiarity.
she came down to my level,
spelling out instabilities and inscrutinabilities,
like a vague ruffle sent through
harmonious and imperfect hairlines:
this slight haze of separation,
a delicate circling
lust, the vulture of the ninth;

lying in wait, i sit, still,
in the corner, watching the
ceiling for hours,
singing sadnesses like,
oh no, it won't happen this way,
when have i ever learnt?
winning's a single blackout, but
i'm still awake,
still stuck stuck stuck stuck,
already given up and out.
still awake, seven
hundred and fourteen days,
a list of crimes, a handful
of loose opinions, a
devastating need;

never had i felt as if
i couldn't live, without
something i never meant to
want, this much.

with rainfall, she rescinds,
she's discovered i am but dust.

from dust, i'm made rain.
Butch Decatoria Sep 2016
Adam4's acquaintances who frequent
Foxholes as salivary soliloquy,
Usually suspected no second helpings

A dim ambience for an active bedroom
On battery powered candles
Concorde lighting
The carpet's edges chewed thin
Receding hairlines
And he uses me as bait..?

Our neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King Mojo's hollowed cushions
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners

I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit--reacquainted with him,
Must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs

Silicon smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes

I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
Most of the guest leave,
There is one hovering quick
To accommodate his
Ginger manly girth

I'll be out in the smoking section
At the side of the house
Through the slider door
From off the kitchen dining area
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For a Lenny and his troop...

His Samsung vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke and self defocations grief
He posts another ad.

If only you heard
The vagrant shout
A banchee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
Plugged in to the internet's latest
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold
For them to just
****** off

And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...
"What's there for dinner?"  

**** chicken heads again?
*Same ole same old dope...
09192009
Natty Morrison Mar 2012
You can be cloak
or you can be dagger.
You cannot be both;
the actor and the action. The hand, holding the hand? One foot washes the other?
The hand washing the water.
This is what we're headed for.

You want the careful parts
careless. And you want parents to be
their only child. And raise them.
You want madness because you can't
think of an answer, but it's fine because
you have all the time in the world.
Where are you hiding it all?

You say time is a clock
because you're a **** for metaphors
But a clock is just a counter.
Go count the cars that go by outside
and then tell me how many are yours.
Go count the pretty girls in the back of magazines.
Then tell  me what's it's like to not be alone.

There are no rules on this stuff
written inside of stones, like geodes
and hieroglyphs in unsealed tombs.
These are not traditions, handed down so gently
like hairlines,  These are not heirlooms wrapped in fine wax and tissue.
You will not find this in direct-order mailers. There is no slot in the card catalog,
There are no old wives, no urban legends or gossip.
It's not a secret.  It's not a even a thought. It's simple.

You can be the instinct
or you go de-evolve.  
Back to the single cell
back into the primordial, lay around the house
spend all day playing with yourself
Stimulus! Response!
That old hole in the bucket song;
Did you look inside? Did you see change,
or feel it ***?
The world doesn't stay a world because you think
it might collapse.  And life isn't worth living because it's
hard.    

You can be fight
or you can be flight
or you can be
a rabbit hole in the hat.
gd Mar 2014
These tortured souls walk amongst
their similar counterparts, all
trailing on narrow paths and open minds.
They hold knives to their chests and
leave the pain in their hearts so
they don't have to stomach the sadness -
but what a twisted tragedy.

Between bridges burned to ashes and
golden hairlines that mimicked Hercules'
(though they were not as fortunate) it is a wonder
to witness the core of our misogyny as
we puncture our flesh a little deeper,
hold our breaths a little longer, and
leave our insides tattered as we swallow
the remains of the promises we've broken
and the memories we've hoarded.

Step by step, we break ourselves
to build up the rest who neither matter
nor simply care.

gd
How is it that when you are the most honest, all hell breaks loose?
Stacy Del Gallo Jul 2010
The road to the funeral home
was plagued by
brown Cadillacs stretched
out on overgrown lawns,
and cats lounging lazily
on splintered planks.

Eleven people sat scattered
around dozens of expectant
chairs laid out in long rows,
hairlines moistened by a
lackluster air unit wheezing
in the one window.

The Reverend approached
the pew and began his
assault of sentences--
they spewed from
his lips like careless
bullets, and they stung.

He shook his hands at us and
promised that she had
been delivered to God…

I wonder if he meant
delivered like her
neighborcare packages
containing the familiar numbing
glory of ****** that got her
through cancer after cancer,
limbs and eyesight failing,
decades old and stewing
in her stomach.

He sputtered out syllables
like bouts of fumes-
they filled the air and I
swear I could smell them,
the stench
of stale cologne
and stale culture.

I could taste the
disgust coming up from
my esophagus,
that bitterness the brain
dispenses when anger
can only be expressed in
a tapping foot and sourly
sagging lips.

I sat there, silent, as that
ancient man
with his West Virginia
draw clumsily
stumbled over a list of
relatives “Marge” would
meet in heaven.

He forgot my father,
skipped his name and
my heart began to pump
faster, my cheeks burning.

He did not know that she
was Margie and we would
remember her soft yellow curls
and infinite knowledge of
antique dolls,
hundreds of pristine replicas
beaming in glass cases.

He did not know that
her lips were electric;
she shocked our cheeks
with each hello
and goodbye.

I wish he knew her like I did,
the young woman who sat
stiffly in this plastic chair,
her little girl all grown up.

I wish I could have pushed
him off the stage and
made up for the seven years
I missed of kisses and
old stories and support.

But I sat there, silent
and stared at the cracked ceiling
tiles and fake flowers
on the front folding table,
yearning for the pounding in my
temples to stop.
Ken Pepiton May 2023
as I nearly slept, I nearly
rolled over in my bed, did not,
folded my hands, slumbered on
dreamlessly imagining signals hmmms
Massive
low
notes, accepted as receptible
by my phone with no reply request
acknowledge
accusatory story…, here, I see, okeh

Each sapien sapience, from the womb,
to final dust, despite the mounds of mud,

and opera, werks, shunning sweat,
rear up any child in the way one wishes
that child to grow, see, noble king
one must see those things one wishes
were true,
then rule,
be the head of state itself, the wedom
of all the subjective class, objects
deemed worthless but by thy
grrrace, grunting there is a hell. there is, there is
as it is said Christians must believe,
having as one prays, even now,
those needs, cast off all care,
imagine all debts, all paid,
no offering to prove it
needed, only be
left to see your own way, open eyes, a bitter taste,
aftertaste of wisdom, used as in a spirtual duel,
with a passle of powerful fools, unaware
of the rules, anointed, by truth, dare
prove all things, challenge
the persuader, offer bitter herbs with salt.
Salivate conditioned reflex,
some day all your enemies
feel your own self made up form of love,
and that loving burns their evil minds,
to useful illuminosity, before
catch, grip. holf if, see
ante-cipitates, make each look up,
pledge the believers every day,
good
to go,
so in time, as stages pass,
one knows, this is what my hand
has found to do.

In your service dear reader, thus far,
in our momentary now reality,
between our shared unreal pasts,
in the bubble of we, the people of earth,
attempting to buy the world a coke,
since a certain series of orange acid
during February and March, 1970-
- Chicago. Kesey and Wolfe
- fine weather, for a few days in March

ping vid mind adapts, yes, we re
member seeing something so close
to that exact day at that exact spot,
and the weather
was way worse.

but then I he(a)rd the songs of Mao,
being mys-tried, re sung once more as if
each line was free of debt to Lao Tze
no wei, no secret sacrosanction.
dedeMao, now.
b'n ice geeye ai ai - feel the power
lust right, the drill
will to…
w8
Impulse to cut and run, see a message,
make it stick to the bumper of your cat. Cat.
Tell the world what you are
catalogical,
sorted by did you not wish you knew
rearview, how much of that
do you know,
do you know once, we remember

I did, feel a signal, listen,
think I speak mammoth, listen

in fact, we all did, at the time,
we project that as impossible to prove\
reproof of construe-ition is the way of life
instruction in right use, upgrade scales
praxis co-knowing our each selfish in a
we as a wedom, awesome
by the way life lingers
on topological math,
see,
below the actual band width
of light, white
in the middle see the bones
of the bits, those are from stars,
photons ping touch /percepticons
see-ing
opposition in the future, met today,
hey hey hey
tell me what I say,
that ain't no way to pray,
I done said to each, ever lasting
misconcieved grand spirit of a movement
when the guts of goodnessakesknowswhat
is clogged in curses,
generational debt,
the ruler mind set,
to rob the rich, I was led,
daily I watched the Adventures
of Robin Hood, while I only saw Dragnet
once each week,
ethics of each occur in all boomers, as a wedom,
the first generation born after 1945,
sorted by standardized Dewey measures
of progress. toward becoming
community minded boys and girls,
destined to bring tomorrow by conforming
to the systematized sorting, grading on math
and language arts, then history and science,
then juris prudence for civilians, duty,
- team player drills daily, 40 minutes,
- extracurricular activity choices, weighed

current deception opens green receptors
for signals
to me sent, presently as a gift,
from the queen
of the south.

We assume the idea of gifts, tributes
to k'ki'kn'no'ings, legendary models,
magi conquerors who kept the roads free
of theives and babblers
of goodness only, used as sacramental
kindness made sacred,
bidding you have a mighty fine day.

- is that the Power Farm?
- Circa 1989, HyperCard, crazy easy coding.
- But not so easy as now, finally, harmony,
- knowledge was never what divided
- truth from multitudes of witnesses,
- globally aware more mass shooting than days
- to share with former saints in 2023, so far…
All ye
Religious spirits, little impulsive crossing, muttering
thankyou to the unknown god, higher power, el ultimo.

You know, Wisdom herself, given her due, trueee baby,
too true, knowledge is power, wisdom is might,
stand up, right, perpindicular to the true balance,
prepared, made ready to use thoughts abound,
and turn you around
on a low pressure gyre, rolling up Tornado Alley,
as you imagine it all connects.

It's that hard rain, the poets called,
a seeing from the old'ns,
son, ya got a good eye,

never hesitate to wink, and think, I can see,
should I ever need to give up an eye
for my life's comfortable ends, in mind, my
days of rest --ha, these, after a spectacular

reexamination of metaphors filled with crud,
as seen in plastic sacks of potatoes,
left to sprout and rot, in the dark,
not the slightest snakey lick
of seeing with infra-red, in your head, augmental
conjoining
click… serious speed of recognition instant
cognosis,
we both know, like in a Romcom, how- to movie,
shaping mindsets to put on while in rut.

Historically Christian Nationalist Roots, Cowboy way,
circa the informational slots we slipped by, ran away,

one bought a carnival, one bought charisma seeking,
one bought a vision
through the future to right now. Eh.

How oft must one reset such knowns as nouns,
and names of action words, love, fear, hate, lie, die

Did your mindset bid you challenge

Since 2016, I have my word, I swore, with fervor,
once more eternal hostility
to any form
of tyranny {outside-will control} ever imposed
upon the mind
of mankind, wombed or un, however we be
physically, there is none of that in Christ,
believe your rules of rights use.
Examine the faith that being apes,
who could signal names of things, Adamkind,
pre functional womb model.

He could name things, he could not make babies.
Adamkind, warrior breeds from olden days,
such as fight to entertain the mob in waiting,
fans for flames, founders kenning use
of passionate inflamation to provoke
good works, in the mind of the mob,

vicarious sons of deceiving reasons, come
to call my use of faith proves nothing real.

There are made men using God's name, in vain,
eh, it never works, but it is their religious duty
to think kingly, eh,
too ghuckingoodforoneself, we, Trumpians.
We believe,
we never imagine a war we can't make.

Or a set of actual conspiratorial winds,
with names, familiar spirits, returning winds,
infested with Saharan dust, where once were lush
gardens, back when Greenland was green,
or, so I heard/

Bham harumpharump feel the answer,
pick up the combover, so cool, no care, unaware,

- exposed to the expert in this warfare,
- symbolic marvelous armour,
- for pulling down strongholds, castles,
- silicon solid state preservation cast away
- war in the spirit with historical daemons,
- meeting the neo-Manicheans, word for word…
Ai ai, sir, yessir.
We won a mindtimespace precedent mind state writ,
with the entire child of Arpanet, my second wit,
ready writer motto,
use knowledge right, criticize your story,
sift solidity through cellular security,
finest flakes of self assurance, shine
on
and on as
knowns evil or good.. only the priest can call
foul or fair, there,
excuse you, lawyer
for the defense that there is no vicarage, no live
embodiment
of the intercessor between,
truth's way through life,
and the common dominion
of a certainty,
Your MOTHER IS
BY GOD, ALL CURSES, SHE's

the reason
for your father's rage, generational curses,
daddy wounds,
mommy deprivation, post partum. chaos

love, assuage
woe, soorry, Jesus. But, as has been widely
reported the business
of religion,
by exposing truth
pays a visible wage, shiny smile,
U joint versify,

if we may,
play in the code of life, past any inkling fear
of death,
ducks
in order, will and testament cleared,
read already, ready
to oppose, I suppose, am I.
Logically a state of mind, at the moment.

I callt the efficacy of faith
to call all the outs in.

So we see them on TV, they everywhere,
other people,
OH GOD, why must there be
other people,
oh, my, we may agree,
this answers that,
reasoning, by active faith,
usualized, made common sense.
Why would any sane lover of truth god,
create a forever for enemies of lies?
Belief in spirits opposing truth,
metaphors abound, Kriegspiel on coke,
the real thing, viewers imagine,
watching all the nobles
become naked, and as ugly as any among us.
We see the chins and hairlines in horses,
yet neglect to notice, mustang
herd management, as traits
adjust to new standards,
wild life reset to order.
We realize the riddle,
is the reason, we feel foolish and know it,
U knew, not me, forethought,
morphically resonating
peace, as on a gong
gone
normative,
adjustment bureau wise
sinner's bound in a doctrine
- cut to the gist, there is no sting in death.
- and teaching children to fear death is abuse
- of right authority granted parents
- of loved children, chosen ones, olden days.
Legendary warrior mind, allowed, only if
initiation allows exposure

the daysman lack-
no, look crosswise,'
stripes, whistle, dude
-see, there, the excuse, Job ttalked back.
And Yah, he say, you know, you got that right.
Heysus hisself, look at me he say, I'll go,

become the logical conclusion,
to a story where there was a flaw,
and time threatened to run out, but
the hero, ready to become the tool
to answer a malignant liar with his religion.
Job said to Yah,
you do not know how it feels to put on
a carnal  mind, set by God in Atom's right
to be first
to say this is that…
and one thing leads to another
- you feel the power without knowing
Mysteriously, you,
suddenly seem shy, thinking
how can I say what this is,
you have no right
to say a name Adam did not
say first, we say ****, you say poo,
******* artistic instinkty ways to say, not what
goes in,
corrupts, but what comes out sure can,
that's
gnosishit trustatistical fact according
to science
scent, pre
yours it stinks to, Jesus said.
Brush y'teeth, with Pepsodent to night, be
brite
- visible
knowledge is all good see, so we say we say
good riddle. fit for a king
prone to seek an interpreter of signs and sigils.

A trained cadre of bright boys, as runners,
or senders,
senders using drum and fife, to lead,
trumpet to send, and banners,
to rally round on our side,
whose sigil is that? Do we aid or raid
the edges, scavenge strategy
from the dead.
Live to tell, as I the lone survivor,
I who slew the king at his request, please
believe me
I never steer you to wrong.

Letters flow qwerty wise,
let it happen in the fingers fit to the task,

take a little walk, listen
to a story, sit a while and wish the
enemy were here to enjoy the ease,
beyond the bliss of ignoring,
past the weight worth standing under,
to the home imagined right in time
to finish in December, 2021, one thing
done.

Search any phrase of life, and find answers
to unasked questions, regard-iding lying done
id est as when it is, totally Scriptural moral- wise
right in such a time as once

when some liars who held fast to prophesy
hired the guy who rode the wild ***,
which cognosisadictattenti sorts say
the darnedest things, strecht
stitch in time
Art of Linking Letters, Art Linkletter,
as regular a lunchtime mind flush with a chuckle
and nod at the secrets children can
claim to publicly believe, but ….

the link was to the stay-at-home mom,
not her peer's latch-key kids in allegiance prep,
who get home each day,
for a solo home run heads up on,

who did what on the news, since last night.
Wait, when did Kid Parrett buy the farm,
for more lasting fame than many
in the game, of vicarious triggerers of revenge
reaction, action ready
wha, wham
I a,am sh…za'am is a real rebbiwort, glaubtgut
Jesus
do u read Seuss, still, a quest, mark, take,
leave, ask best bet, take
chance…
look away. Beulah land,
then Beulah see, wise black nanny guide from non-
nodded off, witty, pretty sweety Mary
poppin' clap off pop
stand and deliver, let it be
sistarepistol packin' mama, whoa
Sister,
I did not think to ask, have you been this far? Before?
993 maybe, but the next seven are done. I am stopping, long enough,
to make some money some how... eee-odle eee dee hee,
I may be back again by summer.
addy r Oct 2013
Never have I seen such a fine immaculate thing such as yourself.
With impeccable features on every part of you.
Intricate hairlines with the same latitude as Montego Bay.
Wavy curls that go like the Pacific Ocean.
Soft and tiny hands with moisture abound that make my skin tingle at your touch.
Your scent – lingers around you like a fresh rose: thorn-free and beautiful. It intoxicates me and exhilarates my senses, refreshing my mind and bringing me into overdrive.
This is how you are.

(lunarlullubies)
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i went from being 77kg
to being 115kg,
add that to your Newtonian
concept of gravity via
jenny dinski;
comrade Kane rather
than citizen, and we just about
buried Stalin next to the
new age mummy of Lenin;
so hoorah ******* Ra: an iron eagle
to boot, pecking the hairs of
Jesus' rubric of the monkish crowns
of abbreviated hairlines, receding,
or if not receding then encapsulating
a chanced oasis; still the monks though;
and given the Templars... trouble,
either militant Islam revisionism
or Baphomet idolatry to counter
homosexuality.
Megan Hundley Mar 2015
It was soft at first
the sound of cotton, pulled
across cedar floor. Sacred.
Fragile words we whisper
mostly so we no longer have the
burden of sheltering them ourselves.
It was, the petals of parsley--
just before the setting of summer
dips below the horizon. A breeze
will send them away.
For the time being.


It grew louder.
I knew not how long it had been increasing.
No longer careful, no longer respectful
of the night. It ached. In suspense it gazed--
through the screens in our speech
through the bend of our knuckles
through the curve of our sight
It ached.
I knew not how long it had been increasing.
Only that I had been there all the while


Over time
the paint on the walls remained
gently the clock was reminded of the hour
drops sizzled and slipped through
hairlines in humidity
the bed frame celebrated 2 decades
Not once did the door open in surprise
Over time, it was like it didn't exist at all.


At last
the age of guessing was at a close
cool tiles against the jaw. low. heavy in
the steamed aftermath of dawn. Forgiving.
The release of tape from the roll--keeping it all together
A hiss from the nose, crunched by the swift turn on the heels. Endless.
Reckless. Reverberating around the space of your lawn, bending
the blades, breaking the stems of weeds.
At last.
It had nothing to do with listening close enough
and everything to do with experiencing it.
Torias Jun 2016
Frosty beads of sweat,
Like diamonds on her necklace,
Gather at hairlines
6/1/16
Connor Jan 2017
Star spangledgraciousness
An empty vessel
Yet not without its redwine
Red wine
& sourness of past inhabitants
The fog of Manhattan
Cries the whale of night
In a street of slurred bodies
& electrical heads &the; train is late &excusemepleasesorrythankyou;
& directionless/compliancy is for the agents who don't know rhythm i can speak the tongue of a sweatfaced
Painterman or
The kindly blind
Who haven't the time for soreness

Its all soupNmute screamin!!!g

"Ur dryer has been faulty /
The showerhead makes cruel sounds!"

My Beltbuckle healthier than
Leather!of my shoe (a horn from up the block)

Rosesmile lovely faces
Being uplifted by balloons &
Kissing hymns

(RedwineRED wine)

Impolite barter
Or 75 cents in Metro
Paused for Rodenticide

(green neon coffin)
Coughing neon green

(!!)


HERE is a wailingCannonBall
Creating a space of drums
And dancing or microphoneAAA

Golden cloud & dripping halo
Words cannot hurt these saintly scenes
of a
Light caught in the rain
As mist rises u p
From my fleecy walk
& protest sirens orchestrate
SUNSET tape
/X and O/
               Do not mind the slipping
               Metal
               Or poorly-tended meadows coming up thru
               Hairlines
               ////////////###
      Transmutable
      Grains to cigarette ash
      Rolling daintly upon the marblefloor
      I have seen scholarly tearjerkers
      Preach about the elevator
      Blinking the signal of the soul
      Holy(soul)
      And potplant lids
      Fantasizing of Mothers
      To shoeshine their world
      A (         eniwder

"hellonothankyou"
    "AfterallthistroubleIwentThrough!"­)
Note of
Myself put into the hardwood of

The blunder
Of thought itself

For a fool beneath a bridge to find
& smoke with aching feetNplastic
teeth
Speaking plastic musings to

The plastic of the falsely opposed
Withdrawn
And unable to prove why this country hates them so much

(which begs the question)
Candles keep to the museum of headaches & irony

I keep to this narrow night under the
Attic of West 3rd

Wishing for a place to rest easy
Except these foreigners slam their

Quiet fists to the map of New York City instead
AhOkLetsBePatientPuh-Leese

This sort of passion for
The stone and it's
many
Bulbous radiant
fingers
While simultaneously
Brushing them away with nervous laughter
Can only be caused by

Spending too much time at the beach
Reading playwrights.
for E.E Cummings

New York, 2017
Something
like thorns in
my ribcage,
I'm done.

Something
like bullets
resonate,
I'm gone.

And something
like worries
in my chest,
I can't.

I'm falling,
like raindrops,
or paper,
or steel.

I'm weak
and
I'm breaking.
I'm fragile,
I know.

Something
like falling
no bridges,
I'm gone.

I faded,
like paper,
like notebooks,
like songs.

I broke like
a mirror,
like tears in
old paper,
I'm broke.

Still fragile,
with hairlines,
and fractures,
so long.

Like something
still broken
with no chance'
at all.
cleann98 Apr 2018
Bloodshot fractures
   underneath her skin,
Cracking from inside
   breaking her within—

A thousand hairlines
     tearing her apart,
   draining away all her promises…

—unheard, unfelt, unseen—

Much like the beatings of her heart.

They were saline lips,
The lips I’ve been kissing,
Drier than the driest lips,
   stealing all my love…

     —all the long stemmed roses
    Even her warmth, missing…

   So different,
      From our start.

Then, they used to sparkle,
Then, they used to shine
     her lovely velvet lips
   painting crimson mine.

I used to adore that smile,
I used to love that laughter,
     Redder than blood—

   —No hue was ever better.
Until I saw that color,
     on the lips of another man—

And now she lays,
   kissing my shoes on the floor…

And as I lean toward her face—

        —finally,

   her lips are blood red once more.
brooke Aug 2017
I will rewrite history.



will decoupage the walls and lay
today's newspapers across our scripts
notated phone calls between
you                  and                 i

will let the past be the past  but
i will scumble it over in red alkyd flat
line the hairlines with vicuna threads
and  braided burlap

will let the sink run till it
lifts edges of the counter,
soapstone memorials we
built to emphasize our
bitter weaknesses for
eachother to live up to
till everything runs between
the floorboards
everything about you             and                 i
will bubble up and release
gently snap and move apart
we were no mettalurgists
but we tried--
to be as hard as all get up
iconel hearts stripping
eachother and you
bought out, you win
you're the alloy
and I am
raw skin and soul


but  I willl not be
bothered by the upheaval
as much as i break apart
(because I have been)
making a fool of myself
but i have hope that something
new will crack the casing
i am leaving in the quietest
way possible
relocating
he left months ago
and i am just starting to pack
my things but i wouldn't have
it any other way--
have you ever tried to force a
purge?

here i am,
here it is

the runoff.
(c) Brooke otto 2017


something I started writing before bed last night.
Mike Essig Sep 2015
by Sharon Olds**

The next day, I am almost afraid.
Love? It was more like dragonflies
in the sun, 100 degrees at noon,
the ends of their abdomens stuck together, I
close my eyes when I remember. I hardly
knew myself, like something twisting and
twisting out of a chrysalis,
enormous, without language, all
head, all shut eyes, and the humming
like madness, the way they writhe away,
and do not leave, back, back,
away, back. Did I know you? No kiss,
no tenderness–more like killing, death-grip
holding to life, genitals
like violent hands clasped tight
barely moving, more like being closed
in a great jaw and eaten, and the screaming
I groan to remember it, and when we started
to die, then I refuse to remember,
the way a drunkard forgets. After,
you held my hands extremely hard as my
body moved in shudders like the ferry when its
axle is loosed past engagement, you kept me
sealed exactly against you, our hairlines
wet as the arc of a gateway after
a cloudburst, you secured me in your arms till I slept–
that was love, and we woke in the morning
clasped, fragrant, buoyant, that was
the morning after love.
Viseract Jun 2016
The past comes back to the present
Never dies
Persists
Against a change of heart
Resists
Because events are familiar it
Enlists
Itself
Because it never wanted to be anything else

I don't change much either
I'm still a joker
Thanks to my step-mum, a secondary smoker
A provoker
And all-round bad influence
If you saw me
As I see me
Imperfect and ugly
Riddled with scars that will always be a
Part
Of me
That I hide so nobody else can
See

I repeatedly feel like
****
Sometimes the stress is too much, and I can't
Deal with it
But do we all?
We fall
Down the side of a skyscraper, panicked
We call
But there is never a saviour

No God when we need him
Nobody to believe in
Sins causing us all to have hearts that lie,
Bleeding
As we grow old and our hairlines,
Receding
Repeating
History on repeat, stuttering
Build. Learn. Live. Die

Nothing ever changes,
It's all the same
God seems to be
Playing me
Like a mother-*******
Game

And I don't like it,
But He just keeps on going
Snowing
Me under a blanket of ******
Blowing
It all in my general direction
No protection
Not to mention
My lack of obsession
With Divine Intervention
An invention
Invented by those who seek attention
Pretending
That someone out there
ACTUALLY GIVES A ****!

But I know better
There is no higher purpose
Because
If there was
Why does it never change
When I feel worthless?
An angry rap of sorts
Gray smears ,  borne of tears upon fresh painted blackness ,
collecting on sideburns and hairlines                                            Melancholy images of time in naked , telling
permanence
Red flowers in acrid rain , eyes that fade to pink reflections
in muttered backgrounds , mute attempts for help
wasted , blue day barbarians that lie in wait , behind false images
of green an gold , silver with yellow meeting amber in vain
Pain receiving color
Odor fighting turbulence
Cool air upon wrinkled , quickened skin* ...
Copyright July 21 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
brain shrinkage,
dialating eyes of confusion,
the molding of stress
in the pool of sobriety,
receding hairlines and
developing obesity,
the awry rationalization
of everyone's
depression in controlled economics,
the weariness in a blackhole,
sore feet,
sore body mass,
the lower backs breaking only for Moloch,
the lack of enthusiastic sense
to search for enjoyment,
for everything and anything,
one dead end leads to another,
the lights out hour
and
its deadly suffocating bed box
sadness machine;
as/while my relentless contemplation
for suicide delays,
I think I am more concerned
that with no savings at all,
the could/would-be bills for a funeral
may matter more than the death itself
but yeah,
this little enumeration
of a poem does no help
at all

but

a bottle of brandy
may help to make
it clear,
even for me.
write it,
decribe it.
let it devour your
tight grip on your
possessions,
reputation,
fear of judgement,
concern for
your receding
hairlines
and failure.
don't ever slow down.
slowing down means
to feel what isn't
necessary
to feel.
the weight is nothing
compared what is next
after the cliff.
your body has been
tainted to begin with
and the only way
around is forward.
go.
never mind the
machinery parts as they
fall piece by piece
along the road.
your worries are
mere distractions
and don't ever forget
that you've ****** up
more times than the
minutes you spend on
worrying.
dying could be set aside,
consider it once you've
outlived your enemies
and your demons.
if you ever find yourself
unable to stand,
your fingers will
gather all what's left
to form something
not new, but a
working dysfunctional
remaining pieces of
yourself.
Made to again run with me.
Slashing past branch and vine,
leaf and twig;
The sharp corners come upon
us as we turn with grace;
the precision of scalpels,
and mirrors, like a raging river
made peaceful.
The horizon dips beneath mountain
tops, while the wind sweeps across
our bodies, cooling our brow,
drying our flesh.
We dart like birds of prey
through the canopy. Our shadows
cut beautiful forms against
the untrampled scenic landscapes
unfurling below.

The sun at our backs, the moon
before us; we've become catalysts
for the movement, the new days
ahead; the memories of what
has passed in our stead.
Motionless no more,
our voices expel upwards, given
wings by foresight, our power,
and might.

Swept away, avoiding precarious
terrain; landing at the doorsteps
of ears that once dared not listen.
Now they too are becoming filled
by the cacophonous wails, bellows,
and tears of adventure.
Their once stagnant souls ignite,
for greater insight, grandiose
perspective.

They're beginning to hear the roar
of undiscovered rivers of thought,
the hiss of yet untamed mountains
of complacence. Imaginations
scream to life, action bubbles in
their blood.
Onrush of emotion, the unspoken
words of panic, betrayal, and ignorance
manifest into tears for still
lifeless forms.
Grasp onto hands that are running
to again bring to life what
has yet to be seen, from mouths not
yet encouraged to speak.

Peer into the eyes of existence;
shackled no more, our many ways
of endless transformation.

Throw down your predetermined
notions, sheath your convoluted
accusations. Hear instead the
crashing oceans of discontent,
shaping rock into footholds.
Hear the whisper of tall grass
swaying in rhythm with the enemy
they conceal, formulating, and
engineering an end to their eternal
heart beat.
Made to again run with me, our
boundless vivacity, our forever
expedition.

Rising from between phylum,
from vein to flesh;
subcutaneous to cutaneous.
A reminder long since forgot,
"I have a voice, I have thought."
Arising to glisten its sharpened
teeth against the ambiance of moon
and star, sun and cloud.

From the base of hairlines,
to the nape of neck,
sculpted shoulders take shape.
To fatigued arms browning in
accusation to a committed work
the cowards will not overcome.
Shoulder blades to channel of
back, down to the rim of stained
in stench trousers; down to painted
in blood and mud boots!
The Revival!

Animalistic urges to again
strike unprovoked, to perch oneself
on high viewing all as consumable
yield.
Soul and trust,
effort and angst.

A strengthening pulse beats
sound to life, from behind improperly
protected cochlea.
Shaking rustic chords free of
their complacent sediment to again
speak, speak the words of those
whose breath has been taken.

Lest the warrior, the leader,
the cook, the house keeper,
the accountant, the clerk, the postman,
the janitor, the mechanic, rest forever;
yet they steal themselves away some time;
by candlelight, flashlight, moonlight,
or campfire, nursing their childlike
exuberance for expression back to
true virility.

Passivity bites against bit and bridle.
Now screaming passed smashed, and
cracked teeth, "They're coming!"
All captured by heads against cold
ground, soft grass, burning concrete,
and propped pillow.
A dream coming to life once again
rising against flesh to cool our
forever ascent.

"Don't make sympathy your resistance."
CdeM
Omarcito Jun 2022
The opportunity to see Artist grow is an experience
Pulling on the strings of imagination.
Ideas mixing with ideologies
While Artist's talent flies yonder people's heads,
Giving the mind a chance to wander with
Loose predictions of predicaments only prevalent
Past current hands of clock towers hovering over
Boston's Freedom Trail, somehow ending at
Caffe Lil Italy.

Artist is on an elevated stage
Holding a piece of mysterious wood
Infront of billows of hairlines,
Presented by
Aliens from The World of Perplexed Tunes
Scattering under the grey sky
While the patient moon waits
Behind a cotton curtain.
  Rhythm was then resurrected.
     The next second,
     Perspective changes.
                                            We are now at
                                 The Show in the art of music
                                     While the crowd awaits
                        The next centennial syllable of the story
                               While an avid listener is caught
                                                In the grip.
Now,
He understands.



I applaud talent in a hierarchal sense,
In an illusioned matter of society.

I appreciate, the determination,
Leading to trees singing melodies
Whenever Artist appears with her weapon of choice from
The fifth dimension;

Presented to a four-dimensional audience.

I hear the joy in the tone,
Yet I feel the turbulence in the voice.
Something has hurt one.

While the hat might not sit correctly on one's head,
Sometimes it can't
So it can;

Spark sensation, Create imagination,

And understand the meaning of where we are
On this melting *** of a lightning bolt
Thrown by Zeus during a psychotic episode
On laced LSD, or maybe
Traveling through space,

The space, in the middle of her curious eyes
Where fictitious time is lost.

So, Dear Artist,
I want to say
Thank you, for helping me grow.
Thank you, for giving me the chance to grow.
Thank you, for the connections I never would've been able to make
If you had decided to never take the stage.

If you need me or this message again,
I'll be in the back of your mind,

In that scene,

Across The Other Ocean,
My focus over the horizon of metaphors,
On the other side of reality
As my feet remain glued to the jagged shoreline,
The sand on my toes washed away by
The waves of life created by

The Mother of The Other Ocean.










As my neurons recall the harmonies
Chiseled by you,


My mind drifts away,

Still thinking of hypothetical predicaments,


And it's endless possibilities.
when somebody dies in your life
you take a little sway
you dance like you’ve never danced
you obey desires of withdrawal
the sickness wins and the walls comes close
the average becomes over dramatic
and the awkward things becomes forbidden
the holidays turns into funerals
marches, parades never gets meaning so as
marriages, reunions, celebrations, vibrations, ejaculations
receding hairlines and frail weeks and years
the failure in your genes
the desperation in your eyes
the grasp for air
and the seriousness to continue
you lose it all
ran out of cigarette
will sleep dealing with withdrawal
the last stop
soon enough you die too
not too much
not too little
but enough to live and witness
how you lose the entirety of it all
- May 2019
Growing up, my teachers always told me

"Write what you know"

But I don't know much anymore.
I'm pushing twenty-five.

They tell me to write what I know
But most of what I know is heart break and alcoholism
Even that feels fake nowadays.

So what do I know?

Death and depression.
Alcoholism and failing family genetics.
Receding hairlines and divorce proceedings.

Write what I know,

But I don't know ****.
Butch Decatoria Jan 2020
**** dim is the ambience for active bedrooms,
On battery powered candles / Concorde lighting.
The carpet's edges chewed thin like
Receding hairlines
Then he uses me as bait..?

A neglected puppy's teething
Nesting under California
King / Mojo's hollowed cushions,
Keeps him gnawing these nights
Misters and oil burners.

I was mistaken, there are those
That revisit—reacquaint with him.
They must of shared a Starbucks,
As his Sasquatch hands
Rub wet platinum on his old fellow
Bears and their Cubs.
Silicone smooth pets, house boys
Fished from the deep web,
Plagiarizing with their eyes the pleasures
Of Eurocreme,
Bare back dreams, hours heave
The subtitled felatio scenes.

I tell the old man, they only ***
After and mostly when
the guested leave, guises, guilt…
There’s one hovering still
Round bouts quick to mount
To accommodate new daddy’s
Ginger manly worthless girth…

I'll be out in the smoking section
Out at the side of the house
Through the slider door, you know
From off the kitchen dining space
Where he had once
Replaced the table with billiards
For Less of a man friend
and pretend straight shooters
Happy birthday old trooper….

His Android vibrates every time
I take a five to breathe
Chain smoke my self defecating grief
He posts another ad. Pics of vehemency
On Craig’s and bb diseased.

If only you had heard
The vagrant shout / banshee in my skull
For these off the street urchins
left from whence they came;
Plugged in to the internet's latest
(Stoop)
For a place to squat
For winter will be cold *****,
For them to just
Scoot! Shoo! ****** off!

And here I go again,
Assuming that these were decent folk
Come for the holidays.
Between taint and pocket rocket
Wallets drain
When one lets the desperate
Indigents
Free range...

"What's there for dinner?"  
**** chicken heads again?
Same ole same old dope...
borrowing from a pink floyd album cover:
it will take a 12h shift:
standing: not marching: i'd much prefer
a 12h shift of just walking than standing
in one spot: rooted in like a tree:
your skeleton is not supposed to imitate
a tree:
you almost want to stand on one foot...
but your toes are only so numerous (x10)
before the pins and the needles reach into
clarifying you are a bipedal creature
with an ***** spine:
i tried dancing on the spot
i tried being a hunchback i tried everything...
bypass comes after about 10h when
the fatigue wears off and some strange
adrenaline kicks in and the pain is numbed
(which wasn't a pain, just an irritation
to begin with) - and the body is worn enough
like a gratitude...
plus is was Wanstead and all the east London
hispters and the thoroughly bred
well: all the women are mothers but they
look so average so average
none of those whorish **** types you want
for one night:
then there was this couple and obviously
middle aged with two boys...
one had an oversized head and absolutely no
shoulders
his brother in a wheelchair all strobe-light happy
in spasms of trying to give birth to ego
and to the vector of ego that could be translate
as thought:
a happy vegetable: well: all botanical life
is alive and moving to the waves of photosynthesis
so much parody:
i was thinking in splinters of moments:
if i am so degenerate in my ethics of perhaps
my biology and i am not given access to
reproduce: i will... just watch this spectacle
of the receeding hairlines and the weak jaws
and the choice women have made
and i will be deliberately humble about
how people want life to be the conjuring
of a magic of misery...
am i o.k. with "nature": yes! am i concerned
about the civilization of nature:
the unnaturalization process that spews out
of the mouths of Christianity:
how the weak are supposed to humble the strong
and leave the strong unwilling to protect
the weak?
that is what Christianity has spawned...
                        the weak bias of weakness...
there is no strong bias of stregth:
even in that single sentence i see...
                        there is only strength and will:
determination...
but the weak spawn a -ness: a quality about them
that crumbles under the weight of
solititude and: eventually that solitutde turns into
a solipsism: which, is a veneer: a mask:
a prototype which becomes an archetype of
imitating a mountain...
standing ground watching as time erodes...
how time bends...
for those 12h i tried to conjure a narrative akin
to the peep / peak show... with an internal
narrative to hush hush talk miserably about the people
around me:
but i realised: when you negate thinking:
i.e. i'm not thinking:
when you obstruct thinking rather than pseudo-obstruct
thinking with acts of meditation and
meditation is such oriental *******...
we're Europeans! we don't meditate!
we either think! or we don't think!
meditation is a pathology of the lack of obsruction!
to borrow from architecture and the dams
and how rivers swell and become lakes
and in turn are harnessed to create electricity...
at this Wanstead festival i witnessed the holistic
jargon eye and ******* swelling crap
like 45min sessions of people sitting in
a darkened tent tapping their foreheads...
listening to windchimes and witchcraft...
as i said to my Pakistani coworker:
well: i can imagine that massaging the temples
would do you some good: since that's the most
vulnerable part of the cranium: besides the eye sockets:
but tapping your forehead thinking it would
conjure up Buddha's third eye...
i can ******* headbutt you... do i need to tap
my ******* forehead too?
i can ******* headbutt you like a Mongolian yak...
savvy?
oh jeez... and the music: this karaoke was
so terrible...
                     well... what i was trying to figure out...
Wanstead is not Chelsea and these hispters
with their families:
some apparently deflecting biological hazards
of leaving it much too late to reproduce...
but everyone was just giving themselves a pat on
the shoulder for having achieved a momentous
clarity of family:
while i just stood there: twinkle toe...
a vastness of reading and isolation...
                              sparingly a comment came
which i overheard between four men
concerning the "yellow jackets"...
         until one approached me and asked
me for the direction to the toilets: which he already
knew:
but the way he approached me was
from a descriptive angle:
well, you look stern and authoritative...
do i?
                      the black cap and sunglasses
are not a ******* Batman suit:
do you see me wearing underwear over my trousers?
i didn't say that: i didn't even think that:
i'm only now, writing about it...
ad hoc hindsight... which i find more and more:
hindsight is a great tool for narration:
because you don't have any narratative component
when the moment comes:
it's only hours later that it creates a dawn of a splinter
a suffocation of silence that needs to be
broken...

so in that: all well known album cover...
light passes through a prism: for the sake of argument
the prism is 2D...
so white light passes through a prism... triangle...
and emerges as a rainbow...
now...

  thinking                      not thinking...
besides meditation:
meditation in the oriental sense is...
i saw those *******...
they obstruct not thinking by creating
frequencies... making sounds...
and i don't mean Mongolian sound generation
of the khoomei... the Tuvan practice
of reaching into your stomach for a breath
and raising it to your throat
while also blocking your ability to breathe
through your nose creating a blocked
cavity (misnomer aplenty, regardless)...
but these ******* are willing meditation:
they are so blind to: not thinking...
that they are actually thinking about: "not thinking":

by way of honing into a specific sound
of the "guru"...
                    i never thought that i could
experience seeing people so pathological about
clinging to thinking:
and these people are, categorically:
pathological concerning keeping up with
the Descartes and the Kants...
thinking without focus / systematications...
no labyrinths no rivers...
no great yawn seas of perverted time of
their own, singular, vessels...

          you either think: or you don't think...
so if i take the light and the 2D prism away...
and instead...
i posit a cube...
and just draw a straight line into the cube
and just call it time...
i can replace light with time...
but for me to replace light with time
i need a 3D object for the vector to pass into:
after all:
what does thinking cushion, absorb...
time... thinking has nothing to do with space:
and i think that's what really bothers most people...
that thinking is associated with time...
while not thinking is associated with space...
categorical-negation: NOT-THINKING

**** i even had to craft a hyphenated compound
for the subject matter!
not-thinking ≠ meditation...
                               maybe meditation is something
the orient invented itself in because
its phonetic encoding create a dissonance
from how simple and universal sounds are...
i mean:
     i once wrote a poem about red and green...
but that became deleted (somehow: ooh woo hoo)
octopus, milk, sugar... otherwise oscar, mike, sierra...
that's what came through the radio
and i just giggled...

                  why are traffic lights
red amber green
green is safe
but what if blue: blue is flow... good to go...
otherwise blue is the light of an ambulance
speeding:
blue is: let us pass through:
so it's not like people can't see blue
in the daylight...
ah but red and amber: conjure up brown?
no... blue and red contrasts...
yellow and blue make brown?

                  shifty tactic... now just spewing...
but regardless of light...
if time is the equivalent to light...
and passes through a 3D rather than a 2D prism...
(in the case of 2D: an optical element,
so viable)
                           ... thinking is associated
with time...
but not-thinking... that's the cushion for space
to absorb you, chew you, digest you: spit you out
but retain a part of you that will eventually
be ******* out...
                              yet time and thinking...
a bit like medtiation:
meditation is a laxative:
you want to enter a state of meditation whereby
you stop thinking: but you're not not-thinking...
meditation is an answer as to why we were
able to domesticate animals...

                            oh no one here who's a loud
mouth and know it how...
these words: written with the envy of silence
have no voice of my own...
but they can be the reader's own words...
i will not utter them...

                        that tapping on the forehead
bothered me a great deal...
                           meditation is not a negating-obstruction
of thinking...        there is only the categorical-negating
article of: NOT: the definite articulation of
the swaying-obstruction of NO...
                     there is NO moon
                     becomes: that is NOT (a / the -ism) moon...

12h shift... several hours later and
my plughole of an **** gets finally unblocked
with relaxation my rummaging my intestines
with a bread that doesn't use the ingredient of wheat:
just seeds and white cheese (not as salty
as a feta)...

                          and we even haven't began to
talk about Islam's fascination with consciousness...
Paul Glottaman Oct 2021
Once we trod the surface
like behemoth gods,
we moved through the world
like great ships under coal power
caring nothing for what
was in our way
or left in our wake.
And we could've been more
careful
I think we can admit
but ******* it's difficult
to slow down during
the doing of it.
When dawn came we were changed.
Softer round the middle
thinner in the knees
grayer at temples, perhaps.
Oh how gums and hairlines recede!
Payment for our lifetimes of greed.
And sure I've regrets,
what of it?
Sure I've been brought low,
who hasn't?
But ******* your eyes and see
how I stand whole and complete.
The years have caused me to bend
but nothing has broken me.
sandra wyllie Mar 2023
be friends when
we used to be thin. We were
in grade school, remember
when? We used to worry about

the clothes we wore, how to
style our hair. And we talk about
our crush and walk to the five and dime
store for some cherry slush. We used to

jump rope and skip jacks and not
walk on the sidewalk cracks! We used to
put on the Saturday morning cartoons and
lay on the sofa till noon. And then the

college exams, jobs and men. We used to worry
about our wedding dress, the bouquet and our
house in a mess. We worried about child
birth and paying the bills/ to stay home or

work, the aches and the pills. We hadn't spoken
in a while. But as I look at the pictures I smile. Now
we worry about our growing waistline, wrinkles
and receding hairlines. Now we worry about

our parent's health, nursing homes and
home-owner's loans. We worry if we raised
our children to be strong women and men.
We haven't spoken in years. I worry if I call

you won't pick up the phone. So, I don't.
We used to be friends
when we used to be thin. We were
in grade school. I remember when.

— The End —