Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ambika Jois Nov 2016
When you know you've lived
the exact present you're living now before,
doesn't it make sense to think of it as though...
there is another part of you in another universe,
going through the same thing?

I believe in the multiverse theory,
for I cannot prove that we are not alone.
I believe there is a reason why
I feel the skies talk to me every night.

I believe someone's message is reaching me
through the beams of the moon every night.
My skin seeps it in
like a flower knows to bloom.

Ever think of a time difference
between one universe and the other?
What if we are born here on Earth and after we die,
our soul travels to another universe
and relives the same story?

What if...
we are a horcrux of our own soul
which is split up and placed
in different universes?
J Apr 2014
Why is hellopoetry.com black and white? I've always wondered about this... why my colorful photographs are required to travel back in time. How does this effect the poetry in any way, shape, or form? But I understand the wisdom of this design now. And it sets a great metaphor for all of the people of the pen involved in this truly noble motion, this secret society for people with passion, talent, and troubled minds and souls. Hello Poetry is black and white not because it has to be monochromatic and modern, but because us poets fill these pages with enough inovativeness and color already with our words, ideas, thoughts, songs, senryus, ballads, heartbreaks, insecurities, that adding literal color to this website would be overwhelming. These soft undertones of gray, black, and white may be considered drab and depressing to some, but to us poets it represents timelessness. And this is probably why we are all here. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly, or even yearly publishing poems. Because we all know we are not going to live forever, and we are so entirely insignificant in the broad scheme of things and of the universe itself, that it is a bit comforting and helpful to have this coping mechanism or soft blankie to calm our fears, that this literature we write, however insignificant it may be, is absolutley permanent. And that maybe someday it will be remembered so a small bit of us may live on. Tom Riddle knew the needs and wants of man kind before anybody else realized it. Maybe he was just trying to cope with the fact that he is insignificant. These poems are all our Horcruxes so *viveamus per camenam nostram.
^^^let us live through our poetry
Rahul Luthra Sep 2014
Let me tell you a story about a Boy
Who had a broomstick and a wand as his toy
But alas! Nothing ever goes right
The only thing the Boy remembers from his childhood is a flash of green light
He was orphaned at the age of one
Lily died protecting her son
And his mother's love was a magic he would always carry
His last name was Potter; his first name Harry...
He was the only one to survive the unforgivable curse
No one knew how the spell had fired in reverse
For baby Harry had survived this curse in his cot
The monster who had tried to **** him was Lord Voldemort
The only thing left behind by this curse was what made him special - his scar
But his non magic relatives who took him in lied that it was the result of the crash of a car
Muggles was the name given to these non magic folks
Magic would stare them in the eye and they would still call it a hoax
It was not till his 11th birthday that Harry discovered the truth
When the giant Hagrid broke down the door; a sight that would give nightmares to any youth
While they were all trying to make sense of this human-giant hybrid
'You're a wizard, Harry' revealed Hagrid
Now it all made sense to Harry; the strangeness, the magic
And no his parents did not die in a car; it was way more tragic
So now Harry finally began his seven years at Hogwarts
And it was ensured that the strangeness would multiply now onwards
Harry was surprised to find out that the whole wizarding world knew about him
They were surprised to find out that Harry was not spoiled, but good - natured and slim
So on 1st September Harry Potter boarded the Hogwarts Express
Those who saw him gave him a look of impress
On this train he made his first friends and foe
But that was Harry's new life - with them he would grow
Potions, Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts to name a few
Those were their subjects and to Harry they were completely new
Thee year passed by without him knowing
And before he knew it, it was already snowing
He became the youngest seeker in a 100 years
It was not until the end of the year that he faced his worst fears
The monster that had tried to **** him had returned
But Harry cheated death again though he almost burned
In the seven years he had many an adventure
The Forbidden Forest was a place he promised himself he would never again venture
He reunited with his Godfather who had been wrongly framed
Harry was the only one to pass out because of the dementors which made him extremely ashamed
The potions master he hated had a history very long
It was only after Snape died Harry realised about him he had been so wrong
Dumbledore's Army finally overthrew Umbridge's reign
The only potion that controlled Lupin was Wolfsbane
This poem has the story in a very haphazard plot
Harry found out how to end Lord Voldemort
For this all the Horcruxes had to be destroyed
This was possible due to Dobby - your argument is void
In these seven years Harry understood friendship and love
Oh and his patronus was a stag; not a rabbit or a dove
To succeed in life you needn't go a great length
Just turn your weakness into your strength
The scar wasn't a curse; it was his gift
This story is about The Boy Who Lived...
A Dash of Red Mar 2016
When I was four...
I lost my great grandmother.
Didn't know her well,
But it didn't take much to see she was a sweet, kind soul.
I stood in the rain and wind at her funeral,
Clinging to my mothers arms,
Staring at the coffin blankly, because I didn't know what else to do.

When I was eight...
I lost my best friend.
His hair was as fiery as mine,
We played at recess every day.
One day he stopped coming to school,
You only knew where he was if you asked,
That's how his parents wanted it.
He came back, once.
Balding, attached to an IV,
Just to watch us play one more time.
Then he was gone.
I still didn't know what to do.
The school put up a plaque in his name,
And planted him a tree to live on for him.

When I was eleven,
I lost someone who was like a second father to me.
He loved me and my mother,
And we loved him.
I never got to tell him that....
He was an alcoholic.
And, it ******* his heart.
My mom woke up to a dead man,
Took him to the hospital.
That night, she watched him being kept alive by machines,
And was told he had no chance of waking up.
She watched his family and friends make the decision to pull the plug.
I didn't know until later, I was with my biological father.
I didn't see my mom for a week.
I didn't eat or drink that whole time.
I was empty.
I didn't cry until they played his favorite song at the funeral,
A familiar one to me.
I sobbed quietly into my mother's lap,
Trying not to disturb the others.

That night,
I prayed for the first time,
Just to try and talk to him.


When I was fifteen,
A mere four months ago.
Nearly five.
I lost another friend,
Who I wish I knew better.
He battled cancer for a year.
We didn't see him for months on end,
Because he couldn't come to school.
And a month or so after he finally started getting better,
Coming back to school,
He got sick....
And his body couldn't handle it.
At first, I was more worried about making sure my other friends were okay,
And then it hit me.
I stayed with them in the counselor's office for the last half of the school day,
Crying,
Writing to him that I was sorry.
I cried the next day at his memorial,
And then at his funeral.
It still hits me sometimes,
Like waking up from a dream,
To find that life is a nightmare.
And I break all over again.

Just before that,
Another friend of mine,
Told me they only had two years left...
There were problems with a vital ***** of theirs,
And they were worsening.
I've had to secretly bear this,
No one else can know.
I'm waiting for that day to come.

A few days ago,
My current best friend,
My family,
Said they may only have a year left.
Internal wounds that wont heal,
Blood loss,
That's all I can think.
If the doctors can't fix this...
Who can?

Slowly,
I've been losing pieces of myself,
Giving it to them,
Horcruxes, if you will,
And when they leave this world behind,
So does that part of me...
Each person that dies hurts worse than the last,
Because it's just adding onto the pile of pain,
That I can't get over.
I hardly have the strength to hold on to who I am anymore...

*Why can't I be next in line instead?
I don't endorse suicide, just so you know.
I'm also a hypocrite.
anurag mishra May 2016
Here he comes,
with united forces.
Trelawney did a prediction,
the boy born at end of month,
ends your action.
The dark lord wanted to be immortal,
so he killed a mortal.
Not the boy but this father.
he tried to **** the boy.
“Avada kedavra” He shouted ,
but the spell rebounded.
Dark lord was killed .
Every one  was in riddle,
come back tom riddle.
Years passed,
history repeats,
forces re-unite.
Harry and friends destroying the horcruxes.
Again he shouts”Avada kedavra”.
And finally,
Gone are the horcruxes,
gone are the death eaters
and gone is the dark lord.

(Well i want to say something i don't fear his name. He's VOLDEMORT!!!!)
jack of spades Jul 2015
I'm an extrovert.
We aren't really romanticized in pop culture. Chances are,
your protagonist is a cute introverted girl who has
everyone secretly swooning over her,
but her best friend sidekick is outgoing and talkative.
We autorelate "extrovert" to red solo cups and heavy synthesized bass lines and...
well,
frat boys.
The unpleasant, obnoxious kind. (The ninety-nine percent.)
I guess it's understandable sometimes to see where you're coming from with this assumption, but
let's learn to revise.
Introverts recharge by being alone, but if I'm in a group and suddenly find myself faced with an empty home,
it's like all the oxygen has been ****** from my lungs and shattered my soul.
Being alone means thinking too much and we all know what thinking too much does (--so maybe extroverts need loud music and red solo cups--)
I don't get how someone finds it refreshing, silence and being stuck in your own head, but that's probably because I'm not an introvert and you're not an extrovert and I'd rather have a body than a body pillow next to me in my unmade bed. I like people.
When kids are wearing t-shirts proclaiming the opposite, I get it.
It's pop culture,
it's in to be out but being by myself is when I'm most out of it.
It's hard for me to consistently text you back but believe me when I feel like my brain is about to collapse I'd like to lessen the collateral damage.
After that, I'll start up ten different conversations with three different friends but all of them are introverts whose sleep schedules are inverted from mine, triple check the time, see it with your own eyes, life keeps tick
tick
ticking by and I feel stuck on the sidelines.
I forget to feed myself sometimes (most nights.)
I'm a people person dragged into my own mind that
I forget how to take care of myself.
I'm a people person who can't make friends last to save my life,
forget it if they're already acquainted.
All my friends think they're hated by all my other friends--
You two don't know each other, totally polar social circles, but I know each of you like pieces of my soul,
and I make Horcruxes not from ****** but from memories of late nights and falling asleep on the phone,
out of control
we need something to hold,
so we falsify lasting lovers to have some control over,
like empty stomachs that can't leave us until we say so,
like long showers that can't end until we decide it's us, not them, we should take a break from each other for a while,
like bed sheets that act as open arms holding us until we toss and turn into sleep and asking us to stay a little bit longer in the mornings.
I'm an extrovert.
I can't really explain exactly what that means to me specifically or simply,
it's just that being alone makes me feel lonely,
and nothing on the Internet will ever help me with that.
Yasha Harkness Apr 2015
Two shattered parts of me long for you
One breaks down again and again
servos whirring yet unable to function
Another rages at the audacity
of your accusations, your insecurity
making ridicule of my devotion
Yet another furious at myself
for giving in to the lure of love
for forgetting the inherent risks
for foolishly clinging beyond the point
to which you could stand
The sixth part attempts to reconstruct
clearing debris from broken past-loves
trying, hesitantly, to repair the damage
you created in the surface of my soul

**The seventh part is dead.
It died when you left.
It was buried in the grave i dug
In which you forever sleep.
the soul of a writer can be found
in words
s cr
ib
b led on
crumplednapkins -- like horcruxes--
when sleep feels like a far off dream (when people watch you, wondering if you are strung out on coke while you scratch words on these thin sheets of paper in restrauntsbarscoffeshops
half
mad
eyes glassy)
in discernible handwriting comparable
to some
primitive
hieroglyphics-- a language of voices in your head and dreams too vivid
they can be found on the backs of hands
and journals
and popcornbags
when nightlights are too dim in the early hours of insomnia
and moonlight is obscured by curtains
in drinks like london fogs
and ***** chais
and black coffee
and black tea
in packs of empty
American Spirits
and half-full (empty) gas tanks
and piles of books that will never be read that will be re-read and quoted
and tweed scarves and
empty journals and chipped nail polish
in dead pens and phones
in unanswered texts, emails, messages
and unrequited love
their souls can be found in the
stained
bottoms of coffecups
and sticky shot glasses
and wine glasses (some still half full of cheap
redwhitezinfadel
because rent is hard to pay
when no one wants to
read words
scribbled on the back of a napkin
Batool Jan 2016
The words she scribbled
were not about her
but still
they concealed a part of her soul
because
they were her horcrux !!
For all her life
she waited for someone
who'd read all
of her writings
to find her pieces
and put them together
to make her whole
but no one ever tried
so she lived
entrapped in her
horcruxes
as a prisoner of immortality !!
Rowan Sep 2018
There's a huge bean bag in the corner
the color of rusted tree
and a white painted outline to hold two drawers
of colorful condoms next to the Keurig Machine.
Three circular winded fanciful lights strung above,
shedding semicircular splotches on the walls.
Looking out on the Brooklyn Bridge in the 1893
painted on in black and grey haunts.
There's a magnetic pillar to the left of the too-deep chairs
that at least are comfortable,
but no one has legs that long.
A magazine rack to the right lends a variety of color, from
Love Match to Lavender, it's a mismatch island.
Smells like plastic and a cold air, with a hint of college sweat.
And there's the squeaky roller chair full of business textbooks and drawings of pigeons and bitten fingernails and arms that lead to the edges of the paper.
Masked with worn All Star sketchers and three clocks ticking,
Long labored skies and horcruxes gathered round the edges.
Yet somehow with all the oddities combined,
it's safe and sound under the flag including.
Jeremy Betts May 30
I removed my heart to keep it safe from those who label me heartless
I'm no good at noticing the double edged, backstabbing nonsense
I shattered my own heart, tore it apart, and put each piece in their separate compartments
An interesting story plot borrowed from Tom Riddles Lord Voldemort, I have my own horcruxes
Oh but I don't want to live forever
Just need a little relief lever
And make it harder to get at my more fragile components

©2024
No kidding.
Someone,
under cover of night
or another invisibility cloak
or thanks to those goblins in Gringotts,
sneaked into Bellatrix’s bank vault
and stole the sword of Gryffindor.

What do you do with
a sword of that caliber?
Do you use it to help
the house elves in the kitchen?
Slicing bread, chopping vegetables, and cutting meat while they stare at you in awe?

Or set it on the shelf in the headmaster’s office
the same shelf above the beautiful fire Phoenix
you watched explode.
Place it next to the snapshot of Dumbledore,
smiling and winking at you
and make tiresome jokes about how it belonged to
Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.

Or do you tuck it in the bottom of the sorting hat that placed you into Gryffindor in the first place,
wrapped in the scarf Fawkes brought you from
Dumbledore’s office?
Do you take it out when you need to defeat the basilisk or stab some horcruxes and you don’t have a venomous fang to use instead?

And do you think there in your common room,
with the dementors circling around the school, and
He Who Shall Not Be Named back again, that you could wield the sword and think you’re the
Chosen One?
This was a poetry assignment in my English class. We each had the same format and started with the topic “somebody stole...” this was my idea.
Cíara McNamara May 2015
Seven has an entirety about it,
a hidden wholesome within its meaning -
days, story-telling, sins and the word of Him.
The number beholding something greater
that can truly be perceived.

Seven has another meaning, a secret
only known by me -
the age when my home was broken,
the times that he hit me,
before the beating came to a stop.

There a seven pieces of me
which make me whole.
Not horcruxes, but physical segments.

My past and present,
the writer and the fighter,
the dream-daughter and the friend,
seven being the demon,
to which all the others attend.
Farhan Ahmed Dec 2018
Spent years growing up
In a dilema, holding a cup
Of tea,
Which i shared with a man
Sitting next to me
Endless words to let out
But busy as i scout
My soul, as she lives inside
Gods gifts, my pride
Like horcruxes reside
No! Not from sins
But from wins of He
The gaze locks on the rays
Tempts me to find ways
To my heart; where my old lady
Scolds me being lazy
I smile! memories brought back
As today I walk on this track
You! If you could hear me too
I am a mother now! Mother of two
I may not be able to feel how a women feels when she becomes a mother. But maybe at some point she thinks the same way remembering her own.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2023
hmm... what's "mote" up to, i wonder?
her usual bathtub god analogies
like... **** me... Edith... no Sylvia Plath
put her apple pie into the oven
instead of: reminiscence of guillotine
imitation: into the ******* oven?
how's "mote"?

what a weird /ˌmeɪnɑːʒ ɑː ˈtrwɑː,

   esp with the flirting on the train...
menopause of 50 year old women
and the ferocity of *** in males
still proposing aged 37...

ugly mothers, soul searching...
i did my psychedelic limbo of lobotomy
when diagnosed as psychotic
yet still freely available to freelance
the ancients' practices of surrogacy
because i liked Reyla
and her version of hide and seek
with three stones thrown into a pull
dive & seek... dive & seek...
horcruxes or... that other parallel...
of giving up your love to people
without killing them...

yummy... ******* yummy...
this is me watching the miracle of
India hosting the world cup of cricket
playing so well while
Diesel Australia played so **** but had
coffee or amphetamines at the final
and won...
just like i supported the Springboks on
Kauai'i... not in Kauai'i...
doof-oos... it's ON rather than IN...
island fuckery...

ah... i'm an artist at hand so i'm all:
tender-*******-sensitive with an aversion
to journalism (critique)
and the whole SHABANG on Pulitzer prize
give-aways...

i'll be drunk by 5pm and asleep by 6pm...

no! India shouldn't habe... HA B'EH won...
don't know... ask Loki or chance or fate or
who-the-*******-else-cares
to treat reality with sugar, salt or spice...
it doesn't matter...
there's reason in unreasoning "things"...
less so with the concern for names:
associative faces... oh... i recognise X...
algebra of familiarity...

like explaining to some Fawad Ahmed douch
about the difference between
the Ukraine Russia conflict and
the Israeli Palestinian conflict...
watch my elbow... it's about to do
a nervous ****... oi oi oink... pretty ink white as
the new pink... oi!

but we can be neutral with the Israeli
brigadiers... of bomb bomb hospitals...
decapitating unborn foetus?!
why is the war in Ukraine unlike
the rekindling of the war in the middle of **** know's
where?
you can't be pro-Russia...
but you can be pro-Israel...
maybe the ****** in me and the...

hardly a question of i.q.
intelligence quotient can be replaced
with: a question of intelligence... a per se Rubik
cube dynamic, per se...
you ******* stupid enough...
"******"-myopic ******* to ask
a question, the question: oculus per oculus,
an eye for an eye definition of...
******* fair bureaucratic alliance to
the thrill of Heraclitus' river?

oh wow... a glimmer of soul...
a cactus warming juice just so squeezed...
a window of azure in the sky... soul...
with the murk of overcast skies that's
the signature symptom of England...
i should have never left these isles
for happy sloppy Elvis was puffy
matras of Hawaii...
i shouldn't have played the stepdad
because it's bringing me: the **** down...

my intelligence has become a burden...
i can spent this day without eating...
i'll drink and go to sleep...
my empathy is a crutch...
my mother tells me i have a good heart:
well... the only heart i know and own...
owning is knowing...

i'm just tired, as a northern European,
of hearing the dicta of miraculous wisdom
of a desert people who can't tell
the ******* difference between
the noun hoof and the verb meow...
just so, at a supermarket...
maybe read "too late"...

  i like rugby... so i wear a south african rugby
jersey...
two black girls at the trolleys...
walk past, kiss of the teeth...
the ****?
oh right... impossible bypass...
what now? now i have to reply with:
by picking my nose you shouldn't
be here, because south africans shouldn't
be in south africa?
picking ******* cotton is not coal mining...

although, rest assured... no chocolate allure
in pigmenting coal... ***** plump ***:
oh oh i get it... "black" women angry...
so is the wind...
now i too want to drink myself into
a savvy slurp of the right kind of optics,
political, sign-language stereotyping...
BLAH BLEE        BUSY-BEE...
******'s with Raj style: oh but we lost the world
cup in cricket: compensate compensate
because Pakistan is not privy
to what Bangladesh is honing in on(!)

oh... i wasn't accused of being a pedohpile...
it was just... ever, so, not so subtly... insinuated...
well **** me: JESUS LOVES IS SUPPOSED
TO LOVE EVERYONE AND EVERYONE
NEEDS THIS SORT OF LOVE OF SADOMASOCHISM!

**** this camel jockey ethic sharing
dynamo of the desert people...
like the Holocaust didn't teach them anything...
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
after two poems of mine turned into horcruxes...
gone... fizzled out...
unsaved... stashed in the draft section...
at least one...
my heart ripped out and sliced up...
i don't even know whether or not they were
any good... but sure as ****: they felt good
having written them...
502 bad gateway... what what drug?
                    or that whole ctrl + c fiasco...
- only today i came to the realisation that...
there's only one thing superior to getting
drunk...
while watching roaming stars at night...
and of course sister Luna...
it's... sobering up... while cycling...
esp. into central London...
just so you know... i'm all for narratives...
and seeing so many faces all at once...
placebo solipsism on each and every face...
before there's an "encounter"...
like today... a faulty back-break...
the just-eat guy started to sir me for attention
catching up to me near Liverpool St. station...
we got off our bicycles
and... come to think of it...
i started to gesticulate with my hands
more than i'd otherwise like to...
do we gesticulate with our hands less
when people have become more familiar to us?
otherwise, no:
a faulty break on a bicycle...
the eyes and the tongue were not enough
to express my plight at being unable to help him...
or fix the bicycle...
my hands were expressing what i was already
saying: i wish i could help you...
but i have not tools...
- do you know any shop handy, nearby...
that might address my conundrum...
- i've cycled all the way from Essex...
i might have spatial awareness to greatly respect /
admire traffic...
but a bicycle shop that does on the spot repairs?
haven't the foggiest...
but... since it's your back-break that's broken...
while the front-break still works...
- so i showed him how he should take is slower...
for fear of "capsizing"... going over the bar...

  to exist is to be seen...
what's not to like about third person subjectivity...
is that... objective... enough?
respectable language use in the realm
of essay?
i was probably seen doing my highly antiquated:
robot stranger meets robot stranger...
in the great antithesis of the forest
that's the whole concreteness of: concrete of
the London pave-
      well... there's also a river... "somewhere"...

yes... there's only one sensation on par if not
superior to getting drunk...
cycling... having ***** of brass when a roundabout
comes "to mind"...
or a dual-carriageway where i guess i average
a speed of 30mph...

after a long session the night before...
oh god... how much balances on
ingesting that "hair of the dog"
bottle of cider...
  bowel movements at least... equilibrated...
or rather: like a bear at the end of his
foraging run of binge... topping up with
plug-hole fibre - & fibrous stuff... fur etc.

- why is it that i don't dream...
i can't remember the last time i had an elaborate
labyrinth to "work" with...
most of the time it was a dream about
my mouth & esp. teeth...
bones are eternal?

end of this meditation...
there's nothing more sublime than getting drunk...
esp. when writing...
a welcome distraction: "distraction":
well... so i don't turn into a *******
pickle...
but sobering up while cycling...
it's not a Beckettesque-Freudian mash-up
mind you...
that thrill of momentum...
that thrill of having to respect
larger... bolder: IN BOLD objects...
on the roundabout utilising them...
mostly buses...
or those 100 or so cigarettes inhaled when
cycling into heavily urbanised
"recesses" of welcome observational
stampedes of time in passing...

Brick Lane has become a favourite of mine...
for some obvious reasons when
i was only welcome to use the
centipede... like a proper tourist in London...
on m'ah ******* bike...
i never saw so much of the nitty-gritty
details of this city...
teasing all the streets with
embassies: proud dogs... flags flipping
and dangling in the wind...
queer in their own pompous extension
in this, here, a foreign land...

1 mile shy from havering-atte-bower...
to these kaleidoscope streets...
of inner congestion, coagulation...
and constipation...
so many faces to read...
so many lives to trace...
so much: forgetfulness...
      on my part... and their part too...
it's not like i want to forget
the pedestrian aspect of life...
but i'm on a road minding larger
objects: indicating when prompted
concerning the flow of the "river"...
while there "they" are...
the happily pedestrian...
  pedestrian-ised?
  stretching it... i know i am...

i've had so little of a prospect of continued ***
that... i had to seek alternatives...
drinking became the 2nd best alternative:
there's only so much you can spend
in a brothel before the objects dissolve
and a subject-matter comes begging...
sure... they'd say things like
'but you haven't changed...'
'you're a good man...'

i pity my genes... and that whole atheistic rhetoric
for what's worth what...
apparently nothing that might unhinge
me and turn me into a dark triad imitation prone:
ambition goading wriggle...
no signature...

    all of this... and nothing more...
i believe this has been a most eventful day...
a day: the least.
the ever-distracting daydream is a form of presence
   says the window
my hand unconsciously crafts doodles
before averting back to words



if I were a poem
I would be everything
  in between the letters
unseen and often misunderstood
to feel me
    you would need to let go
of meaning
           float off paper
     beyond lines
through open airwaves
   don't try to read me
   I need to be heard

if I were a poem
            [wait what]

if I were a poem
            [yo, did you hear that]

if I were a poem
my stanzas would be disjointed puzzle pieces
horcruxes spread to different verses
each with a fractal of spirit
  but never the whole
put me together at the end
for the big picture
    I wouldn't make sense along the way
I would hold magic in my brokeness
enough power in my message to build
  ...and destroy
      ...and rebuild again

there would be so many gaps
you would wonder where the years went
  come and go as they please
I would only speak when silence requested
my composition would paint
           Surreal Renaissance Futurism
                     yea... make that make sense...

if I were a poem
I would allude to imaginary numbers
and friends
fictitious characters and places
just outside that window pane
            like [c'mon you saw that]

side-quest-obsessed
catch me on a tangent
lost in a daze
   days     hours     minutes     seconds
catch me relative
just like the hands of time

if I were a poem
I would require second chances
  over and over and over again
but I'd be worth it
  be worth the suspended disbelief
just for the amusement of it all

if I were a poem...

g@#dgvxdbyhix&*u@ggcuybbdjhgus$%
sometimes my ego overpowers my mind
therefore i muddle
with a mind-body duality
all i have it a ego-mind duality
but i find a distinction between mind and body
instead of a duality i find
a dichotomy:

i'm looking back on yesterday's
transcendental
and looking forward to the same deja vu transcendental
when the Boss will play his second
show:

he just shouted the following words
on repeat: DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
DO YOU FEEL THE SPIRIT!
i was also amazed by my coworkers
talking a bout Biblical things:
like how Lilith was the first wife
of Adam
and Eva is just a cover story...

no sonic hangover headache after a gig
transcendental
i used to drink too much then smoke
now i drink a little and smoke a little
and finish the night of with writing
and a little bit more drinking
and i think i found equilibrium
and as i went to the brothel:
i massaged my girl into telling me about her
past:
where there big *****:
i know Jason, I know Jeff and i know Peter...
these are the three men in my life too
especially Jason:
the drug addict father of my Reyla
who died prematurely...
i think i went to the brothel to get some
spirit...
some taboo and some
i just want to write about my personal life
and have a friction-fiction: autobriography
is FRICTION-FICTION
like there is science-fiction:
there's the beggars belief at all that's been
announced by humanity:
it beggars belief with a little helix

                 of poem
                 like so
                 someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
someone who she could just talk to...
Bruce gave me the spirit:
which was her New Jersey American
borrowed from Poland and Puerto Rico
and sent to Polynesia...
and i'm supposed to go over there
and wake up a sleeping volcano
like all that cinematic spark of ***
the French looked so pale pale pale
pale with their idea of how to open
the Olympic games...
then again maybe some French speaking
people are reading me
and 100 years when the translations
of these words appear
and first Poland since that's where i have
my serpents tongue and the Tree
i perch on: YHYH: yahyah...
no more yahweh:
just yahyah:
to compliment Allah: YHYH...

i went to the brothel and ended up massaging
a ******* to sleep...
i went to the brothel and ended up massaging
a ******* to sleep...
i told her: i walked out with a LIMP BISCUIT
of a ****
a Sargent McVitties dipped in Afternoon Tea...
in'shalla biz-mc

                      so i massaged and it was like massaging
Reyla's body...
she was 20 years old and her body was
that of Reyla's:
Reyla's proportions:
i think i was making a Baptism
to avert your eyes
should you imagine me ******* your daughter:
all that pain i understand
but i really wanted to show you
the nightmare of me even thinking!
even thinking! that i could have *** with your
daughter: imagine!
i don't have to: i walked through the nightmare!
i went to the brothel
looking for a Reyla-body-type:
and ******* = priest
******* = priest:
i am Catholic! i'm never going to be a convert:
a PROSELYTE!
i was making confession!
this is how a Catholic performs confession!
not in the Church! not to a man!
i was confessing to a woman
about... oh: you know! another ******* woman!
i went to the brothel to:
the church is off limits for me!
the church is off limits for me!
i can't enter the church!
my church is the brothel!
find me there: confessing to women
with a limp **** because i found
one special one...
i went to find a Reyla-android de facto:
in situ: minds detached:
both: bodies in despair:
not necessarily one sided:
i didn't get my rocks off...

               i'm a man and she's not my body
type: she's not mother to become
matriarch
she's just a maiden
and i don't like Valkyries...
i'm not aroused by them...
Reyla is a Valkyrie and i need
a hot juicy momma:
i need an URSULA...
i want little girls and little boys to flourish:
i'm getting paranoid again:
i was not briefed at work!
i know how to talk to drunk people
i allow for personal space breaches:
this drunk and drunk me
we danced
we had body man body testing
other confessional booth:
the Coliseum:
my church is a no go zone
i repent in the brothel
and confess
then i pass on the information of what
i learned in the Coliseum...
that's how i operate:

the Paris Olympics opening ceremony:
i love that city
all my love belongs to romancing
Paris:
there: i want to be buried and begin
life again as Tree:
then a mutation transit: by-come-time:
to supervise allowances
in spirit the lifespans of insects
then squids and dull dug out
dumb faces of rocks personified with scratching
like petting cats:
all smiley...

             so i basically couldn't **** Reyla:
i have a **** lock on a teenage:
petite girl: weird body shape...
with prostitutes that sizes and shape i can massage:
with the girl i can bear wrestle:
maybe this girls playing sport is gay:
just gay:
maybe she just needs the scent of male hormones...
maybe grandma: move move!
let Matthew come over...
mum keeps her ostrich and blah blah
they talk and talk and talk...
talk: grandma! they're talking all the time!
maybe Reyla:
i see a gilded path in wheat fields:
later by humans grappling with sun turning
the semi-copper hue to tinge:

         Mary Harrington: funny laugh...
reminded me of Stephanie...
worked with her last night:
do i work many venues?
blah blah... then a twitch: i could tell she
was a *****
a federal...
           she acted funny in the elevator
with all the other black guys...
i didn't pick up the origin of the conversation:
but i think the black guys
were insinuating:
you're super intelligent:
you just met your super intelligence guy
and there was no immediate crush:
but it was there i was showing off my toy boy screen
of the compact smart phone
i really thought i might see Karl Ove Knausaard
in the crowd:
dancing in the dark: i seriously can't finish volume 6
i can't finish the Pickwick Papers
i just can't: i want to leave those books for
retirement...

yes, Edie, i ****** Reyla's body size: well: ******:
are we clear about that i find sexually
arousing? can grandma know:
i need for the matriarch to know
that i couldn't **** a Reyla type:
i had to massage a body type...
experience: wholesomeness:
the rustic belt of a woman is her personality
and volume:
and all that volume of hospice...

         can the matriarch just feel safe
by my limping around Reyla
and keeping her as a child
actually discovering myself as child
i have aged with all that's to be learned
but that last bicycle shop in Hornchurch broke me!
oh... we haven't ordered spokes since
the pandemic...
at a different shop: shh... Halfords:
the bicycle technician will be back in 2 weeks:
young kids behind the counter
actors of no-profession...
  
  gigging it out... each spoke replacement:
cheapest at $15... but the guy replaces the spoke
and moans
wants to be out of business:
because the inner tubing where you inflate:
the ******:
is not protruding
and he didn't put the ******* inflatable in correctly!
moans! but it's so easy to do!
yes... and today i invested in a tool
that's used in removing the cassette
so i can get past the guard
and replace the spoke...

the Boss: i can fix my own bicycle
i could get Ross' ******* bearings fixed
if i was given enough time with you and Reyla
and feel like a father
than feeling this horrid prolonged awakening
of being a son!
do you understand me!

do you hear me?!
i don 't think so:
i think i have to interrupt you sometimes:
you need to hear me!
i don't think you sometimes hear me!
you didn't hear me
when i said why i went to the brothel
and looked for a Reyla
and said: this ******* had bruises
on her ***:
she wasn't just working the brothel
she was making grotesque movies on the side:
unless she just like: clearly no:
she collapsed under her own body:
but i couldn't possibly...

and then transcendental happens around me:
the phenomenon of the monism Chapel...
if i can't enter the church:
**** me: i need to find myself a Chapel
of the phenomenon of monism...
given that monism needs a partner:
to compensate there being not dualism:
the ego and i think
ha ha: that's how ancient Latin becomes
translated into modern English:
the ego i think
therefore?
the ego therefore an ego
to contradict Descartes...
definitely in one's mind: so horridly so:
or? indefinitely in one's mind...
best...
since also definitely in this world as a temporal
impasse of perfect timing:
but also so indefinitely in this world since
about to die...
but none of such joy among gods:
gods are non-transcendental creatures
who sometimes become mortals at their perils:
but they can't seem to help themselves:
mortality is a jealousy of the creation
while the creative immortalize jealousy
and so jealousy creates the immortals...
and blah blah...

                                 me and Boss Bruce...
my American girlfriend:
i never thought i'd get one:
had an Australian one a Russian one a French one...
oh i can make her jealous too of the creviv
mega shlong...
but talk? no talk?! talk... no talk?!
it's like having ***:
i detested bilingualism in the bedroom:
it was like having an ****:
it would be nice for the children:
3 tongues perhaps 4 to share...
but in the bedroom?
Hell!

i speak 2 she speaks 1 isn't that enough?
it could have worked with Promis
but then i wasn't really, honestly:
excited about her:
Samuel did tell me what i was already
thinking: Tweety Bird...
seriously! that was just that:
she was the fresh blood from Australia
and i was the lurch the sneer
the Ugly Duckling with the girls
in high school then i grew my hair long
and blah blah
but she did: does: look like a caricature:
Tweety Bird...
and she was tall: 6ft... i was the only available
6ft3 in the vicinity:
we only dated because of reality
and how compatible we were: in the dimension
of Darwinism... of youth...
youth, madness, learning:
and the basics of preservation:
trans-humanism: very much so...
i couldn't find a sparring partner of a good conversation:
Promis wasn't certainly enough for me...
and someone like that:
who you don't talk to more easily or just about
right when having ***:
will have babies and then deplete the curiosity for
vivo per se...
i saved Promis from making a bad mistake...

Ilona made the bad mistake
while Isabella was like a daughter...
my first and my vampire of testimony for
fighting for an IDEAL
to be later replaced with IDEALISM...
if the IDeal was Isabella
then EDie is the idealism...

                hard to conflate me with cheating
investing
the VERCRUX: need i remind?
i was never a fan of HArry Potter:
but i'm a fan of some ideas in the story:
notably the HORCRUX:
which is?

        the horcrux is your soul: hidden:
of the people you have killed...

a vercrux: verily: verily: the soul
you have hidden in people you have loved!
which they turn into horcruxes
with the items they still possess that
once you owned.

i have several: both of Edie and Reyla:
Reyla hid a proper horcrux:
a golden bracelet with an R hanging off it:
she played a game beyond chess
and i too found it fascinating how she behaved
in a way i behave with a computer
model
when playing AI of chess:
AI of chess is different to the current AI...
post-office of the internet of the algorithm
that's what current AI is...

the death of the encyclopedia is AI
nothing more...
just as the algorithm was the death of the encyclopedia:
even bots have their chores...

— The End —