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Ahmad Cox Apr 2012
There are some things in this world
That can't be explained
Life's little inconsistencies
That seems to plague us
Sometimes it can feel like
The world is upside down
It can get easy to get caught up
Living in inconsistencies
Moving away from the reality
Living our lives backwards
Not really understanding
Exactly where we are supposed to be
But when you start to line yourself up
And once you start to understand
That life shouldn't be forfeit for pride
For greed
For power
For personal gain
Out of anger
Out of fear
Out of ignorance
People are living lost
Moving backwards
From where they should be
Harming themselves
And often others in the process
But we must learn to live in reality
And step away from the inconsistencies
That cloud us from where we should be
Janette Jan 2013
So say these rooms are darker
than you remember, these distances
between bones, so deceiving,
the syntax of castanets at the windowsill
swell all the cells with silk,
my body sun burnt
and translucent as moth wings,
bring the viral inconsistencies in the sternum
to anchor my reddened limbs
into the desperate ***** of the heart...

Where I gather milk and moonlight
at night, the phantom
tantra of your lips, open
my mouth as deliberate
as the throat swollen with rain,
remembers how your kiss
takes to cold, at the collarbone,
something slender and unlaced,
your mouth, a length of silver chain
wound about the impossible symmetry of my dress
made entirely of vowels,
dried roses caught in its hem,
baby's breath tangled and dangling from my hair...

See how the body becomes an apology,
bending into an alabaster suicide,
its entreaties carved into the heart,
in the tar at my shoulders,
and now, how the fibula splits open,
feathered, I am this dark seed across a canvas,
a furthering, azaleas harboured
in the languid anklebone, and sudden water
gathers at my hem, bears the scent of hurricanes
and lilies, all this mayhem in the cells,
begin to loosen its wreckage, the rough
of your hands, river-wild and dark,
cool against my cheek, the ropes
of your arms bind the moment, opaque,
and I lose my way among the hours,
dimly lit through the damask curtains,
the windows are veiled by a steady rain,
and in my famine, I swallow enough of this gin
to drown, the dark collects in my mouth,
as the muslin flesh presses the seams of my dress
in blackened promises, of milkweed and almonds...

Thursday, at last,
and there are sonnets in my hair,
these hours are so rare, the indigo
in our roses spread like bruises,
as you weave poetry into the hemp of a collar,
my wrists, all Indian burns and snakebites,
snap beneath the jungle gym
where lilacs burst against the barbed fence,
the light swallows the seconds
and how my face is hollowed by shadow,
moths beating themselves, merciless
against the porch light, as you still, your body
listens to the gentle burning in my bared forearms,
the taste of copper, the risk
of skinned knees that bleed
in the lull of nightfall,
when I begin to braid
my daughters hair, fireflies
in a glass jar, at the panes, dizzy
and wanting, whisper their pale accusations,
left scrawled in the margins,
in a drier season, I tear out
the furious passages of my body,
and survive solely on ritual milk baths,
as lips allow in a liquid innocence,
though it takes more than this to drown,
the giving in, a tangle of amber braids
in the undercurrents, there is a gentle tedium
to my hair between your fingers, my throat
beneath your thumbs, a thickening
of immaculate tethers to bind the seizures about your lap,
the octaves tremor, like cicadas,
all those days in the ground, the damp wrinkle
of their wings, years I have been hiding
the bones in the words, as the syntax
of sorrow and jazz darken the windows of this room,
on a day that can go no further....
Harley Oliver Oct 2014
half a cup of
a two toned muse
yeilds a quarter of
a sultry pair of cat eyes
& a tragic obsession
with princess serenity
stirred in with a dash of inconsistencies
and every teenage boys dream
under the heat of a mistress gaze
correcting grammar and errors
mixed in with your matching blacks,
& a quarter dozen
of féline decor
with shoes to complement
toss in a diamond ring
throughly wrapped around
your annulus finger &
indulge it with
strange behavior then
top it off with a silky whip
to accommodate
the quenching fluid of
a ******* *****
October 18, 2013
Tommy Randell Nov 2014
I, Now, Here, The Future, This Month, Next Door;
This Chair, The House Over There, Thus;
Sulphur, Spherical, Eighty-two, Angrily;
Brutus killed Caesar by stabbing Him.

Rules are sometimes broken. If I tell you
That and That are That, and That because There it is,
Carelessness leads to Referential failure;
Brutus caused Caesar to die.

Schizophrenia is curable;
It’s not true that Schizophrenia is curable.
The Key is in the box by the phone;
If that Man’s Father is my Father’s Son.

The tableau runs to unfortunate intention
In an attempt to form a logic of likelihood;
Windowless wrong meanings slide probably;
The needle must be somewhere in this room.

I have always been an idealist,
A closed tableau; therefore, inconsistent.
The constituents are then the same as before, except
The number march disappears; Brutus, too.

It is easy to generate bogus inconsistencies
By ignoring lexical ambiguities,
But maybe Truth itself with sword uplifted
Has degrees and blurred edges;

Happy, Expressive, Heavy, Unpleasant;
Square, Perfect, Smooth, Daily;
The differences lie in the emphasis alone,
Borderline cases and bizarre situations.
Having spent many weeks collecting 'random' numbers from bus tickets and etc they were systematically applied to shelves of books in my room in a pre-determined manner to locate and select words and phrases which I then assembled into this poem.
Traveler Mar 2015
I shed a tear
When Judas died
It buried my heart in grief
I had fallen in love
With an ancient lie
And drowned in beliefs

Inconsistencies
Yet devoted
I followed your deity
With selfish motives

In times of trouble
I pledged my soul
Oh how it made
So much sense
So many years ago

The distortion fades
As I bleed the light away
What is this strangeness
That my heart just can't convey

So many galaxies
I wonder where is home
So many life times
Still I feel alone...
Traveler Tim
Re To 06-17
Umang K Jan 2015
Orange skylines with
Copper inconsistencies,
Cobbled pavements
Converging, at odd angles,
Stepped on
By fairytale homes
And tourist feet,
Almost, just almost,
Drowning out the violins
And the voices,
Almost making me forget
That Europe isn’t home,
Somehow.
Carter Ginter Mar 2018
I am constantly checking myself
When problematic thoughts enter my mind
Or negative feelings originate in
The messed up ways I've been socialized to think

I do not wish to own anyone or anything
Yet sometimes possessive thoughts plague me
I must remind myself that we are all only humans
Trying to find our best route to happiness

This one article stated that
The hardest part of polyam relationships
Lies in the negotiation between
Your and your partners' needs

So I must always remain on guard
Because the jealousy and sadness coming from within
Was bred by the broken systems we grew up in
And redefining those is a part of my resistance

Monogamy stems from the patriarchy
And sexism lies within that
Possessiveness and jealousy are not cute
They only lead to blaming others for your own inconsistencies

And I am a mess of inconsistencies
j Aug 2015
bitter inconsistencies in the world
one minute she loves me
next minute shes setting me on fire and turning me to ash in her mind

i dont know where i stand with her
i just want to stand beside her
hold her hand and remind her that her demons won't be here forever

and i'd fight them all off for her
if she would just guide me
through the shadowed parts of her mind that i know she tries to hide

i want to trace the scars on her arms and ribs
remind her that the demons cant seep back in
id kiss the marks and tell her they were permanently healed

no way for the terrors that haunt her soul
to find their way back when i banish them to hell
i'd do that for her
Aubrey Nov 2014
I'm not sure how old he is, my step-step-granddad, but that's the advice he gives that fixes itself on my psyche.
Focus.
The act is the goal.
It's the thought of having been and becoming whole.
Focus.
Each event is like a pebble in a landslide.
I take it in stride.
Focus.
I am everywhere and there is no center, no home base, no dock on this river. I'm caught in current. Stay calm. This is perfect.
Each twist in the flow, every rock of the boat, every splash in the face, my being gives chase to  possibilities in consistent inconsistencies, sacred, eternal, geometries. Do our bodies disperse like the leaves that traverse from limb to ground, spiraling down?
Focus.
Where are your shoes? We're running late, and there's no time for another drink. We're out of milk? Look at my sink. It's piled high and I can't think with you  making all that ******* noise. What time is it? I forgot to call... that bill is due tacked on the wall. I wonder if we'll talk again. There's spam where your email should have been. All this time I thought that we were friends. I can't sleep. I'm up too late and I can't sate this need to see what I can make of missed phone calls and mystery texts. That write up? No, I haven't seen that yet. But don't forget, I told you, "I can handle it." Remember? Double. Oh. Seven.
Wait.
Focus.
Breathe in. I'm calm. That's resurrection.
Breathe out. I'm smiling. That's reconnection.
Emily Apr 2014
I don't get it
One minute, you're full throttle
All over me
Wanting every piece of my body
Telling me to give it all to you
And then the next minute
You're distant
Not wanting to be close and intimate
Like we were before
That screws with my confidence
And worsens my insecurities
It's like a switch went off in your brain
It's hard to deal with these inconsistencies
Makes me hesitant
To give a piece of me
To you or to anybody
© Naomi 2014
loisa fenichell Jan 2014
Let me writhe on pavement ripped
by sun. Rumor has it that that’s how
my mother was born.

Rumor has it that that’s how I was born, too.
I picture my birth the way I picture the bible,
happening between two gentle and soft fingertips. Reverent whispers,
because, not to brag, but I was the first child. The first child,
the hardest child.

I like to think that it stormed that night.
That the rumors are wrong.
That I wasn’t born in the sun.
That the night of my birth, the electricity went out,
and my parents were left without light.

I like to think that they wept when I was born.
That they wept again when they could finally turn on a lamp,
and watch its sparks burst the way I did from the womb.
Essence in its natural form
Is a thick syrup in a glass jar,
But when it hits the air
The concentrated being sizzles
Into a mist
Taunting nearby objects,
And eventually sliding coolly
Through electrified skin.
That is, essence is a reduction,
And we feel its reflection, its gaze.

Summing you up
Is catching that mist with a butterfly net,
But some of your elements so fill your persona
That they are all too eager to embrace
Their destinations,
Boldly solidifying into tangible expressions
Of passion and drive
On my skin,
Where my own platform of energy
Prepares to retaliate.
Em MacKenzie Feb 2019
con-spir-a-cy
Noun: a secret plan by a group
to do something unlawful and harmful.
Verb: the action of plotting or conspiring.

Conspiracy theorists,
are actually theorists of conspiracy,
while those in charge conspire.
While it’s easy to shrug off
and dismiss as “crazy,”
if you do the research
and dig down the rabbit hole,
you might start to question things
as well.

Take neither the red or blue pill,
as the pharmaceutical companies
will profit more from slow treatment,
or placebo effect, than they ever would from curing you once.
But open your eyes, and squint
to see, truly see, the world around you.

Why budget more into a military
than a healthcare or education system,
if you don’t intend to profit from it?
Industrial Military War Complex
is a real term and it’s definition
is dollar signs and blood.
The government is no longer politicians, but investors.

Sure some of us get a bad rap,
and we’re grouped in with the
eccentric or uneducated,
or just flat out theatrical.
But we’re the believers.
The ones who know that a society
is not just a structure, it’s a well
oiled, well designed machine
to keep the bottom on the bottom
and the top on the top.

I can’t say for sure that the Queen is a lizard,
and I’m pretty certain the world is
not flat,
but can any of us truly know?
Besides the Queen and those lucky few who travel to space...
how do you know for sure?
Even astronauts can be put into
a stasis, placed inside a simulation
and not know of it.
They would think they’re floating
in a satellite above our planet,
up until someone broke the
airlock, and they weren’t killed.

You see what I did there?
I took it too far.
And that’s what gets us the reputation of being crazy.
Would it be too crazy to believe,
those who take it a touch too far
are government plants to provide
an illusion of insanity
and discredit us completely?
You’ve heard of crisis actors,
but are their theorist actors?

Just know that the American government and CIA did once
(that we know of)
mull over the possibility of a False Flag Operation,
but on paperwork they rejected it.
The fact that the idea of attacking your own citizens to justify invasions of other countries
and create warfare was even on the table,
are the things that keep me on edge.
And should keep you on edge too.

I could go on forever about the
inconsistencies in testimonials,
footage, and Warren Commission Reports.
About common sense and intuition,
cold hard facts and brutal realities.
But, it’s not my job to pop balloons of blissful ignorance,
and those who don’t wish to see
the truth will forever stare at a counterfeit world telling themselves
it’s the real deal.

Anarchy would never work,
and communism could never be fair.
But democracy is made up of
well known names and popular
faces, of occasionally publicly approved personalities,
who are in turn overcome with
greed and then bought out and controlled by corporations and the big banks we entrust our salaries to.
They have our money, but not our
best interest at heart.
It’s like paying for a therapist
who will disregard everything you say, and then tell you to get back in line.

If someone aspires to have a position where they mediate and alter a group of people’s structure,
don’t you think they might have a power issue?
That if money makes the world go ‘round,
we’re all just numbers and barcodes?
And that maybe, it’s just safer for
those who make the world turn
to tell us what we want to hear
while showing us images of how
much worse it could be?
Just throwing down some knowledge. HP is even having trouble letting me post this........conspiracy?
JWolfeB Jun 2014
Metamorphosis
The mimic octopus can make its body look like multiple different sea creatures. When it is threatened it will slide it's tentacles into the formation of a flounder and guide across the ocean floor. Or into a pseudo sea snake. I have always hated toilet snakes. This octopus can mimic about 5 to maybe even 15 different sea creatures.  Now I don't know much about how to change my body and I certainly can't hold my breathe for that long, but I do know the second I'm afraid I change into 34 things that I will never be just to hide in the moment. Giving a ****** expression of std positive on top of an eviction notice of your well being into the outside of your door frame. As I watched this animal take shape across my television screen I made the realization that maybe we are more similar than i want to believe. Because We often change in bedrooms daily. Shedding every moment of our days onto a floor that knows our secrets and won't tell a single reason why there's always an awkward silence when we enter the room. We strip off insecurities that want everything to do with us, peel back our inconsistencies onto the dresser without keeping the change. My dresser has seen every side of me. I'm not all to proud of the things i keep in there. Like socks that have walked over my exes because I didn't cleanse my anger often enough. Or the time I left my sadness in the bottom drawer because I couldn't let you know that my shadow isn't my best friend. Sometimes I think it might be better to follow him around. I have been running around in circles attempting to figure this out. I've dropped math equations into chemistry experiments just hoping for a better answer. When spring came the answer was released with small amounts of heat, a back flip of conversation and a let go of the handshake you held with the past. This is how we learned change. We formed into what we were meant to be. Flawless but full of empty spaces. open to be filled by things like compliments. Or things like patience. I guess it was change that wasn't ready for our presence of purpose. All of this was as clear as octopus ink. We shape shifted into animals. Animals that love each other so hard that everyday on top of every moment they give a piece of themselves away for the better of the whole. We created change into a perfect moment of mutualism. Okay I realize that this a little far out there. But this change molded my knee caps into tentacles, my backbone left me and I folded into an octopus so that we could understand the importance of changing the shape of a person. Shape that you may not see through a telescope but maybe you can see it trough your fingertips when you feel the power behind positive change.
some days I feel fit for life
a real contender in the race for...
whatever the goal is.
the vacancy sign is buzzing on my forehead
trying to remember what i'm supposed to never forget
but too often i always forget.
obviously today is not a fit day
today is not a day that goes down in the histories of
elegant thoughts or grandeur revelations
flagrancy has its consistency basting at the bottom of my spine
who knew thoughts like this could still be mine
****.
i'm not supposed to think things like that

if i were projected onto a screen
mindful of the electrical patterns governing
where exactly my eyes have been hovering
the views expressed do not reflect the views of Jeff's heart
please, avert thine eyes and let go of your pride
if only it were that easy.
Ella Gwen Aug 2014
And I wonder why we do these things
As we sit in silence, the decaying affection mouldering
between us like a canyon.

As you look at me and I look to you
with no way of unseeing
The deficit held within beloved brown eyes

It’s too late now and the sadness has settled
and you have already left
Taking with you the colours from the light
As the ash from your last cigarette smoulders  
and goes out.
Carter Ginter Dec 2018
Dear Kailey,

This needs to be my last letter to you
And I don't even want you to read it
This is just for me and my own health
For so long I let other people
Dictate what was right and wrong
Especially with my own opinions and thoughts
Because I didn't trust my perspective
And I should not have permitted that
From you or from anyone
Ironically
The time that drives me mad
Occurred in one of our last conversations
Where I acknowledged the fact that
I might have still had feelings for you
But I didn't want anything like that from you
I just wanted to be open and honest
Yet you took it as me being cocky
And tried to take a jab at me
"I like how you assume I'd want to get back with you"
Which would've been an honest misunderstanding
If just two weeks earlier
You hadn't been trying to **** me
And then cover that with claims that
You still had feelings for me
And because I didn't trust myself
And because you assumed I was being shady
I must have been right?
So I created many different reasonings
That fit both my actions and your perception
But, here's the only truth
I did not want anything from you
We had talked about being friends
Ethically I wanted to explain myself
I wouldn't want to start a friendship
If you didn't know what I was feeling
But you believed what you wanted
Then decided to ghost me from there

Little did you know
I had immediately deleted your number
So about a month later
When you texted me out of nowhere
I only knew it was you because
After all the years I know half of your number
But it's not like you wanted to talk
In a way that friends do
No, you most likely were feeling
Either lonely as ****
Or you weren't getting enough attention
And you suddenly remembered I exist
Because you always thought I was a safe bet
The person who would always be there
Except that's an abusive expectation
Unconditional positive regard
That's a therapy technique
It's not made for relationships
Or human connections
So when you consistently use me
While your boyfriend is in the hospital
Or he's in a rough place and can't
***** you the way you want
When you text me after so much silence
Expecting me to even respond at all
And honestly I didn't want to

Initially I planned to ignore the message
Or just delete it
But why would I give you the power
To create your own narrative for my behavior?
So you can text me again in a few days
As if I was just busy and forgot to respond
Because I'm always here right?
Absolutely not
Not anymore
I'm done with your dramatic ****
With your inconsistencies and
Your using of me as an object of
Comfort and safety
I deserve better than that
And since you don't respect me
Enough to give me that consideration
Then I'll do it myself

And just in case you think I'll regret it
Or change my mind some day
Keep in mind that your grossly passive response
(A singular "oh"
To my assertive request not to talk to me again)
Immediately reinforced my decision
To put myself first
Because I love myself now
And I deserve much better than that
And I owe you
Nothing.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
The Godfinger has not yet
colored-come this far south
from up in the North,
but soon inexorable, marchingly quietly
to finger paint reds and golds
that are calendar scheduled to arrive

the idea of them, their visual,
burrowed  but easily retrieved,
for in the poet's mind's eye
he foresees their forthcoming blaze,
smells them in the not-quite-autumn
sea breeze

colors welcome for many,
for they serve to awaken and ravish
inattentive-to-nature wooly brains,
distracted by new work projects
diluted multi-tacking senses,
back burnt by responsibilities,
**** deadlines,
term papers, too soon due

full well knowing fall colors incipient,
this summer man piety engorges on
the embering remains of his beloved season,
His Summer Surround Sound Environment,
reflecting on his insignificance,
the seasonality of life,
the sad-always finale for grownups
that is the year ending
December,
no longer a far away,
inconceivable concept

these robust leaf colors, product of
chlorophyll properly chilled,
signal mark
all hope lost for the summer warmth,
the life force of this
poet's body and soul's
his sun tan lotion ****** cleanser, restorative,
all sold out, no longer on the store's shelf,
and a new conceptual,
2015
low growling while on the prowl

but for now,
it's still land-greens and water-blues,
though tarnished are the hues,
the grass, an admixture of
ugly straw yellow and a sickly green,
the bay green blues darker, uninviting,
the surface sun glints duller, less charming,
but close enough to the
real thing
for him to embrace passionately

he thinks bemusedly, out loudly,
writes smilingly, out loudly,
for he is in his trademark chair,
adorned in summer garb,
t-shirt and shorts,
holding on for as long as he can,
grabbing errant sun rays,
breathing salted bay air that's
cleaner now, for the summers sailors
all gone ashore to dry dock ports

while his woman, sensible ever,
acknowledges the frosty wind that
necessitates blanket, a full dress uniform,
complete yoga outfit and anorak,
the dress code de rigeur for combat
against
the September brilliant and undeniable chill

Springsteen and Cassidy hum his
melancholy perfectly and he wonders
about the ifs and of's his chosen life,
about the why's and wherefore
of his poetry that he sometimes writes
under assumed names

these contradictions,
me, summer,
she, cloaked in wool,
these natural nature inconsistencies,
even though unrealized,
the inevitability clashing sounds of vibrant colors
overtaking greens wilting,
all to be winter-denuded,
mark the day,
mark the man,
his poem,
mark this moment of
inconsistent colorations
September 20, 2014
kha Jun 2018
He gave swerves to uncategorized happiness, with spins that ******* back into his despondencies. He was never given a chance to applaud himself for being a second-long happy or get back to the spotlight where he did belong to his whole **** life. He's properly beautiful when he dances, or when he's proud of his weakest points. Him singing, even the most heard songs will sound re-engaging as if he owns it. Our eyes pace head-on against our cars' contraries. Every scar I had given to my wrists soothe when we wrap our sinful hands in an ill-starred manner.

Love, for him, is altruistically pouring around like sudden downpours on a midsummer day; he had everything to offer yet nothing for himself. He invests a lot with what he wins back. He's the grandeur of a boring ensemble of actors yet still believes he's the subpar star when in reality, no such star existed like it. No one would ever dare to leave him with a river to bleed, or cherry wine bottles with teary send-offs.
Anyone who does that will rest assured have a slot in his own obscenities - oh, how I wish hell would be a lot better than that.

I wasn't briefed for safe keeping such recherchés, that I had to jilt. A handful will be curious, why my decision is a ****-up; or rather, why am I a **** up. But I would say people with better anything deserve his still-endearing dissonances. And all I have are lyrics while he gives song compositions. All he ever needs are happy mornings who hugs him back so right. Behind their curtains are joy-tinted windows with episodes of cuddles and husky 'Good morning's'. I am not that person, so I had left him in his most heightened situation yet - loving me. In a bed full of my inconsistencies, he was sleeping beside his hard-to-swallow Ecstasies.
j.s.
Mitch Nihilist Jul 2017
There was a time where I believed that friendship didn't flicker like a waterlogged outlet. Where standing up came before standing out. I never understood what growing up was for a long time. I remember when I was 15 and I saw a man at starbucks spill coffee on his white dress shirt and thinking "**** that I'm never growing up" and then when I was 18 I draped a plain white polo over my heart and watched everyone I thought cared about me redefine caffeine from waking me up to putting me to sleep.  I insisted that success and money didn't go hand in hand and positivity is easy when the only thing you're paying for is young cigarettes and blindfold mints. When we grow on the  outside, we shrink on the inside to a certain extent. We watch death like a ****** sequel. We fear the inevitable and watch the hands on the clock until they clap and your lights starts to flicker. We live in a sea of inconsistencies that drown our livelihood and when times become consistent, monotony sits in our throat like drying cement that cracks until we can't even breathe for ourselves anymore. Can anyone define happiness? And can you tell your kids that growing up is a breeze? Cause that gust of wind can blow the half empty cup of coffee on to your clothes and really **** your day.
Sage Mar 2016
This pen and paper feeds a hungry mind. A mind that's driven by thoughts that drive the deprived. The deprived mind is a mind which is filled with inconsistencies. Inconsistencies of ideas that were never finished. Finished ideas reap rewards only I can understand. Understanding the motives of finishing ideas is difficult for me to process. Processing endings for me is like trying to get a dog to chase an invisible ball. A ball which is full of non-existent closings. A close is something I can never agree with myself on. On the end of a page is something that never occurs to my mind. A mind that is deprived. Deprived like the end of th
JeanlBouwer Oct 2010
An insightful noise spark, an insanity so clear
With one, if a million, on hind legs in cheer
This land
Our land
Ours, by right of birth
Ours, rightly deserved, through hardship and pain
Our blood, there blood, these hands did stain

New leaders, struggled, with caviar and crackle
A struggle won, through blast of church, on a Son
The killing of a farmer, and his son
The **** of a mother, and her child
These courageous comrades, an insane spectacle

Others struggled, to put food on the table
To ensure, taxes are paid
Roads, schools and churches, were laid
Ensured, a country was made
Why then, this derogatory label

Together, this land was forged
A land, so rich, with its poor
so peaceful, with its crime
so confident, about its insecurities
        Healthy, with its infected
        Just, with its inconsistencies
        Fare, with its favor
so busy, going nowhere, South
South Africa  - duality of duplicity
david badgerow Oct 2015
this time something feels different

this time i'm an angry toucan spitting eager saliva & i want you to rip my plastic beak off & whisper secrets into my slippery face

this time i'm an open book & i want you to place your fingertips on my soft worn pages & read me between the lines forever

i want you to be a magnifying glass mirror to show me my inconsistencies made of stretched wool fibers and hemp and wood held together by shiny clots of ink oil and glue

this time i'm an open door numb with apprehension & i want you to surge into the threshold of my bare bones like a molecular flash flood burglary polishing my darkest stained corners with spiraling velocity

this time i'm an oak sapling planted in your backyard spinning & dazzling in the sunlight & i want you to water me daily so i can grow
with you to unbelievable heights & suddenly sprout flowers from my sinewy arms

this time i'm a babbling brook cascading over slick brown rocks on a lush hillside & i want you to stir the moon like the wind & listen appreciate my serene grace

because this time i need someone whose lips
can be a tissue to the tears on my soft cheeks
before they turn cold & calloused

i need someone to sink their teeth into my
shoulders & collarbone to wake me
from this superfluous daydream

i need someone who beds naturally
into the ribcage nest of my plaid flannel shirt

i need someone who will dance with me
across an empty landscape into
something bigger & deeper
than just the starless sky above us

i need someone who wants to learn
the overlapping language of my eyes & hands

someone who will lounge with me
like an odalisque on the birth-bed of aphrodite
drenched in the shivers of the moon canopy

someone who can blur the lines
between my cerebrum & theirs
so that we become a stitched together
quilt of soft memories in our imagination

someone who has been in a trainwreck before
& knows precisely where to kiss
to make it all better
Sean C Johnson Aug 2013
Let's bury the lovely inconsistencies 
Leave the intimate fallacies to mystery
Then my perception of your passion fits with me
Red brick to mortar 
you laid your deceit in a building order
Despite the inherent wrecking ball tendencies you chose to utilize
Blind to my youthful eyes
Let's brush the displaced fervor for lust under makeshift throw rugs
Void of emotion until you know no love
As exhilarating as the love you left long ago as leaves of dogwood trees in a late Pennsylvanian november
Rigid structures that wait a season to return to the lively form they remember
Bare white bark and dead extremities 
Bare as your stockpile of passion meant for me
The surplus became a short supply when I left your graces
Amidst the sea of faces
You encounter in the places
You replace me to fill the voids and spaces
My memory laced with traces
Of your gentle touch, a cool spring breeze to my sun soaked skin
Recalling the ominous climb before the downward spin
We always seem to find ourselves in
Perhaps the fact the rush of the climb washes my mind of the inevitable collapse
I all too often push the moment from thoughts of past
The sinking in my stomach peaking the point of no return
As I set my eyes to the horizon and watch us burn
In the setting sun of an Middle eastern summer
Your lightning fast decisions to leave never compared to the rolling thunder
That swept over my soul
When you tore the hole
In the hazel eyed sky of my perception
with your ill fated rejection
Casting projections 
Of your likeness in the constellations 
Trembling fingers wait patient
Making comparisons and relations 
Between every aspect of you I savored
To Orion's belt, cassiopeia, ursa major
Every slight shift in its luminous glow
A subtle reminder to me of the love you will never know
Intergalactic representations paint the stage for supernovas
Expunging the lovely aroma 
I grew accustom to
Coming to harsh realizations there's no reciprocal paid in full for the love I loved for you.
agdp Jan 2010
Conjure belief where assurance
is easily tempted from doubt.

The physical world acts on
a point to point basis
of action, reaction.

Where the genesis of relativity
as the golden rule
mediates the knowledge
that is perpetuated by irony
through circumstance
and the accidental
incidental coincidences
that bend time.

Symmetry is a natural motion of
consistency, extending from an apex
or midlines, transverses, logarithmic expressions
all from some single origin.

The palms of our hands
are textual markings
of our need for symbolic understanding
in the variances
we create for scientific observation.

Juxtaposed to the stars we created
circular pieces to a wheel in the sky
we hypochondriacs believe
to superimpose as vaccines,
to our inconsistencies we host
as symbiotes
for inverse proportionality.

From the signal, beat, tone,
and definitive sounds
is the pulse of our momentum,
a return to equilibrium.
12/9/09 ©AGDP- From Human Elements
JM Jun 2012
**** man, how are you
going to get out of
this one?
I guess you are going to have to tell the truth.
But some people do not want the truth
some cannot give the truth to certain loved ones,
others believe that the truth is what must be spoken in every word.
But its like walking back down the mouth of the cave,
to the prisoners still shackled, watching shadows, and trying to explain the sun and the trees.

I would have better luck
trying to

**** this wall

than trying to get you to
understand something
which seems so obvious
to
anyone,
everyone,
but you.

Maybe we are wrong,
maybe you are an enlightened one, come to save our poor wretched souls.
But that seems highly unlikely dear, for you are far too selfish,
and shallow,
and oblivious to reason and accountability.

A line has been crossed,
that which has been done cannot be undone.
But are you so ******* arrogant
that you think you
are not worthy of forgiveness?
Do you think
your crime is
so bad you are beyond redemption?

You think you have leverage, but your fulcrum is weak and I am persistent and voracious.

The ruiner,
your precious
little nickname for me,
carries more significance
than the
destruction
of your

sweet honeycunt, darling.

You never should have given me that stupid ******* painting.

I have known what a vile creature you are since the moment I laid eyes on it and I have carried that knowledge with me.
You forget how intuitive and analytical I am. You forget how well I read your every glance and subtle body gesture. You forgot how much smarter I am than you.

Your inconsistencies make sense now,
now that I have accepted you as a liar.
Your patterns are predictable,
which makes your *******
so much
easier
to tolerate.

My sweet little liar.
I love you the most, baby.
The title was obviously stolen from Monty Python.
Fullfreddo Dec 2017
a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil

am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle

you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential

see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing

think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited

for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain

my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn

they, the residuals of a man’s ******* with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa

Who else?
Who Else?
from Joseph Campbell...

“which has been registered in this myth, much as what Freud terms the latent content of a neurosis is registered in the manifest content of a dream: registered yet hidden, registered in the unconscious yet unknown or misconstrued by the conscious mind. And in every such screening myth–in every such mythology {that of the Bible being, as we have just seen, another of the kind}–there enters in an essential duplicity, the consequences of which cannot be disregarded or suppressed.".
Bruised Orange Oct 2011
it'll get bad reviews, we should scrap the project before it breaks the budget*


we sit and talk
art and beauty, love and fear
my heart cracking open,
and you, rushing in.

we sit and talk,
play at the deadly game
ignore the consequences
shun the inconsistencies.
the words, words, words
they swirl,
and we slip, we slip, we slip

--its a real cliffhanger

hearts on sleeves
music weaves
stories come to light

secrets, oozing out between
the well crafted lines of
our carefully scripted plot

we sit and talk circles around
the herds of white elephants
that come to watch the show.
mocking us, they laugh
as we tiptoe through
fields of daffodils
under dark skies
with rainbows.

(scene change now)

in dark of night
i squeeze out hope
from my heart.
god ****** hope
twists up and knifes
me in the side, leaves
me bleeding on the floor.

and you, fool you are
rush to my aid.

if you're saving me,
who's saving you?

you with your secret
decoder ring from your
box of caramel corn.
cracking my heart,
you peel my layers.

your questions run deep
but your feet will run faster,
and i'll fall, i'll fall, i'll fall.

gravity's a real drag,
i've felt it's pull before.

me with my third eye
see the pan and play.
this show will end
leaving us all sitting
in our seats wanting
another thirty minutes,
a tidier ending.
this ain't Disney.

we'll feel like we've been
ripped, ripped, ripped

no refunds here,
go file your complaint
with the man upstairs.

the audience stands,
turns to go.

white elephants know there's
no silver lining, no *** of gold.
they threw popcorn at the screen
but you didn't notice.

i always hated white elephants;
i thought you did too.
who invited them to the show?

we step outside,
no curtain call,
no applause

this hail falls down
on a sunny blue day.
afraid to touch you, but

i want to catch you in my mouth.

would you please
just go away
before i end up with lumps
on my head, in my throat?

my eyes blinded by the sun,
the hail, this ill fated show


--bruised orange
crowbarius Jul 2012
He stands
A silhouette against a lifeless flat expanse
His flaccid tallow-yellow hands clasped awkwardly across the rails
The skin is white beneath his nails
The fear beginning to ferment
His shallow-knuckled grip indicative of lunatic intent

Intent to finally insuate his end into the books
To compensate for all the awkward silence and dead looks
Insinuate himself amongst indifferent carbon molecules
His skin and sinew separate from all the inconsistencies
Immortalised in asphalt now
A martyr on the asphalt now
Away from death and listing eyes.
Taylor Stein Dec 2012
Juliet
Our love isn't illicit
Or secret

Your parents and mine
Are friends
Is that okay?

I love a good story
With a happy ending

But right now
I just want you in my arms
Our own problems
Less dramatic

You and I
Will not be on a TV screen
Or a magazine
But a photo album
Smiling at each other
Is that okay?

I hope so
Because outside of all this fuss
I just want you
For you

For your smile and your laugh
Your quirks
And inconsistencies.
topaz oreilly Oct 2012
Don't let the Human Race down
theres too much loitering on the breeze.
Best un- invite their crypto smiles.
and Everything is Corporate,  
bumbling politicians with no screen presence,
gauche PR  and easy pretensions.
Foreign intervention snowballs
as an afterthought
by men of limited intellect
balancing their variegated inconsistencies.
CC Capie Feb 2012
pick and choose and prioritize
you have one hundred different kinds of days to live
about 30,000 chances to repeat them
where does your heart live
in the depths?
or in the stars?

he said:

"you gotta hit it hard in the guts, blood and thunder and all like"

life is fraught with peril
like a foreign film without subtitles
you choose how it ends
the subtleties
the inconsistencies
the balance of here and there
the cliche duality of life
good and evil
god and devil
now or never

      he rolled 13 cigarettes
      took one glass of whisky
      stepped 3 times down the stairs
      walked 3 miles down the street
      and fell 6 million times in the dark

i was born like a tree
arms raised like branches
growing through my chest
leaves falling all around me
naked in the winter
clothed in the summer
roots go deep
no time to sleep
come here and flow up my xylem
lay in my phloem
my chlorophyl will fill you up
my sap is like wine
stay drunk all the time
Hayleigh Apr 2014
Those lies you spun like a spiders web
Took place, built homes,
Inside my head.
And I didn't try to relocate
Because all I could do was appreciate
That someone finally cared.

And yes I was scared,
Of the danger, of living with a stranger
The inconsistencies, the mysteries
The roller coaster that was you and me.
But I stood my ground,
Too thankful,
To finally have someone around.

Those lies they weaved,
There way into the darkest corners of my mind
And in desperation I gave up trying to find myself.
Still I remained a squatter
In the squalor, the mess

New levels of doubt and distress arrived
But I pushed them aside
I waited for them to subside
As I sat, in tears, screamed and cried
And I confided in you, trusted in you
A sea of unfamiliarity,
Swimming in a river,
That was murky,
Searching for clarity
In a place
Where nothing was sign posted,
No sense of direction
Desperate for any form of connection.
Feet rooted,
I made no attempt to escape
As your cape began to drown me.

You chipped away
Day by day
My foundations
And I so badly wanted it to be okay
Because I could finally say
I had someone.
Someone that said they cared
Despite the bruises I bared.
Chris Jan 2014
I said I’d always be honest,
but I lie right through my teeth
when I say that I’m okay.
I guess it’s kind of like
how you said you’d
always want to stay.
I am constantly on a steady diet
of “goodbyes”, “farewells”, and “let go’s”.
At least I’ll never go hungry
with everyone always leaving.
I’m tired.
My head refuses to sleep.
My hands are never steady.
I used to think scars
were things that couldn’t heal,
but now I understand
they’re just reminders
of all the love that I could feel;
even if the vacancy sign
on my bones flickers dimly.
Memories keep clogging my veins,
inconsistencies have clouded my vision.
I’ve learned that honesty is relative
when words can change their meaning.

— The End —