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"hastening" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
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Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
Paradoxical Tendencies
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say? ‘A posteriori’ leads the way For the extra and the ordinary Axiomatic sway, In the gravity of corollary, ‘A priori’ interplay Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation, As the innocence of dissonance delay. Practicing semantic contemplation, In willfully prevenient interpolation, Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray, Forecasts in vague extrapolation Contrasts the millennial contagion Already underway, Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves, To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves, A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves, Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves, Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves, A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves. The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates, An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states, Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates. Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates, Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates, Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates. An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion, Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion, The personable recluse fighting an illusion Breaking down the nuances of every institution. Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility, An opinionated adversary, to the realist without evidence, Theorizing in futility, Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community. Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified, Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified, Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide, Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide, Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified. Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity, As consequential regiments are expounded universally, To unstratify the residents indiscriminately And identify quantum elements spiritualistically, Changing collective behavior individually, Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Continue reading...
47
Frost-locked all the winter, Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, What shall make their sap ascend That they may put forth shoots? Tips of tender green, Leaf, or blade, or sheath; Telling of the hidden life That breaks forth underneath, Life nursed in its grave by Death. Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly, Drips the soaking rain, By fits looks down the waking sun: Young grass springs on the plain; Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees; Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits, Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots; Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane; Birds sing and pair again. There is no time like Spring, When life's alive in everything, Before new nestlings sing, Before cleft swallows speed their journey back Along the trackless track,-- God guides their wing, He spreads their table that they nothing lack,-- Before the daisy grows a common flower, Before the sun has power To scorch the world up in his noontide hour. There is no time like Spring, Like Spring that passes by; There is no life like Spring-life born to die,-- Piercing the sod, Clothing the uncouth clod, Hatched in the nest, Fledged on the windy bough, Strong on the wing: There is no time like Spring that passes by, Now newly born, and now Hastening to die.
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14.6k
Spring
I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday From the “Bridge-of-the-Casino” to the port. The things I saw on my sun-bathing way So simple they were, here is a report: II Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows. The water snakes performed some dance symbolic And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance. III And I, hastening to my liquid address, Shot a side look at a man in a dress, And hoped the blue water in the White Sea* Would wash the wound bleeding in my memory. © LazharBouazzi, 16/11/16 (revised Nov. 17)
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Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
The Walk (revised)
these tempting and tumultuous  times, when the insect bite of attraction nibbles your cheek, and first blood thickens with intrigued, the blood heated by, with a bewildering new sun's glow, then bubbling boiling over with phantasmagorical fantasies, and one endeavors to coax, to tease, to preen, to adduce how best to ****** this persona, imagined or imaginary to be, whispers a silent "no thankee'' and first bloom curls into a deathly brown doom, you, chastened by amorous hastening so quick evolving, and the hither in come here, withers to a ghostly silencing, one wonders, reminisces, and sadly recalls then forgets the entreaties so eagerly received, how one wants to be deceived, for the once lay-buried-arousals now well recalled, and quick to appear, faster to dismiss disappear, and disaster cones and goes with light-speed velocity, having fling, now flung, having crushed, now crushing, you caught laughing at your self, still evolving long past the time for youthful deceptions and silly indiscretions, but not unhappily, for it was an acknowledgement that good love poetry yet within resides, alas, alas, it reciprocity seeds need replanting, and that notion is quite pleasing...
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Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
A fling, a flung, a crush, a crushing
must we call for adventure when death lingers a fear casting a shadow over our every action so you take action to fight the shadows hastening the sunset like foolish children running as fast as they can to watch the sun pouring down into the water a flaming yolk cracking upon the surface the glorious way to die when you were young but now we know pain and love and hate and we lose the will to oppose our fates resigned to live for the material on our plates all the while admiring the daring heroes 'cause at least they were suffering and better for it they could so easily break us apart but to break us would be to mend us again and again we will stand before judgement denying the false lenses placed before our eyes accepting an eternal immortal truth of life given that must be taken away when the adventure has been won
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Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
adventure
Ulrich finds comfort in knowing he could seek a lethal dose of medication to hasten his death. Ulrich was standing next to the governor on Monday afternoon, sun pouring in the oaky office, as he signed the bill into law. Doctors and hospitals and state officials are scurrying to prepare. Soon, the state Health Department will get forms ready. The lethal medication is a liquid that the patient must self-administer. Hastening death; akin to yanking out feeding tubes and removing respirators, is not suicide, they say. The underlying illness would be listed as the cause of death.
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May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:18 AM UTC
End-of-Life Bill
35 Nobody knows this little Rose— It might a pilgrim be Did I not take it from the ways And lift it up to thee. Only a Bee will miss it— Only a Butterfly, Hastening from far journey— On its breast to lie— Only a Bird will wonder— Only a Breeze will sigh— Ah Little Rose—how easy For such as thee to die!
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2.4k
Nobody knows this little Rose
Mmmmmm......Good Morning Honey......... Delightedly awakened by your lingual dexterity Opening your mouth to engulf its fullness ******* and slurping, hastening its juices From escaping and running down your chin. Its tangy nectar making your fingers slick and sticky A tighter grip you employ when it slips within your grasp The sound you're making is so ****** the fullness of your lips, so enticing, .....so....so Ah....ah............ahhh..........................aahhhhhh!!!­ I do so love it when you eat sweet peaches in the morning! Fancy a napkin? -----ChawzzyScript
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May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
Oral Ministrations
I can’t help but mourn the frogs, flattened like Wile E. Coyote after the inevitable boulder plummets from a great height, leaving him mashed on the pavement while the Roadrunner speeds off - vroom, vroom, beep, beep. I try to steer around them, but they blanket the road in biblical numbers during the rain and it’s like some impossible video game weaving through masses of randomly hopping life a certain amount of death is unavoidable. When I walk the road I can’t stop counting one, two, five, ten, twenty cartoon-flat bodies littering the pavement where I extinguished their glittering copper and golden-green existence. Last night, on the panes of every lit window frogs of all sizes and colors gathered outside, they covered doors, watering cans even lined up single file on the coiled garden hose like they were climbing the ladder to frog heaven. Through the glass, I admired their rhythmic throats and soft, creamy, underbellies one, two, five, ten, twenty fragile creatures seeking warmth in the hastening darkness.
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Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
Frogs
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise Of the tit-less toys The dick-less boys Enraptured in the music The anthem Of invidious phantoms My eyes hurt inside and I want to pull them out and Scrape out the gunk and rust that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance so I can cry for the first time in years… Wrapping my hands around his slender torso Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges To bite what emerges And my mouth purges The obelisk from underneath The iron-pierced jester The voracious molester My hand tightens as I grip his throat tighter and I want to squeeze until his eyes pop from his sockets and laugh until I puke against the walls, watching the ****** fluids mix like an execrable marinara sauce… I turned thirty while still being sixteen The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams But none of mine, none that I can recall Many years have passed since I took the oral fall Where no one saw Intransigent need to live For the snake in my veins hungered for more So many had their way until I was limp and sore. Defamatory fingers of mire and strife Probing and stretching My insides And devilishly comforting With limpid ambrosia That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing And fruit Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions That fracture, crack, morph, distort Emphasize, marginalize Rationalize, desensitize Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage; Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings; Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes, Love, lust, infatuation Adoration Boys, girls, women, men, Angels, demons, monsters, humans Creators, gods, titans, divas All extended and limited from the minds that worship Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify While humans eat more, love more, **** more Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans We ponder and cherish Nevermore, for me Ever lore, for all Crows surround And chaos found.
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Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
Anatomical Pieces, Didactic love
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise Of the tit-less toys The dick-less boys Enraptured in the music The anthem Of invidious phantoms My eyes hurt inside and I want to pull them out and Scrape out the gunk and rust that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance so I can cry for the first time in years… Wrapping my hands around his slender torso Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges To bite what emerges And my mouth purges The obelisk from underneath The iron-pierced jester The voracious molester My hand tightens as I grip his throat tighter and I want to squeeze until his eyes pop from his sockets and laugh until I puke against the walls, watching the ****** fluids mix like an execrable marinara sauce… I turned thirty while still being sixteen The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams But none of mine, none that I can recall Many years have passed since I took the oral fall Where no one saw Intransigent need to live For the snake in my veins hungered for more So many had their way until I was limp and sore. Defamatory fingers of mire and strife Probing and stretching My insides And devilishly comforting With limpid ambrosia That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing And fruit Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions That fracture, crack, morph, distort Emphasize, marginalize Rationalize, desensitize Acts of *********** evasion, moral drainage; Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings; Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes, Love, lust, infatuation Adoration Boys, girls, women, men, Angels, demons, monsters, humans Creators, gods, titans, divas All extended and limited from the minds that worship Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify While humans eat more, love more, **** more Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans We ponder and cherish Nevermore, for me Ever lore, for all Crows surround And chaos found.
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67
I I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday, From the “Bridge of the Casino” to the port. The things I beheld on my shiny way So simple they were, here is a report: II Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows. The water snakes performed some dance symbolic And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance. III At a green grocer’s cart a lady in jeans Sought peas, artichokes, & broccoflower; Two lovers, each tried to explain, As a cat miaoed, what love was to the other. VI And I, hastening to my liquid address, Shooting a side look at a man in a dress, Was hoping the glazing port in the White Sea* Would wash the bleeding wound in my memory. © LazharBouazzi, Nov.16, 2016, revised Nov. 17, 2016, elongated July 8, 2017
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Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
("The Walk" revised & elongated) Walk in La Goulette
World of code; riddle, and a brand new language. I hold you close my dear, as you stumble on through the dark night, this knowledge is hastening to bring my demise. You sit within my pentameter, so where did I lose my peaceful mind? I'm still struggling with poetry, in finding art amongst the burdens of the street. You're applying sunscreen to your back and shoulders, and then you're basking in the heat of my astral beach. I'm stranded here alone now, sending my postcards to nowhere at all, I have grown tired of this mere existence, of fading in the city sprawl. Now Mathematics is the language of the universe, and will speak for centuries to come, gravity making sense out of chaos, and will talk forever over the atomic bomb. I'm learning my sums again darling, I'm going back to a clean state of mind, hoping to discover an answer, to why I'm constantly falling behind. When I find the equation I will call you, and profess them unto the stars, a love never lost in translation, a love where you'll always be the source.
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Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
Heaven is Full of Angles
Birthed from perfect unknown void, Crescendos of unific silence And a ****** ear reflecting, A Gift between Two Brothers discontent Interweaves them now and evermore In fraternal ******* to a nondual realm. A lightning seed of thought between two darks, One light enough to fade the cosmic frown, To be reborn in strife eternal, And set the Cycle hastening to a Muse. His flickering strands dehiscing essence, The perfect fracture in a faultless whole, It brings to bear the Change supernal: The Triple Sequence timely folding, Unfolds the Rhapsody of Seasons: Wind, Sea and Earth alighting Origins of Fire churning dim: Clear rippling of finality forgotten, New pressing through into existence, Her gaze a creature to its own illumination Renewed, with steaming boundaries... ragged breath: Living sparks to contemplate the Stars, And Satyr forward lustful genesis. The hidden sun plays throughout the wood A fragant melody of Light held fast, Of Shadow pregnant and yearning Bursting forth in spray of life subdued, Laid low by Rhythmic pulse And Timeless sea of tempoed mystery. The hoard takes form, enraged-- A battle-morning's thralling mist of Early spirits condensate to cling... That vast blank anticenter dares to mock With bated fragile brandishings, the Violent frame of peace-horizons Stepping out of step, Undeath whining For a loss of Truth continual. Yet Hope is wheeling her neoteric self Upon that sovereign evanescence Web-like spinning still, a prior sense, A transfinite faultline of life yet unborn, Of death still unwrought and wrought again In hues of growth, and dreams of change, Waiting silently for Books of Song.
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Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
web-like spinning still
Birthed from perfect unknown void, Crescendos of unific silence And a ****** ear reflecting, A Gift between Two Brothers discontent Interweaves them now and evermore In fraternal ******* to a nondual realm. A lightning seed of thought between two darks, One light enough to fade the cosmic frown, To be reborn in strife eternal, And set the Cycle hastening to a Muse. His flickering strands dehiscing essence, The perfect fracture in a faultless whole, It brings to bear the Change supernal: The Triple Sequence timely folding, Unfolds the Rhapsody of Seasons: Wind, Sea and Earth alighting Origins of Fire churning dim: Clear rippling of finality forgotten, New pressing through into existence, Her gaze a creature to its own illumination Renewed, with steaming boundaries... ragged breath: Living sparks to contemplate the Stars, And Satyr forward lustful genesis. The hidden sun plays throughout the wood A fragant melody of Light held fast, Of Shadow pregnant and yearning Bursting forth in spray of life subdued, Laid low by Rhythmic pulse And Timeless sea of tempoed mystery. The hoard takes form, enraged-- A battle-morning's thralling mist of Early spirits condensate to cling... That vast blank anticenter dares to mock With bated fragile brandishings, the Violent frame of peace-horizons Stepping out of step, Undeath whining For a loss of Truth continual. Yet Hope is wheeling her neoteric self Upon that sovereign evanescence Web-like spinning still, a prior sense, A transfinite faultline of life yet unborn, Of death still unwrought and wrought again In hues of growth, and dreams of change, Waiting silently for Books of Song.
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44
Do you feel that? The feverish split second you decide the night is when you feel most alive and creep quickly, quietly, your heart hastening with every faulty step creating a domino effect of blood pumping mistakes that only you notice because only you are looking for them. Of course you don't. You grew up. Lier. You said you loved me. Im only playing ninja. But you are too grown up to play. I hate it. 2 hours on a bike in snow higher then my thigh with an ice coverd road and nothing but regret. You told me to do this. Why did you lie? I hate liers. I know you still want to play. You show it when i kiss you. Growing up seperated us. You are just as ****** up as me. Don't lie.
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May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Denial
The power went out in my house for the first time tonight. It took only but a moment for everything to run loose from my hold and to leave me empty handed and sightless. It was as sudden and unpleasantly startling as the moment I realized I’d fallen in love with you and now these vaulted ceilings and smart, leather couches have fallen victim to the same darkness that shrouds my breaking heart. I think you’re really selfish. But so am I, and as I hide in the blackness with the amber haze of candlelight casting those flickering shadows of twisted, dancing demons on the walls I am hearing their exaggerated whispers hastening me to resent you for it. They intoxicate my head about how you’re probably being more selfish than me. For god sakes you sent me a short story laden and sodden and dripping with all of these beautiful similes and thoughts and they were horrible. Not only were they not written for me, but for some replacement muse who has beautiful green eyes (are not mine, any longer?) and a beautiful smile (have I stopped grinning at you? I wonder now how it is I lost your love.) that conquered your heart and blasted past my deafening, mundane inadequacy. You say you love me You say you wish you’d say it more You say you love me so much. But the demons scoff at you—they’re telling me you’re lying. O the lies! Liar! Clever devil, that one! Don’t believe those sweet things! they admonish with a brutality that entices me to scream out loud at you, to shout and yell and kick and scream out loud because how dare you do this to me? Why love me at all When your muse beckons with her beautiful, superior, faultlessness and tempts and tantalizes and replaces me? You say you love me so much. And I, you, Darling. But it’s too dark in my house and it’s too dark in my head and it’s too dark in my heart And you have a new muse.
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Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
Selfish
The power went out in my house for the first time tonight. It took only but a moment for everything to run loose from my hold and to leave me empty handed and sightless. It was as sudden and unpleasantly startling as the moment I realized I’d fallen in love with you and now these vaulted ceilings and smart, leather couches have fallen victim to the same darkness that shrouds my breaking heart. I think you’re really selfish. But so am I, and as I hide in the blackness with the amber haze of candlelight casting those flickering shadows of twisted, dancing demons on the walls I am hearing their exaggerated whispers hastening me to resent you for it. They intoxicate my head about how you’re probably being more selfish than me. For god sakes you sent me a short story laden and sodden and dripping with all of these beautiful similes and thoughts and they were horrible. Not only were they not written for me, but for some replacement muse who has beautiful green eyes (are not mine, any longer?) and a beautiful smile (have I stopped grinning at you? I wonder now how it is I lost your love.) that conquered your heart and blasted past my deafening, mundane inadequacy. You say you love me You say you wish you’d say it more You say you love me so much. But the demons scoff at you—they’re telling me you’re lying. O the lies! Liar! Clever devil, that one! Don’t believe those sweet things! they admonish with a brutality that entices me to scream out loud at you, to shout and yell and kick and scream out loud because how dare you do this to me? Why love me at all When your muse beckons with her beautiful, superior, faultlessness and tempts and tantalizes and replaces me? You say you love me so much. And I, you, Darling. But it’s too dark in my house and it’s too dark in my head and it’s too dark in my heart And you have a new muse.
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39
The verbal diarrhoea of a politician’s promises Flows over a broken roof of dripping umbrellas Hustings heckling hastening onset of pneumonia Voters need every candidate to be seen and heard. Un-hygienic kissing of babies and pressing the flesh Flash avoiding fixed smile like toothpaste commercial Thinks - one man one vote a bad idea by Election Day I wonder does every candidate vote for themselves? Tense wait as political pundits make newsless news Oscar like performances as the winners are announced Four-more-years in The Slough of Despond for the loser The Olympian heights of triumph for the winner.
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Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Election
Was that the landmark? What,—the foolish well Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop to drink, But sat and flung the pebbles from its brink In sport to send its imaged skies pell-mell, (And mine own image, had I noted well!) Was that my point of turning?—I had thought The stations of my course should rise unsought, As altar-stone or ensigned citadel. But lo! the path is missed, I must go back, And thirst to drink when next I reach the spring Which once I stained, which since may have grown black. Yet though no light be left nor bird now sing As here I turn, I’ll thank God, hastening, That the same goal is still on the same track.
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1.3k
The Landmark
fireflies zigzag following pupils pin ***** light mayonaise layers dead flesh and dead seeds shadows bleed through the cracks a lone train howls its hastening arrival Alarming call like an unseen wolf Flashing lights overhead and a low rumble a condensed storm helicopter cradling its dying cargo bringing a regurgitation for the baby bird disguised as a hospital with a faltering business plan mufflers and mosquitoes parry the blows winded joggers step next to termite eaten trees Channel surfing seen a strobe lite betraying the activities behind the neighboors curtained windows scene rituals carve another day into the known comfort is routines cage a worn trail rut that hardly allows a different direction roll the stone uphill
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Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 10:15 PM UTC
passage
You won't believe this, rightfully so, you'll think it’s not true but a person will do anything, when he starts losing his ***** I didn't feel that any one loved me, so I devised one day to test out my theory, in the most bizarre type of way I found a way after considerable thought, to put myself on display and to be able to stay inconspicuous, from a secure distance away I watched them attend my eulogy, peculiar as it may sound enjoying the reception, it was nothing short of spellbound Who could think, a person as crazy as I might be going to such extremes, who would ever foresee to accomplish this great task, of convincing my heart someone would somehow care, if I really did depart In the back of the room, with shades covering my eyes sinking into a chair, surrounded by this chorus of cries who would ever suspect, that this stranger sitting in the back was really not far away, from being deemed a quack When my funeral was about over, I watched those flowers start to bend they too seemed to be saying, haven't you yet been able to mend so I pushed myself up front, in order to get a better look this deaths looks too real, what if I really did pass over that final brook As I approached my casket, overtaken by this powerful desire could this really be happening, shaking with a cold perspire to escape from this nightmare, there was but one thing to do hastening to relieve myself, running from bed to bathroom, I flew The lesson here to be learned, after thinking about it, was simple and clear we often have these fears, and yet are not always aware what’s important for us, is to truly recognize in ourselves, which is the key understanding our need to feel loved, and the absurd lengths we go, in order to see
0
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
Attending Your Own Funeral
You won't believe this, rightfully so, you'll think it’s not true but a person will do anything, when he starts losing his ***** I didn't feel that any one loved me, so I devised one day to test out my theory, in the most bizarre type of way I found a way after considerable thought, to put myself on display and to be able to stay inconspicuous, from a secure distance away I watched them attend my eulogy, peculiar as it may sound enjoying the reception, it was nothing short of spellbound Who could think, a person as crazy as I might be going to such extremes, who would ever foresee to accomplish this great task, of convincing my heart someone would somehow care, if I really did depart In the back of the room, with shades covering my eyes sinking into a chair, surrounded by this chorus of cries who would ever suspect, that this stranger sitting in the back was really not far away, from being deemed a quack When my funeral was about over, I watched those flowers start to bend they too seemed to be saying, haven't you yet been able to mend so I pushed myself up front, in order to get a better look this deaths looks too real, what if I really did pass over that final brook As I approached my casket, overtaken by this powerful desire could this really be happening, shaking with a cold perspire to escape from this nightmare, there was but one thing to do hastening to relieve myself, running from bed to bathroom, I flew The lesson here to be learned, after thinking about it, was simple and clear we often have these fears, and yet are not always aware what’s important for us, is to truly recognize in ourselves, which is the key understanding our need to feel loved, and the absurd lengths we go, in order to see
Continue reading...
28
World of code; riddle, and a brand new language. I hold you close my dear, as you stumble on through the dark night. This knowledge is hastening to bring my demise. You sit within my pentameter, so when did I lose my peaceful mind? I'm still struggling in poetry, in finding art amongst the burdens of the street. You're applying sunscreen to your back and shoulders, and then you're basking in the heat of my astral beach. I'm stranded here alone now, sending these postcards to nowhere at all. I have grown tired of this mere existence, of fading in the city sprawl. Now Mathematics is the language of the universe, and will speak for centuries to come, gravity making sense out of chaos, and will talk forever over the nuclear bomb. I'm learning my sums again darling, I'm going back to a clean state of mind, hoping to discover an answer, to why I'm constantly falling behind. When I find the equation I will call you, and profess them unto the stars, a love never lost in translation, now witnessing both the sea and the source.
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Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Heaven is Full of Angles*
Through the moiré windowpane - By my leaden writing desk - I saw a host of dark clouds Hastening to their somber task Like a herd of frightened sheep Shrouded ‘neath the callous mask Of the night - on the way home. Through the moiré window pane A question stood in my way again: What is a cloud that leaves shut The flask* of an announced rain? © LazharBouazzi, 30/12/2016
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Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
The Clouds
We live in times of innovation. Winds of change affront the nation; wind most welcome – by a few (the masses know not what to do with engineered progressive change, their morals slow to rearrange). And thus, in ornithology we find an apt analogy… Phoenix-like the vulture rose in rainbow raiment, from repose Its plumage all askew – a freak: a mutant with a painted beak borne of winds but lately blown. This strange new hybrid (yet unflown) did twitter forth an avian boon. It preened its plumes and croaked a tune: “I represent that rarest fowl, far wiser than outmoded owl… A dazzling swan of change am I brought forth to liberate the sky!” (Yet more appeared a fractured emu; fair is fowl post-op… they tried to cross said emu with an ostrich! (What the hell – the surgeon got rich changing apples into – mangos; altering the twos to tangos…) Fresh from gender suicide he moulted into she. Beside herself (itself?) with grief, regarded previous selves as false: discarded Sir for Madam overnight; fixed it, mixed it, made it right. Since God was wrong the first time ‘round, Man (or something) thus is bound hormonally to tweak and mutate, hastening rebirth’s freakish due-date. A manly bass – and yet the face was poorly paired in his/her case Soprano ought to have resounded – yet the voice left one confounded. Rainbow bracelets notwithstanding this was clearly modern branding (on the forehead – like a beast?) well, Jesus said the truth at least: that angels are of neither gender (hence no need to check the member.) Lest we offend endangered species I commend transgendered theses – paired with warning and a fable as they turn the feathered table: We may nurture fair to foul while nature shrieks a hideous howl but foul to fair cannot return; thus trapped, both Eve and Adam burn.
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Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
The Fowl is Fair
We live in times of innovation. Winds of change affront the nation; wind most welcome – by a few (the masses know not what to do with engineered progressive change, their morals slow to rearrange). And thus, in ornithology we find an apt analogy… Phoenix-like the vulture rose in rainbow raiment, from repose Its plumage all askew – a freak: a mutant with a painted beak borne of winds but lately blown. This strange new hybrid (yet unflown) did twitter forth an avian boon. It preened its plumes and croaked a tune: “I represent that rarest fowl, far wiser than outmoded owl… A dazzling swan of change am I brought forth to liberate the sky!” (Yet more appeared a fractured emu; fair is fowl post-op… they tried to cross said emu with an ostrich! (What the hell – the surgeon got rich changing apples into – mangos; altering the twos to tangos…) Fresh from gender suicide he moulted into she. Beside herself (itself?) with grief, regarded previous selves as false: discarded Sir for Madam overnight; fixed it, mixed it, made it right. Since God was wrong the first time ‘round, Man (or something) thus is bound hormonally to tweak and mutate, hastening rebirth’s freakish due-date. A manly bass – and yet the face was poorly paired in his/her case Soprano ought to have resounded – yet the voice left one confounded. Rainbow bracelets notwithstanding this was clearly modern branding (on the forehead – like a beast?) well, Jesus said the truth at least: that angels are of neither gender (hence no need to check the member.) Lest we offend endangered species I commend transgendered theses – paired with warning and a fable as they turn the feathered table: We may nurture fair to foul while nature shrieks a hideous howl but foul to fair cannot return; thus trapped, both Eve and Adam burn.
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She was gorgeous misery framed in makeshift bandage corsets cinched with fall from grace sutured lace to save face Her battered life rife with strife covered in the mock elegance of a broken wing dress as the frenzies in her enigmatic mascara trail of tears glare soften slow burn devotions hastening their hopeless necromantic insurrection He was a fatal attractive midnight black feathered wraith Modeling trouble need scar heart genes and a bleedwork tainted warshirt earned by tethering himself to a mistake on countless battlefields his enemies' rancorous fear resonates in a crippled ripple across stillbirth waters With his outspoken outrage accented by photographic violence knowledge of immoral history charm and disguised threat lodge wisdom luring her into their surprised allegory demise In the here and now we find uncaring torture chamber musicians singing in the black ground as these two scar-crossed lovers entangle in a shotgun wedding and machine gun funeral Knowing from the start it would always be the two of them together as one against the old world
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Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Native American Gothic (Plague on Word)