Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Guss Jan 2014
Deep out on the rim of the galaxy
there lies a tiny place
that no one knows about.
It’s the place where all good things come from.
All the generations of and for love
and kindness and bliss and forgiveness
root at its source.
It is the ultimate destination
among our solar heavens.
Try to imagine a lost vessel,
isolated and tired,
hiccuping between the suns,
then finding the Great Milky Way's secret place of joy.
Our undisclosed place of love.
The place we all forgot.
Earth.
These occupants of the ship would be lost to reveling
at our earthly capacities for tenderness.
OH, the total bliss they all must feel!
Ahh,
be careful now you.
I've gone and caught you being optimistic.
Try to remember this solid truth.  
Equally hidden in the stars,
there is a place of evil.
One where the tempted souls
and sinners place their geneses.
A place of desperation and angst
and fear and segregation.
There is always a little a yin to the yang.
There is no one with out the other.
A L Davies Nov 2012
(in the dream it is late March)
there's a light rain in Montréal & the sky
is a gorgeous, early-morning variety of slate grey. imagine the lid
of an old metal garbage-can.
everything is dismal, perfect. and quiet; even the people leaving the bars are silent.
dismally, perfectly, silent.

ghosts of old cats—belonging maybe to ghosts of old ladies who lived, say, just off St. Lau, back
in the eighties—ramble downhill, in the direction of rue St. Catherine (Saint Cat! O patron of felinity!) ,
between the legs of those spilling out from the trendy & ****** clubs.
some of the ghosts wander out into the street, flash thru car tires that would've (& have) (at one time)
smashed them to pulpy carpet on the asphalt.
(who goes to pick them up then? when the tires have had their way with them over & over?
when they are just hair & porridge by a sewage grate?)

after a greasy smoked-meat-on-rye or a nightcap at somebody's place, just off the drag,
i'm in a sodden, but warm overcoat, hands curled in the bottoms of it's pockets; mis-shapen mass
of hair plastered to my scalp; walking en bas de la montagne just past the McGill Medical Centre.
—this late, the busses back downtown are never on time.
(driver's probably having a few smokes before he starts that long tour down. full up of drunk kids,
taking one another back to their dorms, etc.)
(and what does he have, to look forward to at shift's end?
        i. a cranky wife—past her prime?
        ii. a buncha dogs—yapping for attention?
        iii. some ******* kid—who's disrespectful & won't shut up or turn his stupid ******* punk-rock down?

—it's enough to make me patiently wait.  i'll wait forever, as long as that isn't me.)

...'spose I'LL have a cigarette too. waiting
in the bus shelter on Ave. Des Pins looking down over the
football fields of the McGill Athletics Dept.
still lit up. no sun yet but
now at 4 AM a dull inch or two of lightened grey out there on the horizon.. dawn will come,

though i'd rather not face the day. all the mornings are so hard after nights like this.
bound to be hungover &
spend the day hiccuping in bed texting some girl; maybe get up
in the late afternoon t'fix coffee, toast & eggs.
sit on the balcony,
make my little guitar sigh,
and try to feel normal until i [have to] puke.

"—and who was that girl i spoke to for so long at St. Sulpice last night? how many gin-tonics did she let me buy myself, nattering on?.. probably too drunk to even get her number."
"—maybe Sean or Dylan will know if she came thru with anyone we knew.."

the bus is finally here. twenty-and-three minutes late. the back of it probably smells of
stale smoke, dim sun, and sweaty, rain-soaked cloth, absorbed from jackets into the seats—the eau du jour.
it's always a bump 'n **** ride down the hill; bound to,
with the other handful of dumb & silent riders, drunkenly sway,
(or is it a natural compensation of the body, to groove along with the curves and stops?)
back & forth like carcasses of half-dozen slaughtered pigs
swinging on their hooks in back of a meat wagon..
(i'll end up getting on, but only for three blocks. i'll ******* walk the rest of the way home,
after that comparison. to hell with the rain.)

SIX MINUTES LATER:
(Avenue Des Pins still—4 blocks closer to downtown)

directly in line now with McGill campus via McTavish; this way i can
cruise down thru the silence of the main drag having a couple smokes drinking beer
(copped a 40 at a Dep before i left St. Lau—frosty under my arm enshrouded by brown paper.)
& be left to my own thoughts for fifteen minutes 'til i get to Sherbrooke
—i adore that fifteen-minute stretch down thru the jumble of
student associations, clubs, faculty offices, administration buildings, resources centres & the like;
all contained in the same red bricked, white trimmed victorian monster, multiplied threescore
on either side of the lane; all built in the early nineteen-hundreds, all acquired by the university in one of several expansion initiatives in a decade i won't bother to guess at, it doesn't matter. you don't care..

midway down the hill i stop and go sit on the verandah of one of the buildings,
the graduate studies in math offices —
cccrack that forty.
sit there with the sun JUST barely splitting the seam of the horizon feelin'
like the lyrics from a Sun Kil Moon song. nothing more or less.  
"off to a good start," says i.
MORE TO COME.. tired as **** right now but wanted to get this up here. get off my back. love A L .
Austin Sessoms Apr 2012
there's something to being happy
smiling with all twenty-eight pearly whites
laughing so hard
that our abs begin to burn
hiccuping
and choking
and crying
as we tend to do
looking away every time our eyes meet
and giggling to ourselves
because we know it's not that funny

it's that feeling of euphoria
an abnormal feeling of
buoyant vigor and health
a feeling we cannot control
but we welcome that helplessness
because we know it can't last forever
and no matter who we pray to
or what we say
or what we accomplish
we only have this moment
to feel the way we do
Shannon Apr 2014
I missed you today.
With a suddenness, a bereft slap across my skin.
When that familiar hair ahead of me on the sidewalk
turned.
And it wasn't you.
I missed you in the hollow of the moment of the stranger who wasn't you.
And with resounding howl
Like a grieving mother
I missed you.
I remember in the sheets we'd tangle,
I smelled them. I smelled summer air and my perfume
I smelled  your soap and your musk in that minute second on the street.
I stopped and I breathed in deep. Inhale, Inhale.
Before you turned and it was not you.
Like a sailor's wife on the shore
I watched as the stranger who wasn't you turned back down the street
Growing smaller and smaller in the distance.
And a thousand piercing stinging blinding pins of light forced themselves.
They stabbed at me and took my breath.
Took your scent and the bed we lay.
On the street, on the street
as you walked away, the stranger.
Paralyzing me with your nearness only to be someone so very much not you.
I missed you and i stood in the street and gravity gave up its pull to laugh at my foolishness
and my eyes filled with tears to celebrate their perfect deception.
and my bones forgot how to hold on for dear life
and I slid to the ground
to the ground
because
I saw you today on the street. The stranger that wasn't you.
I have learned the art of hiccuping you inside.
Memory, hiccup. There you are now tucked away inside.
Kisses on the soft hairs at the nape. Hiccup that away too.
And all of the hiccups came out in a swallow of your name...
A hundred swallows, truth.
They flew wickedly around my head  gleeful in my faux pas.
And ten hungry vultures came to take the remains of my hope.
Pick away greedily at my anticipation.
Satiated on the last of my blind faith and now they are too fat to fly.
And I am too weak to run.
Because I saw you on the street today,
The stranger that wasn't you. My beloved. My adored.
Such a peculiar street.
I will not pass this way again.
sahn
04/09/2014
this is about losing someone and what happens in that brief moment when you are sure it is them you see on the street.
Happened to me on a street corner
on either a late night or an early morning.
It took a wallet full of cider, a charity of spirits,
a shared packet of ****** and the smell of glue.
Not the cheap stuff, the glue for models,
and they look alright, right? right man?

The night left me outside my head, with my thoughts,
I had a handful of anti-headaches.
We nearly bled out last time we admitted all our mistakes,
my friend, who always ends a night with a head
on my shoulder, snotting up my collar,
hiccuping up frag grenades,
**** and apologies.
Wanderer Dec 2013
You went to that place
                         Where her flowers used to grow
Spilling hot, salty tears countless times
                    Left the air always smelling like the sea
Even years later
                       You can still hear her mermaid laughter
                   Echoing through the trees
Grown over with weeds now
                                      Sweet memories resting place
Much like the aching hollows of your heart
                   Anger rushes through the quiet solitude
           Urging your knees to buckle
Digging your hands into rich, wet earth
Sobbing great hiccuping gulps through mournful wails
                        True pain is that of loss
A circle is finally cleared
       Exhaustion floods the moment
Head heavily laid where she rests
                   Clouds hum by above the canopy
Digging into your pocket
Smiling softly now
            Grasping at incubating bleeding heart seeds
A hole here, a hole there
                                   She'll grow again

*For the dead never truly leave us
Gabrielle H Jun 2013
Your liquid mercury eyes,
drawn to the sight of a hiccuping heart
half-exposed through a ragged chest,
brought me close and held me there.

Despite that proximity,
in the end not even my own heart
was cold enough to solidify those
mercurial eyes of yours,

and you slid right between my fingers
forever, leaving only a diseased heart

and renewed dispassion.
Careena Mar 2015
I spent my night with him tonight
Wrapped up in covers
Wrapped up in dreams
He consoled me of all of my troubles
And reminded me that life is not all as it seems

There was some magic tonight
He made me believe in love again
Like when we first were together
Staying out past 2 a.m.
Hiccuping from laughing so hard

The connection we had returned again
And He inspired me
Instead of you, to keep writing

The way he looked at me,
The way he held My hand,
The way he smiled that smile.

You are not my muse anymore
That's why I wanted to give up writing
Because everywhere I turned, you were waiting for me
In every blank Title (optional)
In any poem I read, I found you.

But the freeing thing I realized tonight
By lying in his arms
Is that poetry is what I make of it
I can read a poem about love
And it doesn't have to make me think of you
Because I have so many other wonderful people in my life
I can write about other things than heartbreak and memories
I can write of hope and happiness

So yes, you were the reason I started writing poetry
But that doesn't mean that you should be the reason I stop.
I know it didn't take long for me to write again, but I realized that it isn't worth it to live your life for other people's approval or happiness. I write because I love to write, and that shouldn't matter either way
Scott T Dec 2013
As the black girl in front of me leans into the window
I wish I had a camera
Her reflection is forming a double exposure
Of her sad eyes
On a background of fleeting metro lights
Next to me some girl gets slapped
And is then restrained by an old man as she claws after her attacker
There are two Japanese tourists
They seem disappointed
Some guy is staring at me
And tries to nod a bit when I look back
There is also this kid with pale white hands
Half asleep and hiccuping into his lap
Looks like he might throw up at any moment
And in the midst of all the arbitrary existence
I'm sat looking at the sad black girls reflection
And a kind of perfection forms
It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.

After a while I started to breathe hardly,
choking first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped  the milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?

How could that man travel between my heart’s mill stones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with holy relics.
I wrote only 2 love poems, because I was a loner my whole life.
Joshua Haines Jun 2017
I dislike my body, much
like how a mother disapproves
of her son's girlfriend.

I'm half-naked in a bed
that isn't mine -- but I'm
used to being adopted by
beds; fostered by
temporary situations.

The sun passed, long ago,
and I know that tomorrow
might vanish, emulating
melting moments aboard
brittle rib cages, slack jaws.

Nothing days like the
yesterday and the one
before that; fragments
not meant to be placed
back together, only to
be cut on, leaving wounds
to be wished upon.

I know, one day, I'll be
as tattered as this flag
I call my master. I will
die, for the thousandth
time, as I talk to an idea
about how I was in love;
how she believed in me;
how my brother was a
man I wish I could have
back; how my littlest
brother was always in
trouble and how I didn't
help enough. I was a
writer, I'll say; I was a
son, I'll whisper that
they were imperfect but
their wish, that's what I was;
their hope, that's what I was.
I was their's.  

I'll be sunken into a seat,
staring out a window,
during a night like this.
Hiccuping thoughts
that should be tossed.
Wanderer Oct 2013
An empty room seared into memory
It once held your breathless form
I listened to that heart go silent
Crying wet, hiccuping tears onto your heated skin
I cleaned you up, kept you warm
Tried desperately hard to shut your eyes
Knowing that you would never smile with them again
I cannot say for sure if you heard us
Your father breaking down through the speaker
Mitchell, your best friend, sobbing through the phone
I held each call gently, wishing not to cause you more pain
My voice softly singing the song we danced to at our wedding
The stark, violent feeling of your loss
When you were finally free'd from your mortal prison
For you that word took on a whole new meaning
I have never been so proud as the day when you made me yours
But watching you, fighting along your side
To not give up
Even to your last ghost of thought
I was even more so
Left with an aching dark moon
A dead sun
No light to reflect off of my screaming face
I grieve in darkness
Where I can still feel the weight of your  hand in mine
I will always miss you. Some moments more achingly, vicious than others. This being one of them.
Priya Devi Jul 2016
You and I are revolutionaries
Right up to the ruckus we cause daily
Switchblade tongues
And coal black lungs
And bittersweet intentions.


We are the voice of a generation
We the Degenerates
We the Proletariats
We the Lost and Found among the wreckage of the millennial metropolis.


Living in our forever 21 society
Governed by no laws and lack of sobriety
We the reckless
We the ruthless
We the key board warriors

Pixels and manic pixie dream girl *******
**** boys, man buns, Jordan's not brogues
We the soulless love makers
We the relentless heartbreakers
We the snapchat sexters, molesters
We the grotesque.

You and I know no boundaries
Lines crossed and used as skipping ropes
As ***** jokes, cut throat and savage
We the endless trouble makers

We who know the end is nigh  
Hiccuping our ways through orchestrated lies
Screaming and bellowing our silent pleas to this world of terror alight
Setting fire to ourselves daily
We the terrified
We the unjustifiable
We the hopeful sad


We the gods of everything and nothing
We the repercussion of double standards
140 characters in every psalm
We the unforgiving
We the unholy
We the non believers
We the incomprehensible in the face of sin


You and I are not recognised by x or Y
We identify in binary with the wind and the stars
Honest realisation that our little lives are insignificant to the monologue of the universe
Lighthearted libertines light years ahead and behind

We the star struck
We the scientists and academics
We the prophets
The artisans
The beauty queens
The mystics and cynics

And I am the voice of a generation you rendered speechless
Ayesha Apr 2022
this precious rickshaw
hiccups

it jolts at slightest expressions
of the roads' flat faces
hick!
and my stomach wobbles up
like an astronaut made of jelly
bounces against the diaphragm
disturbing the cuddly lungs and
the lattice pancreas wince
hick!
the sour liver curses and
noodle intestines startle and then
grumble
and the swish slosh slosh
of my kerosine blood
is light and jumpy
in the ancient pipelines of flesh

my hands unlearn
unlearn
they are chubby preteens
then hesitating littles
now my handwriting
is an infant walking
hick!
crawling
hick!
this wash-machine ride
with an inferno of April breaths
hick –– hick –– hick!
my little dog-heart
shakes
its fur all ruffled and spiky
23/04/2022
susan Nov 2014
all the preparing
for the big show
the making things perfect
the displaying of stuff just so
there's the
mixing
blending
shaking
seasoning
pouring
cooking
boiling
bakin­g
frosting
whipping
cutting
trimming
spooning

followed by the
devouring
wolfing
scarfing
cramming
munching
chomping
noshing
g­uzzling
slurping
swallowing

and ending with
burping
hiccuping
passing gas

and passing out

happy thanksgiving
Amy Y Aug 2016
Bite a strawberry in June and try to tell me you can't taste color.
A quiet lapping sea sloshes pink foam over crunchy sand seeds.
Stare at watercolors--make eye contact and listen to the breeze.
Maybe rustling trees are symphonies in green. Kiss me,
watch my heartbeat pulse and quiver, bubble through my mouth;
racing, hiccuping out heat from my throat’s abyss.
Smell my hair, breathe the sugary bonfire billowing from every pore,
pine needle goosebumps that rise and fall in Redwood symmetry.
I'll visit your grave, dragging a Santa sack of rotting flowers in my brain,
and (pretend I don’t) feel and hear and smell and see everything
and nothing all at once.
Oluwatosin Jul 2017
When dirt becomes a dye
no one has to tell a joke
people will naturally laugh with the hyenas
Howling and hiccuping
before they tear into grimly flesh.


They’ll talk to one another
in fits and starts.
Spotting stains on mopped tiles
Their tongue, the hammer of the judge,
stripping the “sanitation agencies” off
their robe of service.

Their society gradually becomes an appendicitis
It's streets drowned in *******
But it won't really bother the people

Until the day the fat maggot chokes on sewage

Then they'll gather together
And wonder what just happened
Copyright ©Ogunmola I.O
23rd June 2017
Crandall Branch Dec 2017
See the hiccuping of the boy,
I think he's angry at the joy.

He finds it hard to see the plant,
Overshadowed by the big ant.

Who is that dreaming near the cheese?
I think she'd like to eat the disease.

She is but a deep child,
Admired as she sits upon a wilde.

Her fascintating car is just a fish,
It needs no gas, it runs on dish.

She's not alone she brings an administration,
a pet buddy, and lots of information.

The buddy likes to chase a heartbreak,
Especially one that's in the cake.

The boy shudders at the creamy eye
He want to leave but she wants the lie.
trying something knew  :) inspired by Sheakspear! let me know if you like it and plese leave feedback below.
Ellie Stelter Apr 2013
How old were you
when it turned out
that we only grow to die
and how long did it take
for that to terrify you,
and how long did it take
for growing at all to
make you sick,
how long did you live
before you were ready to die?
Some people never live at all
before they’re swept away and
some people try so hard to escape
and keep on failing.
Living is so awful, so
mind-numbingly painful and yet
- and yet and yet and yet -
somehow its so beautiful too.
Somehow we live only to die
and somehow we survive that short,
confused, horrified, hiccuping existence,
and make it worth it. How does
love work that it takes something
so tortured and impossible
and turns it into something
almost beautiful?
how does that work at all
Amanda Stoddard Apr 2018
I worry I will never be okay enough to survive.
each step in this life leads me into more trauma
and I am collapsing inside the hands of tragedy.

here I am hiccuping between breaths
and hoping for a hint of harmony-
but my diaphragm won't let me feel it.

everything hurts today
and I am choking on promises
I never got the chance to make.

my therapist tells me it's okay to grieve
the things you never got a chance to have.

well then I will spend most of my life
forgiving everyone for what they never gave me.

I will sit wrapped inside this idea of a happy family
or this idea of monotony and normalcy
or this idea of a friend who doesn't try to take advantage of me
or abuse me, I am exhausted thinking about where I have been.

when will my limbs be enough to pull me up-
when will I be strong enough?

everyone is so quick to let me down
but how can they carry me with this spine
full of trauma, this darkness that weighs on me?

I have been my own backbone for 23 years,
so why can't I do it anymore?

What does stability look like?
Does it have a face that resembles mine?
Will I ever get a chance to know her?
Or is survival the only face I recognize anymore?

When will it turn survivor?

I wrote you notes in high school
and we talked about our future.

I always thought my depression would **** me first-
but at least I know now how badly it would've hurt you.

A car wreck broke my chest
and I'm left here picking up the pieces.

Somehow a death has kept me from leaving.
cait-cait Oct 2018
i cannot seem to find any air
when i am with you .
                                    .
                         ­             .

so
i try to make myself anew,
and then
push myself out into a world where i find that
then
i cannot breathe,

and so when you hit me,
instead of laughing,
i just choke ,

and instead, when i feel water
in my lungs,
i heave
instead of hiccuping,
and finally understand why
i am not the favorite child.
.
Im actually an only child. Im so angry at my ex right now it’s unbelievable. If I could **** him I would. The line “not the favorite child” has been a theme I continuously end up up coming back to. It’s strange.
Laughing only a little bit
is no good.
You should laugh until
you are hiccuping, until
there are tears coming
out of your eyes.
You must laugh
at the world,
at your fears,
at Goldie Hawn’s line
on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in.
You must laugh your way
out of your room,
down the stairs,
out the door.
And when you are done laughing,
you must lie on the cool grass
and tilt your head at the sky
and open your arms
to hug the
whole wide world.
mars Oct 2018
Old memories and dizzy songs from her childhood dance across the roof of her brain eyelashes dripping tears and hiccuping painful sobs. Hiding in the school bathroom not from bullies but her own fears. Blinking at the reflective yellow tiles she pushes away the yellow bathroom.

Water drips into the rusty ***** porcelain and the mirrors fog from humidity. Gasping for air and resemblance looking down to see that his hands aren’t there.

Fingers trembling and stepping out of the stall, one among over the sink washing the tears from her face and praying for a vacation, vacation from hell, mania, and psychosis infested cranial cavity and fog swirling swarming her.

Worrying about her fate again that a small breeze of nostalgia fluttered in her heart. Thinking a moment past she had someone in her room that she loved. A person of flesh to talk and hug.

She is lonely now. She could not be more different and she has lost the memory-self that come to the state of reality where she is in the high room alone.
The Vault Mar 2019
It hurts on the inside
Hiccuping crying
Screaming inside and wanting to outside
Saying things we didn't mean
But you never said sorry
Only me
It hurts like a stab wound left to rot
The scar will stay of what you said
Tears have gone dry
So have my emotions
Left drained and withered
I have nothing to say
Just a hurt on the inside.
An endless pain
That you are not sorry for
Cause you meant everything
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ******* of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.

Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "

(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Procorus´s Parables
L Gardener Apr 2018
she wishes for tears.
for egregious heavens…
some way home.
good and dead…
hopeless.
how to taste absolution?
beer and a velvet mousse.
and then consume one breath.
violent shiver became colors of waves.
some elusive fantastical reckoning.
my garden of take, always take.
wrathful water, take a risk.
abduct the heavens!
be over… be lost…
******.
bad mother and hiccuping truth.
and that perfume guilt leaves.
my, we grow up into lonely, silent, aging, memories.
TigerEyes Mar 2014
The little Princess always said...
"I'll meet you on the other side
after the world has spinned around a million times--"
it was the the story I always read
just before you went to bed...
there was the sea, the sun, the stars, n' the moon
in a faraway land...playing a melody...a special tune
in a story..
made up for you
there were Elves with funny ears,
a Prince, a Fairy that laughed so much
(she was prone to toss her lunch)
there was the hiccuping frog
who always seemed to fall off his log
n' the Princess was always you...
who granted wishes
that came true.
Just before she fell asleep--
after the fairy had kissed her cheek...
The Princess always said,
"I'll meet you on the other side...
after the world has spinned a million times--"
© 2014
The monolithic columns were beginning to be built that transferred to the transition columns of the period of the 6th century BC. That they would stipulate the fixed number of units of the Doric columns that would be installed towards Vernarth in the transom that would join the crossbars between Mount Profitis and the Iridescent Nimbus, representing a theosophical concept, which when divided into the chromatic ones would materialize, making a commendable incipient epoch of eternal humanity, where the individualities were decompressed from the descendants for more than 500 thousand years in the perspective that would allude to the logos of the Universe, and that very few of their ins and outs were unraveled in the convergences of their diction, before they could be concretized facts that exceed the reality of a theory that is not proven when it is really all consummated. And although everything is the result of a period that will not be reissued again, everything in the Apokálypsis would be of renewal and thoughts with characters of the Factotum interspersed with the forces of the Universe, Elementals and Spirituals that would be teleported in the trans-religious vehicle of Vernarth , with its own intellectual scope that would go back to expressions of philosophical writing but with the grace of the Logos that would redirect itself through vestiges, where there are disquisitions in the claim of Saint John the Apostle referring to that beginning that everything was re-indicated as Genesis was, in which this world has already proven is only the manifestation of a new Universe that would leave the spare one, and would give us the Duoverse full of Light and Hope, vindicating the divine concept in all the voices that were never heard by the fine ear of conception. of the Camera Obscura, where all the voids of the Universe would be engaged in the strengthening of man through super credibility, and d e the support of pre-knowable favors, based on the Logos of hearing everything that is heard, and saying everything that is spoken ..., creating the pronunciation is everything first, and that the word is of significance in what is pronounced in all the processes of withdrawal and insistence that our evidences be resonated, allowing that what remains to be included is the incarnation of a Creator of worlds where no body has been occupied, nor that all the spheres that govern him are in the capacity of the will of empowerment, which is recited in all the multi-evocations, which come from all the well-smelling essences of Cosmic Thought and the Logos of the Monolithic Columns, attracting and magnetizing what “is not thought” to become the verb that resonates in the form of the waves of its creation and of the sense of existence, with the only spiritual spirit that denies all capacity to increase all the plans that have to be made and that are to re-study, under a world that belongs to those who have been humiliated of their will, who have been sullied and who will be liberated in their own exaltation where the words will be lost so that they can later find themselves in the experiment that whips the truth, in the bed of things that swirl in a cosmos that is fed up with being the same and that no one dared to know more than a Peri Kosmous, which of course will give the origin in everything that remained in the accent for those who listened to him hiccuping on the side of a thoughtless tree. Irrational reflections took over the entire heritage of what was the essence of a Christianity that was beginning to be renewed on Patmos, where the experience was those of a very early encounter with the Truth that was a simile of every basis of truth contained in the genome that is woven into the lordships of which it has only the sharpness of facing the self-confidence of the chills, and of the fright when its meaning leaves you speechless.

The muted iridescent leaves the branches of the trees more significant than the cosmic thought itself, which was the light of life in all the voices that cheered him where nothing could find conceptual footholds in the gaze of a sigil of abstract love, only letting the testimony of beings of Light ennoble the capacity of a love that boils with love under every expiration in the darkness itself, as is Wonthelimar full of the flower of Liz that lies in its familiar heraldic. Everything is detachment in the seed that whimsically delivers its fertile axiom in the purity of the layers of the land of Palestine, where thousands of routes of donkeys do not cease to infuse events from the bases of custom and to move where there is no shelter, but there is an illusion that everything happens on Earth and that it is the same gender than itself, almost more eloquent than those who dare to say that everything comes and goes from this earth loaded with Cosmic thought, loaded with inalienable rights where the beneficiaries will be benefited. doubly, and that being a witness to the glory is the same grace that lulls the feeling where everything is Duoversal in a thought that replaces the one that will partially follow the one that comes, for its concepts and true plans where everything and everything will be part of the Prologue of Vernarth in the encounter of a Purgation that utters all the gales of the Meltemi that will pierce all the orchards where they will finally be able to rest on the head of Jakob, and l The fruits of the Faith of Elohim by recidivism will give the world courage by not being afraid of the changes of the foliage, which are from their own repose in the garden that makes them ascend, which abstracts them in the predominance and in the shallow laws of a Occultism that is associated with universal ideas, that puts names and pro-names in powers that are only subtracted with humility in the echoes of personal power, and in what their foliage radiates, that with the piece of a commemorative arrangement of Lilies, now nothing It mattered as a conceptual universalism, without the axial that rusts in the tendency that after its numerals running in different directions or senses, when contemplating itself from a ruler of the cultural word, being intelligence that transverts the dyes of knowledge in the Greek or Hebrew gnosis, that Vernarth or Etréstles could never take back the barge that took them from Sardinia to La Spezia, or that whatever it was like from a sequence shot could be duplicated with the hidden part of a Duoverso, to always have a substitute brother, and that he does not lack when the effect of his occultism is going to emerge in the Aramaic voice that makes the walls of the oropharyngeal trunk creak, with the thought that it makes an elixir of generational life, when the force that It propels a complete involvement, by shaking all the spheres that were anodyne with a new gesture in a dawn of Eternal life.

The category of anodyne value is that what collides with the solid elements what could be in the new essence of an elemental rebirth, and of occultism that only transgresses the ideas that are proper to those who rectify a greater degree of physical forces than move the world for the minors who sustain the microcosm, before a micro thought that was sometimes more contemplative, of what its inheritance as a software perfects, and that has to be descended in its hereditary integrity as "Inheritance", devoid of any individuality that makes an omen the real estate of the anhistorical sense, perpetuating the anhistoricism that refers to a denial of the relationship with history, in the historical advance or the custom, such as the frequent criticism that the facts reveal a nuance of weakness Where would Alexander the Great's record change, if he had been protected by Vernarth before he was consumed by malaria, or had been abused by his own commanders? They have a trophy of a fever that offends further from everything that is ignored if it is not a real argument, and may have lived many more than the same context of knowing or ignoring what happened, that is why their anhistoric polytheistic-social will describe the vision more adjective of who detaches himself from his history, and repairs in history itself the secondary planes where only a submitological discourse would take him to the source of the timeless Macedonian seat.
Logos, Monolithic Columns
we;re soon to get a big blue moon
so about to escape my comfort cocoon
I'll flap my wings, as high as the sky
but scared of heights, so don't know why
then fly all the way, to the big blue moon
as i need to escape from my little cocoon
so if you see my wings, flapping around
i must of made it back, to solid ground
or ive over done it on the nectar again
and simply lying, ****** in the rain!
by Jemia x
Amanda Shelton Feb 2023
Boom pop woh yeah, meow buddy
just like that twitch to the left
now **** to the right. Real quick!

Like a robot doing the twitch
and a pop with strings,
tug on that.

Tourettes got me twitching,
hiccuping and meowing.

Muscles cramping and joints
are grinding, creaking and
popping, like microwave popcorn.

2 minutes to go!

Anxiety's on a roll,
the embarrassment is a monster
stabbing me in the back.

I don't even know who I am waving at.

Why am I doing that dance
in the middle of nowhere?

Did I see a cat?

Do I have the hiccups?

Nope it's tourettes!

©️ 2023 By Amanda Shelton
Tourette syndrome is horrible. I have it and anxiety makes it worse. If I get embarrassed I have a full blown tourette attack. People staring, people whispering, people making too much noise can cause me a tourette attack. Just walking into a building can cause me anxiety because I am always worried people will be there and they will notice I am different and stare at me. I've had people come up to me in public because I look different and act different. They don't understand I have a movement disorder and they are making it worse by making me the center of attention. If you see someone who looks different or acts different please don't stare don't engage them, live your life and let them live their lives too. You might make it harder for them if you engage them. Unless they engage you please move on. Tourette syndrome is effected by a person's emotions and the environment. We all are part of the environment so the best way you can help us is to be aware of the situation and be respectful. Thank you. ❤️
Cuz buzzards circle o'er me
eyeing these lovely bones prithee
id est Roy L. T. Canard, Si
hence impossible mission
to be lovey dove vee.

Vague remembrances of dream  
which recurred with frequency
transfixed by Sir Real majesty
shows me and the misssus evicted.

Hum habitually hiccuping
in tandem feeling woozy
virtually celebrating monarchism
with British Royal Family,
and about eager and ready
to take a snoozy
so please pardon this poet
exhibiting being a lil oozy,
nevertheless yours truly
birthed the following verse
a reasonable rhyme and doozy
considering yours truly tipsy and *****.

Now this raggedy man
whilst deep in sleep
this past night
what felt like galactic body
fell upon ma slumbering heap
affecting immediate fear
lest worst nightmare
viz management boot us
into emotional inferno

felt steel tipped kickstarter,
would crush with might
but lo… heavy weighted body
just zee spouse
plunked herself into zzz land
immediately within unconsciousness deep
that's the husband unable
to recaptcha pleasant dreams
well nigh past midnight.

Unable to shake away drunken stupor
nor defeat insomnia
reliving sinister tête-à-tête
so...rather than emit shrieks
like some angry bird
idea arose to resume completing poem
expressing discombobulated state,
whereby sixty shades
of grey matter feels
similar to thick whey curds
palliative sans restorative power
per rest hopefully clear muddled pate

plagued with grogginess
and marauding herds
of mailer daemons worse
than unsuitable mate
or a world wide web filled with nerds,
thus lethargy purged
via catharsis forming swords
follow rhyming pattern
to convey drowsy tipsy mood,
a synonym for my words.

Noah respite despite eliminating kinks
courtesy arched back from cat nap
as ginned tonic, nor lion here
feline groovy getting high temporarily
spells relief and serve as balm
with pillowed temptress ever near
beckons softly inviting calm
before this human
goes awry and berserk on manic tear
being revisited from haunts
inside head of this wordsmith
caught by men in white coats
coming to take me away
**-**, hee-hee, ha-ha,

to the funny farm
straitjacketing this maniac
wrought with weariness
dark ringed circles around eyes  
showing Adonis long since didst veer
Judas Priest or  
if you prefer heavens to murgatroyd
can't stomach bulge
spills o'er tattered underwear,
whose ***** by the way
once upon a time
about the size of average palm pilot,
yet taut for witnessing
three score plus three mortal year.

This ole goat intoxicated,
plus forcibly locked within
fas paux blinding darkness,
the pitch black common
all purpose room
in disarray after Skyping English fete
at fictional Knock Less Apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly

hair raising dreaded locked
rooted tension doth amplify
fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,
nippy nap noopy,
pugnaciously ravenous, talon
viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
zeroing zillion zippers,
zoned alley bye

barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
sealed with plaintive cry;
no escape known to this man caught
in a deadly voodoo clutch,
thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped

akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scapegoat
coping techniques ingenuity,
which earned me moniker "fall guy,"
where accursed cruel fate destined exit
from getting husked, issued
jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader,” I

pray for super leftist
write hand man/woman to extricate
(via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
then joining me to sing jai
(let victory prevail against killer odds)
perhaps summoning division
of British shiver rights phalanx,
hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"

springing surprise rescue,
sans swooping inside
mine hermetically faux invisible prison,
where this troubadour doth reside,
yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
a good fight well nigh
against inevitable mortality

(out maws of death)
gleefully depriving grim reaper
death his domain and
eventual unavoidable claim,
but if such kind unaccustomed soul
can cushion the blow of penury...
vis a vis philanthropic treatment
manifested as deliverance  

courtesy anonymous altruistic benefactor
plucking one bard
off downward slippery
precipice of homelessness,
ye will be rewarded with apple pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai,
yet moment with
Holden Caulfield doppelganger
made famous qua Catcher in the Rye.

— The End —