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baygls 4 lyfe Sep 2014
Like the bike you bought after saving lawn-mowing money for a year, welfare reform was the prized trophy of the conservative governing philosophy. We believed that we'd found the vehicle of social mobility for poor Americans, once and for all. No one should live on taxpayer money without doing some work on their own, right? Everyone agrees, right?

Wrong. President Obama ran over our bicycle, issuing illegal waivers to welfare's work requirements and taking the wheels off the program. The fact is, we never won the welfare battle after all. Out of the 80 different federal welfare programs, the '96 welfare reform really only fixed one. A third of the U.S. population received benefits from one or more of these 80 programs in 2011. According to the Department of Agriculture, one program alone – food stamps – gave benefits to a record-breaking 47.7 million in the last month of 2012, benefits those millions didn't have to work to receive.

Rep. Paul Ryan recently said it's time to use the 1996 reform as a model to fix the rest of welfare. He's right, for at least five compelling reasons.

1. America's welfare programs are redundant and inefficient. As The Heritage Foundation's welfare expert Rachel Sheffield noted, there are at least 12 separate programs providing food aid, 12 funding social services, and 12 assisting education. Average benefits from all welfare programs are about $9,000 per recipient. If you converted those programs to cash, it would be more than five times the amount needed to raise every household above the poverty line. We should streamline redundant programs to save money while getting the same or better value.

2. Means-tested welfare programs are fiscally unsustainable. These cost nearly $1 trillion annually. By the end of the decade, welfare spending will rise from five percent to six percent of GDP. This means every taxpaying family would have to make, and then give up, over $100,000 in the next ten years – just to cover the cost of welfare spending.

Imagine this: If government spending were a pie, welfare would be a bigger slice than defense, education, or even social security. This isn't apple pie a la mode. It's poison-the-economy pie with a side of swamp-our-children-in-debt ice cream.

3. The welfare state encourages dependence instead of lifting people out of poverty. Poverty has actually increased with federal spending on anti-poverty programs. Adjusted for inflation, we've spent nearly $20 trillion total on “the war on poverty.” That's more than the combined price tag of all America's wars. Ever. From the American Revolution through Afghanistan, we've spent less than $7 trillion. These days, we spend 13 times what we spent on welfare in the 1960s. Guess what? In 1966, the share of the population living below the poverty threshold was 14.7%; by 2011, that share rose to 15.0%.

This spending gives people significant incentives to stay on welfare. According to the Senate Budget Committee, if you break down welfare spending per household in poverty, recipients are making $30/hour. That's higher than the $25/hour median income – certainly more than what I make per hour.

4. Welfare dependence creates behavioral poverty. Perhaps President Franklin D. Roosevelt said it best: “Continued dependence upon relief induces a spiritual and moral disintegration fundamentally destructive to the national fibre. To dole out relief in this way is to administer a narcotic, a subtle destroyer of the human spirit.” To become comfortable relying on the work of others instead of your own work will change your character, and the character of the nation. Americans want to give everyone a helping hand, but hand-holding year after year, generation after generation, patronizes, corrodes, entraps. In the words of welfare policy experts Robert Rector and Jennifer Marshall writing in National Affairs:

Material poverty has been replaced by a far deeper “behavioral poverty” — a vicious cycle of ***** childbearing, social dysfunction, and welfare dependency in poor communities. Even as the welfare state has improved the material comfort of low-income Americans by transferring enormous financial resources to them, it has exacerbated these behavioral problems. The result has been the disintegration of the work ethic, family structure, and social fabric of large segments of the American population, which has in turn created a new dependency class.

Is this the America we want? It is not compassionate to leave a whole class of people in perpetual dependence. Behavioral poverty cuts off millions of citizens from a chance at American opportunity, destroying the virtues necessary to sustain oneself. My generation has seen the effects of behavioral poverty – in D.C., Detroit, or my hometown, Cleveland. Whole neighborhoods rot. To many, this cycle of dependence indicts the principles of American society as inherently unfair.

5. Work requirements promote individual responsibility and reduce poverty. Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) work requirements slashed welfare caseloads by nearly 60 percent. Poverty among all single mothers fell 30 percent. About 3 million fewer children lived in poverty in 2003 than in 1995.
Because I am not a lying sack of ****, I got my info from spectator.org
Skylar Keith Nov 2017
A dark field that stretches in front of me
Seeming to have no end
I sigh, turning my head to look back

The black mist seeps through the crack of the wall
I built it
Safety or precaution
I don't know which
I can't remember

Both things are dark
Seem to be a danger
I must face
As I can't go anywhere else

Left - Right
I don't want to go there
Inefficient

I sigh, looking back
It's grinning at me
Creepy
It's laughing at me
Creepy
They come closer

I smirk
Not at the path
Not at the mist

They close around me
Trapping me
All I can do is smirk
They sky went from gray to black in a matter of seconds
Simpleton Jun 2014
I am the longing
For the long awaited hug
At an airport
I am the colours of the rainbow
From which you can't choose your favourite
Indecisive
I am a mind which wanders with the clouds
The hum of a lyric you can't remember the song
I am the silence in the loud
Blended behind the scenes
I am the good intentions
Sewn together with flaws
I am a losing battle
A one man army
A human controversy
I am something that can't be seen
Feelings that can't be explained
I am a person in control
Of something that can't be controlled
I am the contradiction
In that sentence
I am the mindless doodle on a paper
The habit of a lifetime
Too unconscious to quit
I am the blanket on my couch
The curtains on the window
Blocking out the light
I am the salt in the tears
The unanswerable question
I am the product inefficient of life
TJ Dec 2017
i give them my executables and
ask them to reverse engineer me
to look into my code for reasons
reasons that i'm not just broken
not just slow
not just bad

if these letters
on this line
mean
that i am programmed to worry
then it is not my fault
not my fault that
i have wasted years
years of my life in fear

it's just a bug
looping too many times
using too many clock cycles

my code may be broken, but
if it is broken
then i am not

maybe, just maybe
i am a good processor
given bad code.

not my fault.
no one could blame me.

it would mean
i do what i am told to
perfectly
quickly
efficiently.

but
what i am told to do is
buggy
unoptimized
inefficient

my programmers are lazy -
not me.

when i find
a function in my code
that never works
and they say
"that code is fine"
then why?
why does it never run?

something must be wrong with me after all
me, myself, the processor
i don't do what i am told

but no, no, no
i don't want that
i can't be broken, overheating, dusty
segfaulting
bluescreening
panicking

no!

the code must be wrong
it must be

so i look again and again and again
i lose myself in my code
i click and click and click
2x more and 2x more and 2x more
COMT and DRD4 and ANKK1
rs53576 and rs7794745 and rs1858830
lower risk and normal risk and higher risk
of the same thing
in me at once
conflicting
overwriting each other

there is no code to add risk objects
and no one knows
whether
they make a group or a ring or a field
or just
something
useless.

like dividing by zero.
you can...
but it's useless in the real world.
just like me.

i look for more code
for more functions
for more comments
more more more
give me more
take my rights
make me open source
as long as i can see me too.

602,000 lines are not enough
not when i run millions

stick your wires in my veins
take the code from my blood
decompile it
untangle it
i need to see it all

i need to know
that i am a good little processor
even if i am doomed to
forever
run BASIC and
a million GOTO statements
and ugly ugly spaghetti code
i am still good.
written 16 February 2016
Thomas Dressler Jul 2020
Notice how the world is made up of people always looking for the easiest way out.
Time and effort are spent planning daily routines, with people plotting their next project and purpose.
People even plan the next time they'll have time to take a break to plan all over again.
But has anyone ever made a dime off of inefficient efficiency?

Don't waste your time thinking through every scenario you may face just to avoid a little hassle.
Use that time to either do something or just admit you'd like to find some peace of mind, then look for it earnestly elsewhere.
Plus, trouble is where the fun is at, and conflict brings fresh perspective if you have a heart for kindness.
So I'd like to do my best at shying clear of inefficient efficiency.
This has been a PSA from me to me.
Scarlet Niamh Apr 2017
Tick. Tock. Two hundred down.
Pulp.
Swindled minds flock
so easily into their cages,
sealed vents pushing gas into their lungs.
Carpenter's masterpiece.
Hooks hanging from walls,
bloodied chains supporting old bones.
Rot.
Mirror image rooms kept secret, filled
with decay and trapped ghosts. The neon
sign flickering. 'Hotel'.
Pulling the moths in with its fire,
ready to burn them.  

Tick. Tock. Twenty seven around.
Confession.
The drugs were inefficient -
they never slept forever.
I had to help them get there. I was born
with the devil in me
and he sings like a poet in the shadow of evil.
Gruesome.
I feel their blood on my hands and I enjoy it.

Tick. Tock. Nine were found.
Possession.
"Satan corrupted me, controlled me."
"Innocent."
"I am imprisoned within myself, I swear."
"He made me."
The lever is flipped, I fall.
My neck does not snap.
Instead, I struggle, the air being forced
from my body. Darkness comes
after the fond memory of a knife in my hand
and blood on the walls of my ****** castle.
~~ Grim inspiration taken from a serial killer. ~~
kierra Jul 2017
you continue on the outermost experience of stimuli
consuming with poor digestion, your surrounding world
you continue on the premise of emotion and nothing more,
no analysis, no insight, you exist as a simpler species than
those who do analyze, are insightful and it is only negative because
you are inefficient and infectious in your inefficiency, less energy is
required to live as you do but you are not progressive, you do not offer
this human species anything but a vector for dna, an avenue to perpetuate;
and you are this way by choice -- you possess potential to have potential
but you do not engage and in consequence, you are ignorant and malignant
to our human species and perhaps I am a misanthrope or perhaps I am a
realist but you will only hinder the most capable of us unless you cease to
continue on the outermost experience of stimuli; you are inefficient with the
potential, a resounding potential, for efficiency and if only you would wake from
this superficial condition our species would gain advantage in survival but I
suppose it is irrational to wish for such things, as we are inherently flawed and

perhaps our concentrations should not be on perpetuating the human species
but rather giving rise to an organism more evolutionarily advanced -- more efficient;
more perfect.
Philosophy on present day societal norm of functioning without thought.
refresh mesh Mar 2018
nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.

i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****.
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.

we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.

i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.
birth control, women's health, world war
Matt Jul 2015
They tried to replace
The teachers

With robots
And computer
Programs only

The human teacher
Had been deemed
Inefficient
And ineffective

They were replaced
By robots who
Had been downloaded
With all necessary information

Well what do you think
Now that your child
Is being taught
By a robot

These robots
Are not kind
Nor will they console
Your child if he fails

Some people are pulling
Their children out
Of public schools

Because they want them
To be home schooled
By human beings

Well, I have to say
I don't blame them
A ship sustaining
A tiny crack or thick
Is destined to sink,
Awaits the same story
A pilferers-leached country!

All the grotesque
Faces of corruption—
Embezzlement,bribery,red-tape
Nepotism
Task procrastination
What is more inefficient
Resource utilization—
Must not go out of
A developing
Nation's radar,
Expected corruption to bar
In its bid  to spur
The ship of development far!

Needs no less attention
Fighting the new faces of corruption
Such as post placement
By political affiliation
Divorced from talent,
Which should enjoy
A greater weight!//
Whether petty or grand corruption which has ugly faces has to be averted.Political corruption is one of  the emerging faces of corruption
You have now left an inefficient existence in the dust
To greatly savor a newborn energy
No longer looking at life with a dreary cast
You can see the truth with clarity

A vibrant glow has been gently summoned forth
Brightly illuminating the darkness
Boldly restoring resilient confidence to your waiting soul
Removing dark shadows from your countenance

Go forth and now sow the seeds for your life’s garden
Attentive, with painstaking care
Step back softly and smile with sweet satisfaction
As you, carefully watch them growing there

Continuously bathe your garden in the vibrant glow
Ushering new growth into the light
Then stand quietly still with the proudest adoration
Inhaling the beauty blooming in your sight
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
Jenn Coke May 2016
He gives me a premature ventricular contraction –
Simply referring to inefficient blood circulation –
Causing my heart to skip a beat on every occasion.

Ever so often thereafter, he performs a cardiectomy –
In other words, a surgical removal of the heart – on me
Through which my precious heart is stolen by my Timmy.

I still experience dyspnea – difficulty in breathing –
And my breath is taken away by he who is my Spring,
My one and only significant other and my everything.
Another attempt at playing around with love and science.
From the time we are born,
we are flawed,
both through nurture and through nature are we damaged,
but there is something so beautiful,
so fatalistic about that,
and since we are inclined to failure,
the only way we can travel is forward.
Sometimes we move only a few steps at a time,
and more often than not,
we measure improvement by leaps and bounds,
both are progress,
both are important.

We like to think we are rational,
but statistically speaking,
we trust in our instinct more often than not,
even if it is beyond its depth,
we are not rational creatures,
striving for excess is not logical,
for time is money,
and survival is logical,
but we want more,
gathering approval is not efficient,
in many respects animals are much more optimal.

The thing that sets us apart,
the most important thing to note,
is love,
love is not logical,
love is not efficient,
but we value it anyway,
and so in the end,
we are not what we think we are,
we are not animals,
we are illogical,
we are inefficient,
and we are healing,
healing from the day we are born,
born with a frail disposition,
we are human,
and we are slowly mending.
A.P. Beckstead (2014)
Kayli Marie Nov 2015
Constantly aware
of my
input
and output,
I am the most inefficient
worker bee.
Fur wet with honey,
I cling to the insides of
hives and lose
my wings,
unable to peel them back
away from one another.

A fortress much more a home
than a homicide,
rose thorns are hardly my sting,
so I weave in and out
of their buds and barbed wire.
I am not supposed to feel
a thing.

I die for my cause.
I am what I make.

I forage in the afternoon,
and then free my sting
from my skin
decidedly.
Jacob Sykes May 2013
convincing consumers that “v” is for vineyard
not *****
no quick or easy choices
gin, tonic and a dash of restraint
mom’s advice to quit got Tumblr started

we must get rid of inefficient economic sectors
learning to give one item at a time reviving the soviet tradition
Sharing the siege mentality
cheekily hopscotching across genres

tell me how this ends
prison time was dreadful, but he sure likes the video
pain can make them feel alive
in 1949
he imagined an age of robots
at 94, still charting memory’s depths
imagining a grim past that isn't his own

semi-invisible sources of strength
milewide tornado strikes Oklahoma
2 FBI hostage rescue agents die in training exercise in sea
a genre, old and Irish,is renewed
but wait
didn't yahoo try a deal like this before
How about slow play, drugs and Phrankenwoods
This is a procedural poem I did for my poetry class. These are all headlines from three days of the New York Times. I made sure to use the full text of the headline or, if the text was split into two sentences, a full sentence from the headline. I then arranged them in such a way that each stanza was a congruent full thought and not complete utter nonsense. This will become longer as I acquire more newspaper.
Lottie Jun 2017
.
Loving me is inefficient.
Listening to me is inefficient.
Is there anything about me that's worth your time?
August Mar 2014
I sometimes imagine my hands on your  

                           cool skin.

Hush, love, just let your warmth grow

                                                    from within.

Let your light seep out the corners of your

              almond eyes.

I ache to hear the cacophony of your lovely,

                                 begging sighs.

You make my laugh tumble like inefficient

      lovers dancing.

As you writhe and swirl, my heartstrings are for your

                                                         fingers grasping.
Amara Pendergraft 2014

I sometimes worry if she thinks I'm worthy of her time.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
you know what two indicators of psychiatric diagnostic bases are?  whether or not you can keep eye-contact or chew your nails... frankly i  like the taste or keratin, it's like concentrated burnt skin, and that  eye-contact bit? i'm not here to ****** anyone, not keeping eye-contact  doesn't make me disengage from dialogue, it simply enhances it, after  all, i'm talking to your body, i don't have to peer into your soul.*

the hippocratic oath died with modern psychiatry,
it simply died, limp and almost lethargic
and riddled with leprosy (it’s peeling off me now, bit by bit),
the hippocratic oath died there and then,
the schism of the church from the state
enforced the secularisation of medicine
and medicine gave birth to its ******* offspring
known as psychiatry / logic of the non-existence
of the soul, better known as the missing
part of psychology...
the local g.p. analysis shows that i'm clearly
not biting my nails or have inefficient eye-contact
putting me on an autistic spectrum
with a feministic interpretation of aristotle,
but frankly i too could be a feminine candy
pusher for platonism in the **** sense of the word,
trying to convert a hetrosexual tyrant to keep
a few less digits of **** under my sleeve:
mythology - or the logic behind:
in a kingdom far far away... a long long time ago,
there's a logic to myth, meaning the timescale is
unimportant, but important with a debriefing
signalled by two words: it happened; but it's not
relatable these days.
it's a good thing english asylums closed their gates
at the beginning of the 20th century or mid-way,
english society subsequently changed into an asylum,
no fewer madmen among the mentally ill and those
in politics... the ratio is so equilibrate you wouldn't
even bet on a horse that ran a mile with the odds being
in its favour... me? *******? i'm fuming,
you want me to shoot blanks at whimsical prejudices
of a cancer patient because you were doing crosswords
looking at your genitelia and said: i'm a woman!
well, moist **** to you too... i'll make sure
the next pole that travels to england will get his money's
worth... watch me type like a chopin dynamo...
crescendo multo gratis!
that's the thing concerning the little red ribbon
wrapped around a box present in existentialism
it evolved from: phenomenology... it ignored kant...
it ignored the application of pluralism to kant's
concept of the thye noumenon...
subsequently it ignored rasputin (a.k.a. the superman)
on par with the great illiterate statues of history:
socrates, jesus, mohammad...
khadijah wrote the first of the surahs i bet...
she the litterate ***** must have known
he would decrease the volume of expression,
ending with a short surah like the heretical infestation
of malachi with the old testament.
*****! *****! give me *****! i want a snooker table too!
to the next of kin: don't come to england...
they're prone to the disease known as anglo-saxon / norman
lunacy... please don't come... or if you're coming
make it seasonal... and make it scarce -
bandit irish idiots just made a breakthough, quote un quote:
we multiply! no wonder the theory of relativity couples
people with confusion... newtonian logistics is missing,
the vector system is missing, cause and effect
is missing in relation to climate change - well **** happens,
our historical realism is not different from our
concensus... we all agreed... thanks to einstein there's
no cause & effect, because the compound space-time
vortex equates the two... we can sleep soundly tonight...
we've been saved by the geneva convention of albert camus'
absurdity... phenomena are universals because
of the attached number avaliable... noumenology
is scarce due to third arms and legs... a handful
is twelve disciples... in between the number of fingers
and toes... a handfull is between 10 and 20... that's a handful...
so if particulars deal with noumena... things unknown
or previously unknown or subsequently known because
of their david bowie oddity... then phenomena are concenred
with universal rhythms... i.e.... it can happen to an ant,
it can happen to a sparrow... it can happen to a human being...
it's the ideal economy of ideas just popping up whenever
you thing the singularity of god or the verb pronoun i is missing:
the noun pronoun, the thing that is freely ignoring things
due to their names and narrating geological abstractions?
yeah... that's still there.
after every massacre
by some fanaticized pathological idiot
politicians call upon their citizens
to come together
and pray for the murdered and their families

this is absolutely appropriate
also absolutely inefficient

but it seems
that ever since 9/11
the nation only comes together
AFTER more of its members have been killed

I wish very much
that the nation
   AND politicians
would come together
BEFORE  the next massacre
and take appropriate action
to prevent such disasters
in the first place
https://edition.cnn.com/2018/03/02/us/school-shootings-2018-list-trnd/index.html
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☃  ∴  ☼

Al Bandura, Ph.D,
Drove to town so he could see
if society embraced
guided life-change (science-based).

As he floored it toward the town,
he struck an inefficient clown.
Doctor A. Bandura glowered:
“You’re not funny, nor empowered –

get self-aware”.  Then, talking faster,
he offered attainable steps to mastery.
“You don’t seem too self-efficacious,”
Albert added, now loquacious.

Doctor Al set new objectives:
auto-efficient self-directives;
made that dead clown self-aware,
then auto-directed right out of there.
see the clown funeral HERE:  http://tinyurl.com/pn4gdpv

☃  ∴  ☼
Amanda Apr 2015
Curling up next to an existence that is teetering on a tight rope
cheek to cheek and chest to chest with a tombstone that wants to show you how to ballroom dance
a blind date with your last breath
intimacy with death if you're brave enough to let it remove your clothes
it shakes you with an awakening jolt.
This is when everything should come to a slow motion slide show
of faces and revelations that have made you who you are
flashing before you like lightning in a rush for work
too blurry and inefficient to satisfy your last moments
like those snowflakes you'll miss savoring on the tip of your tongue
and everything else worth taking your time.
The seat belt tries to save itself tightly between your rib cage
it doesn't hesitate to invite death to your speed of light funeral.
Oxygen has given up at this point
choosing flight over fight
you are one millisecond overdue
there is no time to choke out your last word
or at least think your last thought
when one strong leap of faith
jerks you to the right of the one way road
leaving the 18-wheeled demon behind you
screeching to a spark inducing halt
tires hot for your blood
breathing fire to warm your deathbed
your body stills the world.
Slamming into the front seat
18 years as your airbag
did not hurt as badly
as wishing that lightning quick luck
would have struck out.
#death #neardeathexperiences #life #suicidal
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
what's the equivalent of the English
slang...
and American version?
rhymes and... for the latter:
acronyms.
                   i hate American acronyms...
GOP... DNC...
government of power?
            democratic national curriculum?
what the fuse?!
now... the Americans spewing
acronyms is worse than
English slang -
because there's a definite meaning
behind it...
              i remember the time
when you'd pick up a dictionary,
at a time when people would wear
clothes that had the word, duffer,
printed on them...
  duffer: a stupid and an inefficient
person...
           ha... people used to wear
said clothes back in high-school
on non-uniform day...
   mind you...
       you can't exactly have a teen
fest fetish movie surrounding
high-school at the movies...
if, you go, to a catholic school...
and there's a uniform code...
everyone's uniform...
              in uniform...
            no one competes via
                       clothing, trends, etc.
    that's the closest i came to joining
the army... then again...
i might not have went to a catholic
school...
      i might have been under
  the jurisdiction of Ignatius of Loyola...
cardinal manifesto
of the black pope:
              i.e. Stendhal -
my favorite book in my teens:
and one of the few books...
that i read, being inspired
by a movie...
who was it... Rachel (kel kel Ra-ca-ca-kel)
Weisz and Ewan Mcgregor...
i still can't read anything
by J.R.R. Tolkien...
   fun fact...
how can you tell the difference
between
a Hibernian and a Hearts
or a Rangers contra Celtic fan,
i.e. a protestant Pict from a catholic
Pict?
   Mc'paddy
                           (that's catholic)
Mac'george
             (that's protestant)...

Glasgow blue (protestant)
  Glasgow green (catholic)
      Edinburgh green (catholic)
Edinburgh claret (protestant);

savvy? good good.
André Morrison Nov 2014
Patterns of insanity
Echoing the same skewed concept in your twisted perception
Becoming more plausible with every succession
Infinitely decaying your common sense
Until there is a speck left of you
Rendering you unstable and inefficient
The gravity of your grief; your inner disarray
Crushes those around and close to you
Leaving thee, secluded, fragile and vulnerable
All that's left is for someone to light the tinderbox
And the blaze shall come erupting out
Truly creating agony for those you desire
Infinitely scorching and traumatising them psychologically
Even worse, resulting you, to exhaust the last of your philosophy
The darkness has, beyond steadily seeped in
The conclusive ray of light, has undoubtedly vanished
For all eternity
Shaded Lamp Sep 2014
Our labyrinthine of language
simultaneously dividing - unifying.
Able of conjuring mellifluous daydreams
halcyon memories and dulcet tones.
Remarkably flexible in creative hands
yet inefficient, insignificant compared to touch.
Blooming equally as well in light and shade.
Every rose bush has it thorns.
Beware to remove them before offering a bouquet
as no one likes a *****.
For Mr. Coles "Word" challlenge
Persephone Aug 2016
He gives me a premature ventricular contraction,
simply referring to inefficient blood circulation.
Causing my heart to skip a beat on every occasion.

Ever so often thereafter, he performs a cardiectomy –
In other words, a surgical removal of the heart, on me.
Through, which my precious heart is stolen by my Baby.

I still experience dyspnea – difficulty in breathing,
and my breath is taken away by he who is my Spring,
My one and only significant other and my everything.
Hank Desroches May 2012
A gear that does not conform is a wrench in the works.
Remove the gear until it can be brainwashed, retrained, forced to mesh.
How to fix it?
How to force it?
The hammer?
Not a surgical tool, by any means, but this isn’t a surgical processus.
Accuracy requires thought.
The bludgeon is a much simpler tool.
A simpler weapon.
Certainly not as successful as perhaps another, but casualties are to be expected in such lock-step, industrial machinery.
It was the height of modernity a century ago -- but the world is changing, and the machine is grinding slowly into the primitive darkness of archaism.

The world is changing. Rearranging.
More and more gears are dropping from their cogs into the morass of the behemoth.
More and more are getting lost in nauseous darkness.
More and more gears.
More and more wrenches in an aging, beastly, anachronic and inefficient monstrosity.

Something’s gotta give.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
there no doubt about it - with each day there's always a falsetto poem, always at the end of a binge - the mind goes blank, words lose meaning, every day is like a simulation of old age - there's a method to this madness - i'm not afraid of critique concerning such poems: true virtue is unafraid of critique - for one, i can just as well criticise myself - so after each binge i end up with mediocre poems - conceding this point, words lose meaning, associations of meanings disperse - pollination in full swing - i end up writing noises - perhaps because my own silence is so chilling i have to resort to oscillation around the onomatopoeia, and all respective quasi or pseudos or pseudonyms of all required ventures - but the rewarding aspect of such writing is best summarised by a jazz drummer and a jazz teacher combined into one: the crescendo must go on - the movie? whiplash - the moment, the moment, the moment is too sudden and too short - it's essentially everything and nothing at all - always a heart-out-of-beat, at least a feeling of having a heart without the unconscious rhythmic pistons with whatever scientific explanation there is to match - they always come, the trail offs.

i didn't finish the Cantos just in order to remind myself
how i miss the time when it all began with
the second Odysseus of the 20th century -
both this disguised Odysseus of the Cantos,
and the blatant portal of time-warp beginning and ending
in Dublin - Homer's resurrection and reinvention -
perhaps all this Grecian nostalgia is what fuelled
the 20th century altogether - but how anaemic
do the Roman poets seem in comparison -
i could never write along this root toward that
tree near the Parthenon - but taking root in
the Roman tradition has only been accepted for
historical relevance only once since - without
Virgil there would have been no Dante - but still
Dante uses more accuracy of mathematics than
of spontaneity - a clarity of mind is necessary -
trinity rhymes - all clearly presented, cut up -
but no one damns him for the theological impetus -
happily prancing alongside them in hell -
through to the seemingly pointless purgatory
and then elsewhere into what can only be seen as
humanity's limit of imagination: subatomic particles
and a realm were visible to the naked eye we float
in and out of conscious states - well - if what i'm attempting
is an attempt in good faith - then my guide is no one
else than Horace - and already the style between Greek
and Roman is staggering - the selfishness of Roman poets -
the must include item: i. no Trojan horse, but a wooden
barrel of wine - no heroes, only leeches and poking fun at
them like Spartans at a drunk given undiluted Burgundy -
Roman selfishness, self-loathing and all jokes on me -
the 20th century's nostalgia for all things Greek isn't here
anymore - you will not find such legislators of a second
fancy at Ancient Helen - this century has no great conflict
of gathering - and therefore no great victory to parade with -
it's a silly century from what looks like an even sillier 80 or
so years to come - and is there a nostalgia for the Roman
past? there was a nostalgia - it's too practical to think about
it - esp. with the writing kept, even if they crucified an
important, the wrath of the supposed father was not as great
as it was with the Egyptians and the Babylonians -
Sanskrit is just as old and it survived - those two phonetic
encoding systems haven't - you can't say they were
inefficient - civilisations surrounded them - but the wrath
was too great - and they became instinct -
but perhaps the wrath for his phonetic encoding is the digital
age? a ****-stain on human interaction - or a smear
of fondue chocolate? i think the latter - imagine me running
around the publishing world like Asterix in the *twelve tasks
of
- the place that sends you mad - including Hercules -
who did, managed to **** his children when his muscles weren't
up to speed with bureaucracy - oh hell, bench-press a cow -
but run with a little leaflet between offices... bonkers.
i really do miss the Cantos - the feel of them - the obscurity of
some of the references i'm not ashamed to admit -
or just the sheer ease on the eyes as is the case with any poem -
(a poem a day keeps both the psychiatrist and the optometrist
away) - so yeah, plenty of apples - and poetry, supreme democracy -
i could reread them, but i'm of a democratic cult -
i have to allow someone else to borrow me their shoes -
tom verlaine's album around - a rare gem, doesn't get listened
to a lot, but unlike other music, it's not something you'd
listen to in a gym, something that's a pleasant but mundane
distraction of pop metal pop rock or pop pop - the o of adore -
as suggested by a Scottish music shop assistant / owner in
Edinburgh - that magic city of where the 21st century's heart
of the literary scene resides - forget Paris, it's too much of
a little Casablanca - the Algiers of the North (Edinburgh being
Athens of the north) - i admit it'll be hard not to be nostalgic
about the 20th century let alone Ancient Helen -
but as the monkey said: got to push on and meet Darwin -
silly hands, silly feet, silly tail... and i'm not wearing Gucci
without Brazilian wax job all over, except for appropriate
places - sure - we'll just wait for the Apache hairdresser -
we only to scalping. however, there is a subversive thing
i want to mention (never mind that i already wanted to stick
in Thesaurus Rex on the matter): Kant (yawn) -
started analysing English aged 8 -
started synthesising English also aged 8 (a few weeks
if not months, from nothing, to gut sprechen -
piuma'h not pooma'h (Puma) -
but it took me 20 odd years of unconditional surrender
to the language, 20 years of synthesising it - blind -
to come across another chance to analyse it -
the difference being it became analytical a posteriori -
that's the thing with philosophers, they have spaghetti
for brains, tangles, they over-complicate things, but sometimes
they get it right, and you read them and then end up
using their labyrinths to find secret passages at places
like Versailles that Louis XIV used between visits to his
concubines - that was the trick, the upper-hand on the Arabian
practice - amuse yourself by not owning them -
but technically owning them - concubine power - the sixth
Spice Girl - dirrrty spice - but yeah, 20 years to get a second
stab at the analysis of the English language -
20 years of synthesis will do that to you, like any chemist
might feel, aged 20 does an analytical study, something
new and never done before, then he lands a job at a
pharmaceutical company and has to synthesise and synthesise
and synthesise the same thing over and over again -
20 years pass, aged 40 he gets another chance to analyse something
that it's just quality control - i know there are puritans out
there who'd lash out at what i'm using here -
but i want the practical side of philosophy, nothing overloaded
with words, theories, knowledge whatever that means -
i know crude, but necessary - a priori (from the earlier):
well, i wasn't a mute aged 8, proof?
an etymological void about to be filled: w środe poszłem do
lasu (on wednesday i went to the woods) - etymology here,
i'm sure of it - etymology or the resemblance of
a Thesaurus Rex roar - a piquant case of synonyms -
środa (wednesday), originally? derived from środek:
the centre - oh look... friday thursday ś tuesday monday -
the days off don't count, we all know that.
etymological spontaneity then, i wouldn't force myself
to practice a detailed inquiry using it - spare of the moment
thing... more pleasant that way;
but as you can see i am at the point of analytical a posteriori:
clearly shown by what i've already noticed in nuances
of the English language - i won't go through what i've
noticed - but having crossed the threshold of
analysing English after having automated synthesising it
for so long, i would naturally end up writing poetry -
the 21st century kind - look ahead! said Columbus,
but please have a sacred respect for your memory as
your own citizen with Friday on Bermuda -
treat memory like a potent hallucinogenic drug -
after all... the state doesn't respect your memory, at school
they cram in all those pointless things you have to
memorise - arithmetic, spelling (well both are kinda useful),
but so much else you will not care to remember -
it's not about how important you think you are when
you're not given there's 8 billion of us - don't get
fooled by this self-importance gimmick - look at what
the education system of the state is eroding... yes... your
memory - so you forget yourself at the happiest of times...
memory is more sacred than thinking and can be
more potent than an Amazonian or a Swiss hallucinogenic.
Sometimes the wind blows past my face.
And I ask myself "How come my dress won't fit me?"

Sometimes the bath water is cool.
And I ask myself "When will my job get easier?"

Sometimes I destroy old pictures.
And I ask myself "Will my brother be able to handle his responsibility?"

Sometimes lights scatter on my slender figure.
And I tell myself "I think I should draw now."

Sometimes people say things about being a happy person.
And I prepare myself "Work starts early tomorrow, I'll go earlier."

Sometimes I need to feel something.
And I state facts myself "That driver is a terrible driver, but I'm a good driver"

Sometimes the drugs i do make people ashamed to know me.
And I whisper to myself "Everyone around me is so stupid."

Sometimes people take advantage of my kind nature.
And I scream at myself "Ugh! Why is work so unbelievably inefficient."

Sometimes I remember I came from a broken home.
And my lungs burn with ash "But I'm trying to quit."

Sometimes I hide my darkest secrets of people who betrayed me.
And I wail at the ceiling "God this night is fun!"

Sometimes I dream about a life where I'm happy.
And I tell myself from the bottom of my heart "I'm happy to be who I am."

Sometimes I think about ending my life.
And I tell my friends "I need time and space to get better."

Sometimes I cry for no reason.
And my heart speaks to me "It'll pass."

Sometimes I remember my heart has been frozen for  decade.
And I pridefully spout "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sometimes my nightmares give me anxiety attacks.
And I think "I need a warm shower to relax."

But tomorrow, after the dreams I can't handle have passed.
I'll forget a few more sad thing I've had done to me and have done to others.
And I'll echo the words of others to show them how stupid they are.
My heart will remain frozen to keep the few things I like about myself. Forget, forget, forget the memories that caused me so much pain. It's my only choice. Love, hate, pain, all of it has to go.
-------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------
Sometimes I think I'm broken.
And I have been broken many times.
And know he should have picked me.
Because I'm better.

Because I can control myself.
Just my interpretation of a loved ones struggle. It's difficult when I'm not working with all the available information and a treacherous wound of betrayal but. In truth, I can find solace.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
ja, między swoimi? na wygnaniu? ja? jeden? z kim, i z dla kogo potrzeb? twoje, twej, tego, co mnie nigdy nie znał? tu?! tu nie ma na na narodu... ani ludzi wartych o przyjaźń, co by dało wartość, zwane: lata. o to zapomnienie, warte, złoto i gruz, na to samo w chinach, praca, zajęcie, ***, i to: tak, owszem, tak jest, panie profesorze, tak będzie... i nie inaczej... stara babuszka w lesie... skryta, skłania się po grzyby, potem na targowicy, w hustce, sprzeda sekret tych perfum. oh tych gnań... do tego: co było, i już nigdy już nigdy nie będzie. ah te piękne muchomory... polka-kropki w taniec, jak niby w twej bluzie... czy też w twej spódnicy, szyk, na tą ostatnią noc, gdzie mnie nie było, na tej zwanej, nad pamiętnej, studniówce; pisane, ręką, dziecką w rękach poronienia, o latach osiem; poronienia od narodu dar, co był bliskim tym co byli nad nim, w ramach lat, przed nim.

the saxons said the same, we don't mix with these people,
if i want to drink diluted ****-worth's of whiskey
i'll drink what the dogs **** out... and tell you,
it's like magic mushrooms!
    you know the difference between economic migrants
and migrants per se?
   the latter do not "conquer"...
    they don't make themselves habitual, comfortable...
they don't earn or learn a trade...
               they're here, to learn what the parasitic
government provides, taxation, en masse thieving...
only to exploit it, the system of benefits.
                                 akin to a saxon, or a norman, i'm
standing on these shores, and trying to thinkg of a good
reason to mate with the women on these isles...
   and i'm thinking... why dilute my d.n.a.,
     as the expression is made plain by the intellectuals,
my *d.n.a.
requires an upkeep...
     well, thank you for indicating to me where sensible
objectivity ends, and when true subjectivity, or poetry,
begins.
  i was planning to find out when all these objective
superiority statements would end, they just started to bore me,
sure, they made me feel uneasy,
     the internal dimensions of the object i encompass
are, so much less interesting than the external aspects
of the same object... within the arithmetic of 1 + 1 + 1 = 3!
3 + d!
       economic migrants simply show the ineffectiveness
of the host nation's workforce... it's in plain sight...
they're either lazy, callous, inefficient, irregular,
      low-quality proof (regarding the necessary output
for a satisfactory end-product),
                               in a nut-shell:
a bunch of wankers who just want to shove, but can't push!
              or heave!
why would i want to dilute my blood among these
people? sure, they can jingle and jive, and sing me a ******
christmas carol... apart from that? a potato famine.
      title? celtic-blood.... ginger-red-carrot-hair...
            sometimes there are just natural prejudices,
or let's say, personally experienced prejudices taking hold
of your writing, that you simply can't obstruct...
          some four-leaf clover ******* fairy of a boy tells you:
you should mingle with your own...
         you're polite enough to write an answer,
rather than tell it to his face... when you flying to dublin, you ****?
Logan Mar 2018
These Stairs. Stairs. Stairs. Stairs.
They keep getting longer,
and I keep dragging myself up them,

They form a spiral, but it's an inefficient shape.
It's constantly growing and shrinking.There is no end to the illusion. Illusions will never be as they seem.

I'll be pulling a heavier weight. I'm pulling a heavier weight I'm pulling myself. I'm pulling myself. I'm dragging my feet.
I'm exaggerating my movements. I'm exaggerating my words.

It's growing. Growing. Growing.
Like an infesting species to a house.
I'm crawling. I'm crawling. This is too much. This is too much. This is too long. This is too long. Too much. Too long. Too much. Too long.

These stacks of neverending words grow, and I tell myself to stop saying the biggest words that come to mind.
I tell myself to forget my pride. If I ever want to reach the top, I must.

They are so hard to decipher, but I can't stop climbing them, trying to conquer the enquizative knowledge of my insanity.
I keep stepping. Stepping. Stepping. Stepping.
I slowly drag my weight. Drag. Drag. Drag.

I slowly find myself climbing the words. Climb. Climb. Climb. Verb after verb. Trying to signal rhyme after rhyme. But, to my horror, when I reach the top.

There is nothing but a shadowed surface, filled with mistakes and tragedies. There is nothing but a reflection. Nothing but a small, skinny girl. And, to my horror, I realize,

IT IS ME.
Adjusting to the sound of the rubber tires embracing the concrete, the can-do attitude of day to day living, and constant game of social tetris, leaves one exhumed; exhausted. Sometimes the ever present “now” is lost in all our countless plans and attempts at  uprooting ourselves from what we have, to what we don’t have at the moment. It’s a never ending dance from one thing to another, and we always crave more. The way this world has evolved over the past century is indeed strange. Picture a tree that represents the dawn of  **** erectus’  way of living growing for the last million or so years on this world. From the unified trunk stemmed many branches with twigs cascading other branches and leaves extending outward toward the sun. Every tree branch is a different philosophy and/or perception of life how that group had  known. All these multitudes of how one should live his/her life standing out, yet working perfectly together with the others. There is no such idea that there is simply one correct answer to how you should live. This system of a very co-existent variety had worked for thousands, if not millions, of years. Yet, over the past century, most of these different branches and twigs and leaves have somehow just fallen off. Leaving just one conjoined branch(if you can call it that anymore) to soak up the nutrients it needs to survive. There is no more variance in how these stem outward. They all follow each other, doing the same as the one ahead of it. A very poor, inefficient strategy of keeping the whole alive. Thus leaving the entire tree malnourished of sunlight, soon it’s systems will shut down and eventually die. Too many people in this current world are all to ready to follow someone else’s idea about how they should live their life. In fact almost the entire population live this one, “right” construct. Infinitely stuck in an eternal circle of work, consume, work, consume, work, consume. Where is the humanity in this? Where is the forward propulsion of the human experience? Instead of  letting our natural curiosity take form and grab hold to evolve our knowledge of the universe, we drown out it’s cries with television and shopping malls..
Esz-Pe-Bea Jul 2014
Once one-hour Photograph
Now instant and digital
So we can Reminisce over
Recent events in
Less than half a Minute.

Mere Memory Stands shadow
to our impatient Vanity
captured in 3 by 5ives
Filed away in
Albums for every occasion.

What use is the Function
If it Needs constant Reminders?

Our inefficient use of time
Leaves us stuck with
Glossy Poser Smiles
and Piles and Piles
of Throw-away Pictures...
Dusting off an Ancient (2004) piece.
Poetic T Jul 2016
I think **** it, I am a repetition of my
last life I ***** a reproduction of
what my last lingering inefficient thoughts
expelled on last breaths that contaminated
me on to my new existence of caporal energy.

**** this existence of what lingered in-between
every reproduction of my life, rinse repeat.
what's the continued use of what was played out
and repeated on a new field of conciseness this time.
I am a greyer version of what I was before.

Then I become aware of what lingers beyond the womb
a repetition of other moments. I take my existence
in my hands and coil the giver of life, suffocating
my pain before it lingers on for a life time and stale
mate my existence, **** repetition I'm dead by my hand.
aurora kastanias Mar 2018
Escaping memories I ran
To the setting of beginnings
In search of new encounters
A rescuer, an owner, a gentle

Word. Penn station had evolved
In years with my emotions,
Beguiling decadence lost
To opulence decay.

Pink granite covered in grime,
Glass filtering sunbeams had
Now turned light into grey,
Eerie shadows reflecting

My vanishing intentions,
Dwindling strength,
Waning hope.
The mellifluous cadence

Of alphanumeric flapping metals
That used to sooth me with dreams
Of arrivals and departures
Had been silenced for evermore.

Solari boards swapped
For liquid-crystal displays,
Even people had changed
Flaunting grimaces of disdain,

As they whispered rumours
Of terminal demolishment
To the benefit of a sporting arena
They would call The Garden.

I empathised with the unfluted
Columns of the Roman colonnade,
For I too had been deemed
Obsolete and inefficient,

A wreck no one shall retrieve,
To be suppressed, a panacea
For a collective consciousness
That would rather not see,

Turning blind eyes to me,
To cost-effective identity
Annihilation,
While Bobby freed of me

Won the New York State
Championship
At Poughkeepsie.
On Old Penn Station, Nyc
She was calling
I could hear it
She was so close
I could taste her breathe
Visualize her smell
My senses were tangling
Her form was breath taking
Her grasp on me was
Of another nature
I was of her making
Her lips were pale
The feel of them left me
Mesmerize
In another dimension
A slave
Working the manors  
Of her body
No
It wasn’t rational
It was somewhat
Inefficient
She required more
Desired more  
Treasured
Cherished
She couldn’t get enough of me
I was her craving
To her
Oxygen was irrelevant
I
Me
I was her
Everything
But yet
She was always livid
Moving with relentless emotion
Every time she danced
I felt a swipe of wind
Tear my face
Length to length
A smile made a path
But
I wasn’t happy with this
This
What I’d become
I was furious
I wish I could have said no
But she
Her presence removed all illness
Unwillingly she was the puppeteer master
I was made of wood and had to be held
Up
By her hands
She held the strings to my existence
I had let her cress me
Make me into the one she wanted
I let her do as she so pleased
But even that
That
Was no good
I had given up just
When she
She had given all
I was thru
She had just began  
I guess two opposites really do attract
I couldn’t get enough
Enough of her touch
Her smell
I tried telling myself I was done
With her
With these lies
These games we play
But I just couldn’t get enough
As much as I hate to admit it
I loved her
With everything in me
I loved her
You see that “loved”
Past tense
Cause at some point I
I worked up the courage to say no
Ended those unpleasing nights
I grew tired of it all and finally said no
I wasn’t hers and she wasn’t mine
I was simply the fool she toyed with
At night, of course
But
Somewhere
Something
Inside I missed her
And it grew and grew with great force
Until I wasn’t there anymore
There was none of me left to miss her
Josh Aug 2017
I was on a train out of Chorley
Happy to be sad to be leaving
Smalltalking strangers with a great accent
Hot and uncomfortable because my super cool leather jacket wasn't breathing.

Lancashire, you've made me think!
Actually, trains make me feel pensive.
Or was it Mrs Barton?
Bumbling and hypersensitive (in a nice way)

"Remain vigilant through your journey"
"Do not leave your heart unattended or it may be destroyed"
We'll get into Cardiff at zero zero six teen
That's technically Friday; there'll be drunks to avoid.

We're past Crewe and I know
Younger me made the right decision.
The path I sometimes hesitate to follow
Is bold, beautiful and scenically inefficient.

It twists and turns, trees stream
Past the train's windows
The sky looks lovely tonight
A candyfloss cloud for each of my woes (only three or four obstruct the sunset and they make it shine all the softer)

Mother of a lover, you said
You thought you'd never see me again
You often think of me, and will "follow me".
Facebook makes it easy to pretend.
I wrote this down on a train journey from Chorley to Cardiff,
You await the day
The weight of oppression will rise
From your shoulders
As the wax runs down the
Candlestick holder and
Pools in the grooves of your table
Only to grow cold

You taught me how to walk as
We grew old
Receiving many a distant embrace
With arms empty
And I still wish to fill the space
Words are inefficient
It seems at times
Nothing is sufficient enough
To make you feel
How loved you really are

I have not lost you yet
So there is no need for you to feel lost
For someone I love very much. If you're reading this, you know who you are.

— The End —