Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Xavier Salti Feb 2013
Life was amazing. Boats will fly causing mass transportation. Sometimes I think exclusively until I erupt through word Bothered, enlightened, and hungry watching gay cinema eating bananas but not ripe until next time I hate myself for liking weird cinema,  Striking matches without touching myself when hearing groans from my basement which come apart from the throat. Knocks, bangs, and poottitangs among our findings in  timely minute fashion.  The weather will forever be surpising under a burnt out hookers muffintop. Mashed feces under but over kinfolk of a studious wellbeing transcendence, stupendous sacred.
some friends and i acting stupid. Read it in your head in Morgan Freeman's voice.
Still Crazy Jun 2014
for Beau

this mixte bag of nutty facts,
compote of this's and that's,
fragrant but yucky tasting potpourri,
sordid assortment of
seemingly unseemly
random collection of
facts, whoppers,
recipes and formulae, and his 'n her
stories (my fav!)
useless motorized drivel,
running around my head

that you have with me creme-filled,
data conglomerated,
transformed by mongol hordes of grey cells
urged on, nay transformed,
by **** and beer into
a magnificent miscellaneous mile of jumble,
virtuous and verifiable grab bag of
ever so humble,
tuneful melodies of a medley of
snatches and patches
of Jagger and Liszt,
a verifiable pastiche of
vital and downright dumb
Factors and Factoids,

I thank you suchly muchly*

musta taken years, maybe even
decades to collect and codify,
this assemblage of verifiable factoids,
after-all, took you twelve to
feed me in eye dropper ingestible quantities!

though with Wiki this and Wiki that,
I coulda save us all some time,
and since it is all on the Internet,
and any way 99% I forgot
like a cell phone number

no matter, I can reads and counts
and writes term papers downloaded,
but caught my eye you wrote
of a mutton stew denominated as
hotchpotch,
but we variant truants,
ici, aux Etats-Unis, on dit
and spell our salmagundi as
hodgepodge

but in summary summation,
thanks for teaching me creative thinking,
for without this skill,
I would but be,
a tool
of Wikipedia
and not its creator

P.S.  It's gadzooks,
not gad zooks,
according to Wikitionary,
even them Oxford fellas agree,
tee hee,
you could look it up
on the internetsky,
Teach....
brandon nagley Aug 2015
HELLO POETRY;
A HoDgEpOdGe of poetic heaven.....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Nathan Squiers Jul 2014
Look, I was gonna go easy on you not to hurt your feelings, but I’m only going to get this one chance!
Something’s wrong… I can feel it.
Just a feeling I got, like something’s about to happen… but I don’t know what.
If that means what I think it means, we’re in trouble—big trouble—and if he’s as bananas as you say I’m not taking any chances!

(You are just what the doc ordered)

I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
Now here I am again for another rap talk, rap talk…
They said I write like a monster, so call me scribe-star,
But for me to write like a beast means I’m a demon at least;
I got a devil kept in my pocket,
On my shoulder’s when I rock it.
Talkin’ of killin’ and of thrillin’; won’t stop it!
Write a demon doorway, now knock on it!
Ever since the dark days when I’d just lost it,
Way back when the world would pace and chant “Nutcase!”
I’m a ******, but I’m charming;
Yes, a crude, rude dude, but I’m still disarming.
Using syllables to **** ‘em all with this
empowering empire of powerful vampires.
The writer-type clackin’ back with typewriters, like way back, right?
Clackity-clack!
Rockin’ stack after stack, clackin’ out more attacks,
Ideas tacked out while hacks hack out their crap (but ******* spew **** all the time),
so I perform written parkour tricks so you’re not bored; strike a chord.
Show you Stryker’s tortured life of suicide ‘n strife turnin’
to strength and a fiery passion burnin’ while readers’ guts are churnin’—
teary eyes all burnin’.
Their fears are returnin’ from a story I turned out when I got turned on
to my own life.
Now I drop F-bombs;
exploding real-life scenes—
these ain’t your G-rated dreams, so take your outdated themes—
It’s the **** I’ve seen; don’t make me obscene.
I’m mean, I mean, it’s my means to screen a scene between a matte sheen.

‘Cause I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
Now here I am again for another rap talk, rap talk…
They ask me to thaw out these oily blocks called ink-wads, ink-wads.
There’s a body in everybody , but not all bodies have a brain that makes them feel sane.
Like a train—just the same—
Might be runnin’ but we still cast blame,
The loading docks of our thoughts; they’re locked-up in a box,
And they’re stackin’ up like blocks
That turn the stacks to empty tracks (****!)
Trainees blame their brainees when it’s not easy training brains, see?
But the boarding isn’t boring—training brains; not trading pains—
Remember: the station’s self-exploration!
Me? I’m a hodgepodge! From train station to abandoned lodge;
Bully dodgin’, fully locked-in when I freaked out, fattened-up and then I geeked out,
Told “keep it down” but then peaked when I peeked deep down.
Creepin’ up, now, and keepin’ up (WOW!)
I swear it up and tear it up scribbled swords,
And now I wear awards for slingin’ words;
Offered praise; a chance to forget about the craze that once darkened all my days,
But I write that way—say “that’s okay ‘cuz it helps me write this way—each and every day!
And hacks think I act this way just to seem this way, ‘til come the day when the cray-cray takes the doubt away.
Demon obsessed? I’m possessed! Can’t own what you don’t possess!
“Hey, devil-lookin’ boy!”
So ***** for my honey I’m rockin’ horns, look here boy!
A Literary Dark Mass-acre,
Like the devil laid waste to a church on the page, looker boy!
They got a gold star, and a high five,
Felt so alive to see their own scribes make it to Momma’s fridge, ****** boy!
Hey, schnook-ah boy, looky here, looker boy,
I’m held up by The Legion, book-it boy!
Had to push for every word—every page—had to swallow all the rage,
Now you want out of your cage, schnook-ah boy?
I’m legendary—literary—and you’re literally just a *****, little boy!
So sell out while I’m bought out, ******-boy!

‘Cause I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
The way I’m burnin’ through these pages, call me Dark Lord, Dark Lord!
But they’d rather burn my books, so start a fire war, fire war!
Can’t get it through your head? Words are more than Edward! He’s dead! WORD!
Let me drag you off to meet Dracula; take you back to the dawn of the dark lord, yea?
Fast forward to the foreword where the F-word’s “fangs” (you’re welcome);
This is my Hell, come! Be free!
Part Morningstar; part Morpheus! I throw up a kiss and jot down the kills like they’re red-apple pills.
Go ask Alice back at my palace what you should read to feed your head.
Sentence structure so smooth they call me FE-line, and my cat’s got better plot lines,
That the hacks will all call “sublime” (it’s “sub-fine”)
But me?
My **** scenes are brutal,
And my romance? Not frugal. I don’t saturate—I arrogate—
But I don’t condemn my characters to *******!
I wanna make readers care—if readers dare—
To connect and feel and follow where they can find some hope and power there.
While also giving them a place somewhere that isn’t here—though filled with fear—
A place where they don’t feel jeered or feel weird.
Horror ain’t just movie monsters, or gore-****** scopin’ sponsors!
You speak French? C’est de la merde, monsieur!
You look unsure! But I have the cure in the written word!
And though you once were achin’ for a rockstar author cravin’ bacon,
The role has since been taken by your man, Squiers.
And like a pair of pliers, I can reach into readers’ brains and cross all sorts of wires!
I’m settin’ cranial fires behind the eyes of all my buyers!
And while I’m growing Ghost Riders—ridin’ shotgun on the bullet-train ‘tween the pages—
There’s a horde of haters harboring growing rages
With a narrow gaze of who scribes pages.
They say I can’t write ‘cuz of my tattoos or my gauges
So allow me to assuage this: y’all can’t cage this!
If you don’t like it, let me show you where the grave is!
You’re well-aged, but I’m ageless!
Like the undead through the ages!
And like Shakespeare took to stages you can find me where the page is:
I’m hip to a script, I’m at home with a poem and feeling groovy writin’ movies; and I’ll be EZ on your TV.
You write normal? **** being normal!
What a novel theory! So very dreary!
Why the **** are they so leery, they say “Writing fear? We don’t want to hurt no feelings.”
Feelings? Setting up ceilings! Just more limits! It’s life! Live it!
Set the roof on fire!
Plot is getting hotter than a 24/7 squatter on a ***** channel!
So what if some **** gets a hair up ‘er ****? Don’t make it ****!
They wanna say “Hey you, we’re here to stifle!”
‘Cuz I mentioned rifles? Do they really want to trifle?
So I say:
“Better bring a sweater ‘cuz this thriller’s gonna chill ya—sure hope it doesn’t **** ya—and ya gonna get’a fill o’ all the ***** that I don’t give, ‘cuz I don’t live to let ******* quip or give me lip about my lit.
I’m entertaining and elating and also demonstrating how devastating a stream of escalating scenes can be so penetrating—although frustrating—to a mind that’s celebrating what it means to be vacationing between the pages; wading through the stages of a war that forever wages; meditating through the escalations now that they know what TRUE rage is!
“Oh, he’s too ******!”
That’s right! Ain’t right. That’s life: not nice; it’s strife.
It’s not just me; it’s we.
I just found a better way to show it:
Monsters that aren’t monsters;
Abuse put to good use; bred virtues!
“I don’t know how to plot plots like that;
I don’t know what words to use.”
Did it really never occur to them that to read a book—just to take a look—and THEN take up the pen?
You read King if you want to be king, strictly speaking.
A writing mind that isn’t a reading mind is a weakling; a weak link.
I’m a scholar—not a bawler—so I’m a flyer where there’s fallers;
Raised on Goosebumps and Creepy Crawlers so I’d Stine while others whined.
Got a dark side, but that’s The Dark Side on my side; counter haters with my Vader:
“I would be your father… but your dog beat me over the fence.”
No offense. Pretense: incorporate comedy and film; common sense.
Suicide pushed aside, though I still burn inside. **** myself on
the page each day so my readers can feel what it’s like to be alive.
It’s okay to hide.
Only your own devil knows what’s inside.
I own mine; he’s my co-pilot when I write. My demonic side; my demonic scribe.
Flipping my words to the birds—‘cuz, you see, that’s how I wing it—and flipping the bird while I throw down and sing it:
“Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
My words are my roar and tonight I write!”
The fights are in your sights like you were seated inside a movie theater;
You’d see Xander and Estella—wouldn’t you want to meet her—
Have a front row to the creatures in a feature presentation…
But ‘til then
Eat some Rice An’ read a piece by a man who
Had an “Interview with a Vampire”—
I’m a fiction author, why would I lie to ya?
Prince of lies? I ain’t Satan!
Close friends, but I’m Nathan.
Judged for appraisal—I’m priceless—I’m  nice: no; charming: yes.
Got a razor-sharp and Shining wit like a crown left
on a King… but not.
Why be a left king, when I’m a write god.
So I did a lyrical re-write of Eminem's "Just Lose It" that wound up being pretty popular, so when I heard "Rap God" for the first time I knew I had to do the same. While I hope it's entertaining on its own, I think those who have heard the song will enjoy that I remained true to the source material in terms of flow, rhythm, and syllable count (Marshall Mathers is really quite an astounding wordsmith in his lyrical writings).

Hope you enjoy ^_^
CH Gorrie Jul 2013
I do not like the architecture of the mall.
It's discordant and lax. The architects
dismissed all Edwardian charm
and even the Gothic grace.
When crossing my field of vision,
the mall concedes defeat,
whimpering against a prismatic sky:

"I am a hodgepodge of ambition distressed,
resolute on pioneering a style unlike anything past,
but locked off in dead history, trapped
in a monologue whose audience is myself."

I presume it's the same across the world,
architecture molded into something impulsive,
something so forced it falls flat.

Where have all the artchitects gone?
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
In a strange mood - see/write art



in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^

in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.

knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.

a *****, well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.




^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell


Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
AmberLynne Aug 2014
"What's going on in that head of yours?" you inquire.
I shrug and shake my head, trying to make the question slip-slide its way past me.
"Something. I can tell," you **** on.
I don't exactly know how to explain the hodgepodge of thoughts bustling around up there.

How all of the mismatched puzzle pieces sometimes inexplicably manage to assemble themselves into a picture, but it always comes out distorted.

How my mind is eternal dusk, that magical moment where anything is possible and the night is full of promise. But remember, that's also when the monsters come out to play.

How I have this uncanny ability to skew every word, look, or memory until every one of them is so tainted I will burn us alive while you wonder what the hell is going on.  I'm good at sabotage, you see.

You don't want to know what's going on in this head of mine.  You can try to connect the dots, but none of them are numbered, and you'll lose yourself attempting to understand me.
8.7.14
Bryan Amerila Apr 2016
The circle of life:
Rays of the sun
burnt the santol leaves that were
Dried, red, brown, in a mound
Acrid, pungent.
Jumping crustaceans play with
Sige-sige, puyo, fishes;
Screeching of kikik, on the background
That winged insect, luminous wings before
Trapped that kitten on Alaska can, 370 mL
I see the abandoned casing with a hacked back:
Red, brown, dried, clasping
the bark of that old mahogany tree,
Or santol, leaves
A mark on that childhood memory:

Mother screams
“Go home!”
Arms akimbo
You boil that tower of beer crowns and eat you will!, later
Sweats, sweltering sky
She’s towering.
***'s rim, circled, I opened.
Ah, the circle of life!
April 08, 2016
I hardly breathe under a hodgepodge
of starched and creased clothes
my heart beats pell-mell
every time clocks take a halt
dragging one second behind
when batteries are low
(could this be a deviation towards red light?)

with straighter and longer fingers
I bow down worshiping
in front of the rising sun
the nunnery pelargonium
the red silk bookmark
forgotten inside the Book of Job
(rose hips will bloom upon my grave)

the empty space on my front
from where a star fell down
still burns with pride
I’m guilty like the deer youth
putting its muzzle damp with love
in the palm of his future hunter
(maybe time doesn’t roll on like a river)
Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.
Andy Plumb Oct 2011
I’m a hodgepodge today
partly truce and partly friction
In angelic disarray
I veil myself in primrose and rhyme
and skate across a frozen lake
past chilled goblins on stilts &
princesses pierced with sorrow and doubt
the day surrenders to a night of unsightly sounds
strangled breaths emerging from the lower depths
the dance of the crows has begun
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
Even lousy writing is terrific practice
Or so they say
I have been practicing
Painting ink on a page

All I can produce
Is sketchy scribble
Illegible and unintelligible
Words that I let dribble

Leaving the canvas blotched and stained
Maybe some will appreciate my thoughts
It is my medicine
From going insane.
Calhoun Poetry Feb 2015
There is fun no
more in chasing believers of a flat in world in
circles. A  dry preacher, evoking hell.  
This journey always started with others
and ends with others wise ghosts watching
hoping to be seen as a ghost to have made
a footprint on the most trodden path.
Life without fear of it.
A magician with the knowledge
of an ace always able to come up
next yet I still bust.

The white marble embraces me,
the old white marble tries to embrace me.
Only seaweed floats.
A City of canyons built for climbers.
The fish saw death yet death waited off the hook
Better odds on the hook.
Now she’s
given her coin and
crossed the river
and I sit at the shore
confused at why
I suddenly care.
So just some lines I like, put together without rhyme or reason.
Anderson M Jun 2017
Most if not all forms of government have hot on their heels
A litany of “life-snapping” ideals
No wonder most of them flounder in self-created
Thickets of inefficiency and are easily “distracted”.
of governments at the helm of ungovernable situations.
Alex S Jan 2017
Take me back to Chelsea please
Where the flossed and glossed smile at me
And everyone’s kind to an open mind
That’s materialistic in design.
Where locals embrace me all open armed
Whenever I’m crinkling cash in my palms.
So eject me fast from this boorish ******
And take me back to Chelsea please.

Take me back to Chelsea please
Outside the city’s financial squeeze
Where mummy and daddy pay the cheques
For my escargots and Ready Brek.
I’ll wield through the system with the family name
And use all the power of my local fame.
Oh, to live life without la joie de fees
Come take me back to Chelsea please.

Take me back to Chelsea please
To put my social norms at ease.
I miss my measly excuse of friends
Who constantly ***** to make amends
For their failed entrepreneurial careers
Their dialect a hodgepodge of gobbles and sneers.
I long for their monotonous wheeze
So take me back to Chelsea please.

Chelsea, Chelsea you’re all I adore
From the A308 to the A304.
You’re the sole nirvana I can’t bear to depart,
Your femmes fatales know the paths to my heart.
But you will always have the its lock and key
So Chelsea: come and take me back please.
M Sep 2023
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...

The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.

The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.

Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Inspiration from "Amusing Ourselves to Death" by Neil Postman
Ella Alvarez Jun 2017
You.
You were my shelter in the middle of my storm,
my shoulder to cry on when all felt forlorn.
I drew my strength from your love's warmth
But all that's past and alive no more.

You.
You’re a math expression with no solution,
an ingredient in the recipe of my confusion.
To my desperate pleas, you answered vaguely;
I just wanted to know how you’ve been doing lately,
after our love, after our loss.
after experiences we never thought would become fleeting memories
of a bond we hoped would last for centuries,
after long, late nights up spent envisioning a future with you and me,
of writing a book's last chapter that would end happily.
after broken promises that broke both our hearts.
Although words may break my heart
and sticks and stones may break my bones,
betrayal by someone who felt like home
makes me question myself and crushes my soul.
I thought I was your best friend, your dream girl, your ride-or-die,
but after you met her, that no longer mattered and you bade me goodbye,
while gravity gained on the tears that began to stream from my eyes,
nearly a year and a half of love cut short by the devil in disguise.

They say grief is a linear five-stage process,
which involves denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance,
but grief over him for me was a convoluted, confusing hodgepodge that muddled up all those feelings together.

Grief was denial over him loving me and leaving me all at once.

Grief was rage triggered by this sudden betrayal and loss of trust, by making out his love to be a lie,
by all my effort put into loving him unconditionally going down the drain in the blink of an eye.

Grief was wrestling between giving him liberty to fool around
and bargaining to salvage and kindle the embers of the fire
that once burned between us that could be redeemed.

Grief was depression over being taking for granted, depression over promises never kept,
depression over words that I fell for that broke my heart in the end.

Grief was struggling to accept the aftermath of it all, no matter how huge a hole it left in my heart.

Grief was accepting his departure one second, then reminiscing about the love we used to share and bargaining for it back.

Grief was struggling to be happy again, then remembering how he broke my heart and feeling either vexed or sad or both emotions at once.

Grief was loving him in the wake of my loss.

But grief wasn’t going to sting as much as it would if I had attached my self-worth onto the relationship. I already knew what love was before I met him.

I've found love in being saved by the blood of my Savior,

I've found love in friends and family who’ve seen me at my worst and chose to stay,

I've found love in education and learning more about the world around me outside of the classroom,

I've found love in my craft,

I've found love in other people's craft,

I've found love in many places where he isn't.

I will be fine.

I’ve found that love is not selfish; love is giving.
Love meant putting the needs of others before its own.
If one can’t understand that,
then they weren’t ready to commit themselves to a serious relationship with anyone,
nor can they maintain healthy, cordial relationships with other people in their life.

I already knew what love was before I met him; I just don’t
understand why people have such a hard time reciprocating it.

I thought he was my red string of fate.

I guess my eyes simply weren’t adjusted correctly to the light.

-a.l.
(lit. I don't want to leave.)

inspired by my red string of fate, my first love.
it's hard when you're young
Gigi Tiji Oct 2015
floating heartbrain
silly cilia stickin' out in all directions

antennae with fingertips extrapolating the surrounding situation

form dictated by the circumstance of inward pressure in correlation to outward pressure in conjunction with the trajectory and spin of itself and all others surrounding

indescribable without it's surroundings lest it be left lacking; it is the result of touch
the ethics of touch

it is the reception of signals from all directions; a hodgepodge of waveforms
a hot tangled spaghetti dinner forever forcefed to the happysad hungerstriker grateful

forever hateful
love is all we need
love is all we are
grateful
for hatred

pain gives way to bliss
sensitive cilia
feel me
feel you
feel all
Meg B Nov 2015
What is the crisis
a quarter of the way
through life?

Existentially existing in the moment,
I'm constantly inside of myself
while also out.
Conundrum of being up while
I'm also down,
freedom within a blockade.
Oxymoronic hodgepodge of
tantalizing confusion,
tastes sweet on my brain
and thoughts ponder bitter on
my tongue.

Half and whole,
part and full,
questions answered with questions,
seeing things through in simultaneous
interrogatories.
Top here, bottom there,
rights are right,
and lefts aren't wrong.
Phone, texts and emails,
vibrating inside my skull
as I laugh and I cry,
as I seek to find.

Orange to yellow to green to brown,
seasons coming and going
inside my soul,
and I constantly blossom
and refreeze.
Everywhere feels like nowhere,
nowhere my somewhere as
I await a somewhere that's
everywhere.

Losing myself as I find it too,
letting some parts sail away
at sea,
and too there comes new
horizons,
as I surf, skating on the
foam, on the water's edges.
Wading into one crisis,
I'm swallowed by a
wave,
until I burst through the sea and the
salt;

and then the next wave
comes...
for life, it seems,
is salty and sweet,
one tide coming in to sweep itself away
in place of another.
Tommy Johnson Jul 2014
One day Frick when to the place to buy some stuff
While Frack stayed in the area to do some things
Frack tossed out some junk
He used the the whatchamacallit to clean the thingamajig
Pick up the odds and ends
And he scrubbed a doodad with the thingamabob


Frick purchesed some knickknacks and bric-a-brac
A few sundries
A couple of tchotkes and trinkets
Some whatnot
A gizmo
A gadget
And more miscellaneous paraphernalia

When Frick got home Frack asked "What'd you buy?"
Frick said " Oh, this and that" "What'd you do all day?"
Frack said "Just a hodgepodge of etcetera, etcetera"
       -Tommy Johnson
I was stung by a wasp
But I wasn’t poisoned
Instead I fell in love
Now my heart needs an inspection
Is it swollen?
Is it fat?
Is it mad?
Is it sad?
My heart's become a hodgepodge of emotions
Is this an illusion?
This is a double dose of bloated emotions
Noxiously in love
I’ll ***** until I’ve had enough
Because this
Fatuous love really stings
Sigh... the struggles of infatuation.

John Archievald Gotera © 2015
JB Claywell Mar 2019
There was egg salad in the fridge,
half a container of that store bought,
neon-green guacamole that nobody else
likes but me,
tortilla chips too.

So, we sat together and ate
this hodgepodge lunch,
the dog and I.

She never once complained
that there were no crackers
or a few pieces of soft, white
or even dark, crusty
pumpernickel bread.

We thought about whatever
it was that we thought about
while we chewed thoughtfully.

I looked up the word: tincture
in the dictionary that I keep in my
office,
right off the kitchen.

A friend of mine had used the word
in correspondence, and I was rather
embarrassed that I’d not known what
it meant.

But,
I found that embarrassment wanes
when one is scraping the last few globs
of guacamole out of the container with
one’s finger and is saddened because
the accompanying tortilla chips have
been reduced to crumbs.

The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me.
She was busy cleaning the remnants
of egg salad from the inside of the
old butter dished I’d packed it away
in.

I’d already packed what had been enough
for a decent sandwich away in my guts
using tortilla-chip spoons,
doing my best not to ***** more
silverware than I had to.

The hour was almost up;
I had to be back at the office
in about 15 minutes.

We,
the dog and I,
took this small measure of time
as an opportunity to listen to a
couple of songs…

one by Iron Maiden.
the other by John Coltrane.

While the discs spun,
the dog wiped any excess
egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs
from her muzzle
onto
the living room carpet,
by sliding around
on her face.

It was funny to watch.

I’ll have to be sure and not
tell Angela about it.

Soon enough,
it’s once more around the yard
dear doggie,
a Marlboro for me,
another few hours at the office,
little friend,
and I’ll sail back home
to thee.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
* yes, I wrote a poem for my dog.
Anderson M Apr 2017
I see her and air is snuffed
Out of my lungs in one swift
Swoop, my usually perceptive
Mind is a hodgepodge of disarray.
Speech is caught in the labyrinth
That’s my voice box choked from
All sides, an irredeemable hostage.
I stare long and hard at her eyes
Then I realize, her eyes aren’t
Ordinary, they’re a canvas on
Which the Milky Way galaxy is
Exquisitely captured. It’s this
Precise moment that a shrill
Mention of my name jolts
Me to wakefulness, and well
My heart’s a pitiful husk
After being exposed to two opposite
Extremes of emotional excitement.
I wonder what would have transpired,if i had not woken up.
#npmdream
Julian Nov 2018
The padlock on the continuous barnstorm of a transcendent time whose bunkum is transmuted consciousness aligning with parallax to a congruent worldview is not axiomatic but certainly a veridical property of reality. The universe is as much concept as percept and both properties of consciousness that lead to adaptive behavior are tethered to the eccentricity of the observer rather than the oblong nature of the observed where errors in prima facie judgments delineate the saplings of humanity to beaze under the proctored sunlight of an eternal sunshine that withers seldom to the whims of capricious arbitrage of those whose hubris exceeds the limits of the intellectual frontier because they are gilded with bricolage mentalities that scaffold the skeletonized worldview rather than apprehending the concretism and synthetic arraignment of interrogable reality in a manner that acknowledges the factitious intersection of pioneering understanding and the corporeal existence of realities both transcendent in spatiotemporal mapping and reversible propinquity to the sensible acquisition of tangible knowledge. I contest the worldview of many philosophers as a callow retread of basic logic whose ambition is underserved by a desire for prolix pellucidity rather than cogent succinct promethean formulations that dare to muster the herculean task of demystification even if the entropy of formulation is always flawed by the jaundice of the observers rather than the disdain of the observable consensus. We swing by a filipendulous thread that dangles speculation and reifies the blinkered piebald world of spotty concatenations among neurons recognizing that incomplete associations become the staples of philosophies that are precarious in some logical foundation but sturdy enough to weather the vagaries of the bluster of mendicants who verge on comprehension but pale in comparison to the monolithic edifice of so-called truth when the defalcation of figureheads supplants the clerisy as the new proctor of knowledgeable assertion. I contend that foofaraw is a primeval instinct of community ecology that expedites the balkanization of otherwise unitive properties of society and ravages them with bickering based on clashing predilections that are bellicose and combative rather than irenic and balmy. The acerbic fates of many leads to a rudimentary pessimism or a chary optimism that chides against the fortified exegesis of divinity that can be both proclaimed and stultified for its latticework properties of buttressing society in a permutation that is nimble in some respects but too turgid and rigid in others. The goal of humanity is to become a pliable instrument of a pliable universe that does not rely on buzzword dogmatism or the masquerade of hollow punditry but that relies on self-reliant principles for ascertaining veracity and impugning mendaciloquence with vigilant alacrity rather than casual sportsmanship that reaches finality only upon the handshakes of a battle waged that concedes the impotence of gladiatorial spectatorship as just a gambit of the half-witted cockney witticisms and shibboleths of sportive diversion rather than consequential and decisive reckonings with the subaudition that undergirds all events of any consequence with either a clinched victory or a callow defeatism of a futilitarian worldview that stoops to reconciliation only to propitiate antagonism and buffer against the truculent brunt of weaponized coercion to checkered flags that arbitrate the outcome of a binary polarity of humanized affairs. The majesty of creation is that reversible boundaries can be permeated in a bi-directional manner through the artifice of concerted thought rather than the orchestration of a linear traipse through the deserts of an inclement fate won immediately when projected upon the tangent of any given velocity at any point of acceleration away from the targeted impetus that grants only a partial vantage, a cantle of reality that is fragmented and piecemeal rather than circular and emergent. The most dire battle that humanity faces is the attrition of circumstance by the purposive declarations of imperious authority that seeks to muzzle the ingenuity of many for the deliciation of the few creating an accidia among the clerical institute of thinkers that imposes hogra that few people can grapple with that they are marooned into a cloister that reaps fewer rewards for an ascendant intellect than a virulent libido can clutch with predatory gallops against the also-rans that fight for carnality rather than the ethereal principles lingering within the grasp of many if it became a cynosure of worthy heralded acclaim. We witness the mass fecklessness of giftedness as a shackle of those whose plaudits come intrinsically fortified but sustain none of the abuses that the pedestrians would like to obtrude upon enlightenment to curtail and abridge the art of invention like the coagulation of blood to rob the vitality of throbbing pulse of importunate self-discovery of its macroscopic vista and its telescopic foresight about the future hodgepodge of a recursive fractalized reality besieged by the enemy of linear logical formulations implemented by ivory tower psychologists to muzzle the empowerment of abstruse language in order to make savory the nostrum of the apothecaries of delegated truth bereaved of recourse beyond certain leaps they cannot fathom well enough to flicker with even a faint transient wisdom that is designed to be amenable only to the supernal nature of ideation rather than the caprice of bedazzled humanitarianism. We need to forswear the -isms that flicker with doctrinaire dogmatism and flirt with forceful harangues that exhort a codified message and launch veridical properties of recondite etherealism into an immovable orbit whose inertia can broadcast a singular message of recoil against puritanism in science or skepticism in faith. The bedrock of this message is the deployment of useful extravagance without inordinate delay, the drivel of malcontent transmogrified into the prattle of estimable giants that have stature among the leviathan enough to recriminate against the autarky of self-smug simpletons that infest the world with barbarous indecencies and crude prepossessions that abortively crumple when met with the acerbic teleological gravity of ulterior consequence rather than blossom under the siroccos of manufactured wind designed for windfalls that always create a crestfallen aftermath from the anticlimax of understanding leading to the desiccation of consequence and the engorgement of precedence. These frangible realities become buoyant because the physics of the public dialectic insulates the creaky rickety vestiges of canonical knowledge as a sworn precedent inviolable and immune as a building block of all scholasticism, a retread of parchment recycled over and over again to entrench the past as the titanic vehicle that dictates the future of thought even though the porous inconsistencies of the vagrants of crude formulation make such a vessel less seaworthy than scientism and dogmatism of the monolith would have you believe to be true. The querulous quips of the uninformed predominate with such clutter that the armamentarium against useful idiocy is stagnated into a resigned accord with infernal subjugation of the public volition to insubordinate against a system of parochial enslavement rather than a catholic enlightenment whose universalism of principle ensures a steadfast society guided by scruples rather than undermined by the prickly thorns of abrasive contrition and the magnetism of empathic concern that sabotages the clarity of intelligence and provides a welter in the place of a well-arrayed code of peculiar but defiant distinctiveness that acts as the splinter that cracked the intangible but refractory borders of human inclination and demonstrated the sheer force of golden consistency rather than fickle withering resolve. I exhort and implore the world to heed the best minds that realize the syncretism is answerable to contradiction rather than scuttled from beneath by the impudence of its assertions against the common propriety when it stakes controversy as a gamble to aver the veracity of worldviews that violate orthpraxy with gusto as a brazen gallantry to rescue a foundering planet that seeks disequilibrium in harmony rather than an equilibrated sensibility that is proud to discriminate properly and honestly to clinch fact rather than kowtow to factitious slumber of somniferous kumbaya that is too deferent to maxims that are unduly polite only because charisma supersedes genius in its efficacy to mobilize people to fulfill their roles. With the miscegenation of justice that occurs because of expedience we find holes in many legalistic precedents because they anoint pettifoggery over sensible jurisdiction and face a leaky and ramshackle fate to foment paternalism and divide the clerisy among certain key considerations in order to save face rather than to impose a clarity of orderly supervision that seeks to dissipate the embroiled spiderwebs of dodgy prevarication and quacksalver logic to once and for all ascertain the truth that lurks beyond the primal jaundice of Kafkaesque confusion.
I just wrote a Constitution
Amendment One says no pollution
Three and Four ban prostitution
The penalty's electrocution
The people cry for retribution
I can't think of a solution

Scre.w those anti-federalists
I hope they develop monster cysts
And writhe and scream and slash their wrists
I'll pound their face in with my fists
They'll be sorry they made me pis.sed

These stupid states won't ratify
This document; I don't know why
I bite my lip and want to cry
I don't know why I even try
I'll mash them into pretty pie
I hope they die and die and die

So sign this pretty pretty please
I'll kiss your feet and shine your knees
But only if each state agrees
To sign this hodgepodge of decrees
Excuse me now, I have to sneeze
SD Kealey May 2013
The first time I saw
Betty Grater swoon
and heard Ms Arnault sigh
in expectation
I knew I had found the answer
that all young men seek

Instead of good looks
and the scent of money
I realized that the tippled sound of Thomas,
the piston drive of Cummings,
or shroud and mystery of Rimbaud
could accomplish what fumbling
postures never could

They could make a button come
undone and stay that way
part a leg and have it
remain languid
see an arm brushed
and not pulled back

Ah, but women are not
so easily wooed
You see, poetry is but a beginning
once is never sufficient
and Cyrano found
he was forced to return
and return
to keep those fires burning

Soon you discover it is not enough
to merely sing another’s tune
and you  must learn the art
whose muse is not so
easily tamed

So the new poems to Emily or Mary Lou
are steeped in ignorance, stumbling tongue
and emotion that knows only extreme
a Dickinson hodgepodge of flowers,
spring-rain and metaphor trampled
by testosterone expectation

And as these women grow
you discover the magic is fading
that they have learned these lures
and their virtue will not part quite so easy

Ah, but art is ever inventive
and for those hard to dissemble
there are the more obscure songs
of Baudelaire, Jefferson and Yeats
these will free even the firmest
of corset-strung objections

But to truly reach the promised land
there is need to create one’s own
to wrestle the evening with nature’s muse
and tease a line between the sheets
Then, if you've still a mind
you can glance to see
if her clothes have been shed

But the sad and beautiful truth
is that poetry’s muse will suffer no others
rarely will that graceful form stay the course
she will leave to find yet another
that can keep them
coming
Written a few years ago, but I thought I would put it out.  Trying to expand my comfort zones, and perhaps this will be the impetus to reengage with my periodic muse
NeroameeAlucard Oct 2014
You may see a hodgepodge of wood electronics and strings
But to my eyes it's disguised as a beautiful wonderful thing,
I'm not sure what made me want to play but when I got one I found more than my voice that day,
They don't talk back they talk for me
They don't scream at me or nag, they scream my lungs out for me
Now I'm nowhere near any of the greats
But that's my brush with which I create
somberbitch Oct 2017
its complicated.
To be both oppressed and secluded.
Held captive in a life you do not desire,
whilst also being so unwelcome.
Ignored but watched over.
pushed away yet tied down.
To be given the tools to do anything,
but stripped from your limbs so that
all you can do is watch.
Watch the world around you radiate with colors,
colorblind.
Dreaming of the day you too can struggle to
find independence, never to complain
of being left out to fend for yourself.

'Its complicated' you tell them.

Yet here also, a burden.
A divider between happiness and the longing to do better.
Why?
I couldn't tell you even if i wanted to.
Trapped yet simultaneously destroying my keepers
sanity without having to lift a finger.
dating back circa: Age of computer antiquity
mine signature worthless gibberish
found Earthling dumbfounded
for further waste of time inquire
about trivial details constituting
more'n six electronic new pages
the following an excerpt from book of
Matthew Scott Harris.

Courtesy of AskJeeves,
and special acknowledgement
to Google search algorithm, this anachronistic
Travelocity bing Ray Orbitz son cent
reincarnate with good n Plenti
of LegalZoom dost Lyft
me Wii Progressive poise, an are dent
lee boosts bonhomie duty
BuzzFeed ding on Fancy Feast

honesty coalesces into Elements
of style – suitable
to Strunk n White accolade gent
he blogs a fictitious vignette
taking add Vonage of Samsung
a viz zit from Clark Kent
one kickstarter for
incredible computer software programs
and sturdy Mainframe he kin lent.

Particular pattering patois,
prompts pathetic ploy
per poetic provenance readers
attempt to plow headstrong
into skein of lettered litter thicket
of Vanity Fair verbiage,
y’all count Outlook incorporating
what he doth **** sitter
tubby hottest n coolest
common nanobots
pinging, skittering n thriving
within binary bitmap
digital boot not embittered, nor a quitter
an unseen electronic/
microscopic realm Weeknd
snapchat tweet and twitter.

Countless applications
constitutes information superhighway
(thanx Al Gore), this computer addict
plucked from wing

of broken kin prayer
while Samsung and Delilah -
hiz significant thing
hearty soulful byte size flickr
patented technological silent ringtone
signaling data communications packets
fueling hand held devices did ping.

Many automatic, cryptic,
esoteric, generic, intrinsic…et cetera
fiber optic pulsating stupefying vector
criss crossing, twas impossible
twin selection process
in virtual reality sector
which smattering of whatsapp
countless twenty first century human projector,
where computer applications anachronistically
don ensemble epistle
as mull logical nectar
I Trump petsmart
word smith re: scrivener effecter.

Shiloh Golong and describe,
which Apple of my eye
(amidst all the Core ****
sans millions of equally omitted,
yet equally appealing, enlivening,
incorporating, outsourcing Wans
et cetera populate virtual reality)
resonated within
Chrome moe so mull Bing vans?

Skype n Angry Bird If ya need
to take Avast break
please Compaq to this
Dell a where Century21,
Foursquare Hotmail seeks Joyus mirth
from Instagram Pennsylvania,
who (despite eternal Allianz
with Uber youth)
witnessed The Birth of Cosmos -
hiss story give or take
a million years, I remember
literate Geico caveman
discovering Victoria’s Secret
how Kindle took a Tumblr,
when Tinder lit Circuit City gone amiss!

This Earthlinked, Googly eyed
(brown), Hotmail wannabe
paperback writer
(pseudonym name Page Turner)
dwells in Bell Atlantic
thinking about notions as:
Airgas, Comcast, Excelon…. Verizon
plus responding to classified advertisements
x spearmint ting feigning myself
tubby Youtube star bachelor
hoop ping to dance with female stars
accidently twerk ma Sovereign
Palm Pilot size rear!
GailForceWinds Dec 2014
Paper is my canvas
A Paintbrush is my pen
I search for the right colors
To paint a beautiful scene
Blotches
Splatters
Smears
Paint thrown by the can
A rough texture surface
Spanning miles where the eye can't see
It’s a mural of my life
This hodgepodge I’ve created
Is me
Sam Temple May 2015
meandering stream of consciousness
flowing this way and that
without substance or context
just fleeting images of fantasy and memory
veritable hodgepodge of indiscriminate
out of the blur solid ideas begin to take shape
formless visions develop hard edges
as I slip deeper into the ether
aided by copious amounts of
ingestible cannabis  
and the belief that I am one
with the universe –
long dead relatives guide me
down pastel paths of cotton
as we float through and past
holographic pyramids
still stained from blood sacrifice
travelling faster and with purpose
tracers elongate
giving the illusion of streaming ribbons of neon
stretching in all directions
geometricizing the skyline
reminding me of the chemtrails
back in reality –
Michelle Garcia Nov 2014
we have faded
like the denim overalls
that belong to the haggard farmer
once a sturdy, deep blue
now tattered with fatigue
color melting away as did time
below the sun's scorching breath

we have faded
like pencil in an antique diary
formerly confided in with dismal feelings
once an intriguing charcoal artistry
now a hodgepodge of insincere gray
the pain receding away as did time
beneath weary shelves of dust bunnies

we have faded
like the end of a film
with the screen darkening by each dreaded
millisecond
once a glowing, vivid sight
now a parcel of despondent credits
slowly vanishing until every speck of light
has dissolved into an unfortunate nothing
...Yuletide pageants vis a vis merry go round revisited

healthy progeny regaled being alive
analogous to children ecstatic twenty-five
on December exhaling joie de vivre at dive
in into neat stack of wrapped gifts, when...
what! out of thin air more arrive.

Panoply of mystical elements of holly day house style
breathe prez sense frostily exhaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)

two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
the veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmas tree)
starry-eyed imagination

as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed the stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)

inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodgepodge, mish-mashed, helter skelter

eclectic December twenty-fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manichaeism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths

a brewed nebulous concoction
within a mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, wetting
disparate constituent beliefs

contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying a high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender PetSmart impact,
where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation,
flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated
viz Roman Sol Invictus

wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal Wiseman

punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into a fiendish frothing furnace

forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the mountain king,

whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths
sanctifying twisted brambles via sprinkling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter

unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy-washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed groupthink
disallowing cynics,

diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant recommended recourse
faced torture amidst a throng of the madding crowd

as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak

taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and wherefores, which controlled each green day
and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres

lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman
or child with flaming torches

licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
Sam Temple Jan 2016
vanishing memories
blend and meld
swirl and join
cornucopia
hodgepodge
abstract ideas
in hues of pastel
dance –
Meghan Q Apr 2013
Her footsteps are heavy because her heart
Won't let them be otherwise

Her head is hanging low because her soul
Is not strong enough to hold it high

Her hands are churning together because her stomach
Is full of knots she can't untie

Her voice wavers because her mind
Cannot stay steady if even for a moment

Her body is no longer a system working fluidly
But a hodgepodge of pieces trying to fit together

Her outside reflects her inside
A shattered mirror still intact but barely
Vernarth, after rescuing Valekiria, entered the Sacred Planetary Path, right here and later before 700,000 thousand souls who were lost in the Forest of Hylates, they were released from prison and they were given the offering of flowers in their hands agreed by a goblin on a Sycamore, going to the vicinity of Kourion, and then attached to the ship Eurydice, where the Auriferous Medallion was.
Hylates, was a worshiped god compared to Apollo, his name obeyed Apollo of the woods. Being a god of the forests, who were ritualized by their knowledge, they were condemned for harassing Vernarth. Much of this site of worship had immense monumental gardens, an atrium leading to the architecture of the Kourion and Paphos gate columns surrounding the grove sanctuary. Vernarth bathed in circular leaves in procession after Valekiria's chimera, after indulging him in the bath of golden holm oak flakes, which were shaped in dihedral cloisters of an invisible abbey. It was the appendix of an intuitive poetics molding the titanic epic fibers of Hylates and his spiritual nervousness that was extreme in the tectonic conditions of various continents on his sturdy anatolic layer; peroration of the afiolite rocks of the Troodos mountains, adorning itself on the oceanic mantle, as an idealistic geological process in the Hexagonal Birthright as a testimonial zone of Judah, which would be elongated from the earth's crust, here shortening and thickening by deformation and fracturing as a consequence of lateral tectonic forces. In this ****** over the Hylates Woods, the apparent calm of the island was seized, in earthquakes that Vernarth captured under the soles of his feet, taking him to the ocean bottom where the medallion guarded by the Christians rested. The concomitant range is a rigorous hodgepodge of cliffs and very heavy cliffs, incoherent and scattered that hung from the edges of Mesorea as a backdrop. The beauties he possessed were found in his hidden villages, nestled in hollows and valleys on the slopes, some rich with apple and vine trees, others higher up, covered with ferns and pines. The Troodos mountain range, once green abode of gods and goddesses, is now green with Vernarth Hetairoi.

Alikanto circles the foundations, dancing on them and their groves of sacred trees, procreating archaic altars in votive flagstones with their hooves, digging up terracotta and ceramic figurines with their hooves, riding below on a long street that goes from south to north leading to the Temple of Apollo Hylates, which was built in the Late Classic or Early Hellenistic period on the ruins of the Archaic temple, close to an arena where Alikanto cut off small roots of jubilant hemlock, trying to join the lacerated dance. Vernarth was still surrounding himself with his steed, in him he was overwhelmed by periphrasis by a sacred garden pilgrimage in alchemy of Hylates, that the priests who would carry from the treasure to the bottom of the sea, down the Eurydice with new codes of life.

While he could Vernarth brooded with the Mandragoras that were bellowing, dislocated by the black poplars and the willows that were linked to the winter solstice, and therefore with Pluto and Persephone who made solicitous incantations. But the nearby wells were burped, smearing the wooden and stone columns, causing structural damage, not being harmful determinants, only generating romantic and incorruptible their Christian apology.

Some decay falls in the temples, the reborn species collapse enslaved by the wealthy, unbalancing the mystique of Judah. Macedonian figuratives interviewed the epic narrative of past customs, based on familiarity and didactic Ionic customs. Vernarth illusively begins to decode the architectural relevance, to concentrate it on Patmos, fostering Ionic art, an ineffable inheritance after the arrangement of Etrestlés in the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, to the effect of the capitals that were preening again, since he generated it in the background sailor to approach the theologian. Vernarth as a builder and bricklayer retouches with his golden hands the public agoras, the pritaneion for the Hexagonal Progeny, in accordance with theaters of epic and religious scenic art, to render them to the funerary emissary. All this typology will be specified in all the circular planes, some called tholos, to be rectangular in Patmos with the prototype of the temple of Asclepios - epidaurus; God of Medicine, who will help him for his subsistence and final recovery of his epic chest. Here is the prosaic typewritten sphinx, which tends to bind him defenseless from his scattered objective time to the joys of building, badly shaping the inadequacies of fallen works, a product of his worn out neurotransmitters, a remnant of the most utilitarian and unencoded for greater time and investment of utility of limited period and space. They are felt in some surrounding areas, drums and major percussions, noticing how the changing of the guard of the Eurydice gold medallion took place.

They fall from the vital instruments of Asclepios, secreting certain neurotransmitter synthesis substances, giving Vernarth the peace of mind to stand inspired, as parallel to the exogenous architectural, to vindicate the architecture of his body shaped by lymphomas, receiving circular and rectangular axo shapes, traveling through the torrent of their innovation that wounds the iron of the fractality of their hoplite neuro architecture, having to redesign themselves before they travel to Rhodes, using the target stock target that stimulates their immune system. Upon being freed by this immediate precept, he communicates with the theologian Saint John to take note of the lines of architecture that will have definition once they are presented to Procoro on Patmos.

Says the Theologian: “the diffuse window that we have opened here in the forests of Hylates, characterize neuro-architectural communication, the destination of clairvoyance on other distant unofficial Eucharists. What ceiling supports the ubiquity of its origin, if the temples do not communicate with each other? Outside the dogmas and the interstitial space of the cells with agility they make the concessions demanded earlier, they are cells that carry missives between torrents of senses of nervous love, that neuro-build the bodies according to nature and the body that identifies the substance. We have already synthesized the phylogeny and that of its pre-classified chronogram in Gethsemane, now we will be teleported theologically through the ramifications of the Olive Tree Bern, towards the vesicles, which hope to be precursors of the body and soul of our progeny”

Etréstles joins the Ionian synapse channel, a precursor of sensuality and sensory politics that will end the ideological stores, releasing the parasitic cells that would drive the thick limestone and terracotta embankment that Alikanto had unearthed, of all the calcified particles that spread over the membranes of the Bern Olives, phosphorizing in the ranks of Christian gladiators, who emerged from the sea after the change of the medallion guard and their filamentous seats, unleashing the overrelief of the vices that fell from their moistened bodies, depolarizing and reacting with openings inhibitory to those who tried to observe them, as if hiding them from their past of slavery.

Leaving the Forest of Hylates, in the chronological sense of the classical orders of the Aegean, the sea currents moved like rafts towards the Cyclades, leaving the gale torrent of the Animoi and the Meltelmi, leaving the memories of the primogeniture graceful slender, like a great Canonical example burning in its stay like an acropolis, carrying the distant peculiarities of all molding, to touch a new one when passing through the winds massing on the boceles and enthais, anointing itself with occasional prismatic pieces, which made it seem the outstanding union of Trees with columns with stone roots base. The Ionic gaze of the forest of Hylates was modulated by channeling in the psalms of Saint John Theologian, like a filet of poetic urges increasing the size of their oval prayers, which intervened in the coral lights, engaging the sixth order of primogeniture, before of going for the medallion, causing the superimposed escape meditations of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who were still entrenched in their purposes, and of the rivalry with the Saltimbanqui, staggering through the submerged architrave, bathed by faint waves, transparent in the near the middle of some temples that could be seen submerged, a few meters submerged in the Kourion bay.

Heartless and devoid of new stereotypes, they passed by crossing the garlands of the Eurydice, which was already getting ready to install itself in the mask, Raeder and Petrobus perfectly recorded the images of the ship that floated on the string that held its bow together, pointing to the neat symmetry that met the expectations of being reunited with the precious gold medal, showered with new feats to those who redeemed it. Raeder was flying on Petrobus, but this time they plummeted to the bottom, where the massive gem slumbered, giving them praise for all who lined up like a great Miracle anchored in Limassol. They leave the Forest of Hylates, drenched in the golden sun, staining the sheds of the upper hatch that the Eurydice exhibited for them, with iridescent colors to take their captain.
HYLATES  FORESTS

— The End —