Get your RSVP (Respondez s'il vous Plait)

Your presence is cordially invited
(If you please)
To the Troll Invitational Only Ball
Come one , come all !
Only the best heed this call
Featuring the Marque band ,
"Smashing Poets"
Playing their monster hits ,
"Clip You At The Knees" and "The Killer In Me Sets Me Free"

Join in the festivities
As we debase humankind
A great time is guaranteed
For all "Troll" beings
BIG or small
So come one , come all ye Trolls
To the Invitational Ball


Comments :

The Thaumaturge : When we're we supposed to get our invites ?

Thomas A Robinson : What ? You didn't get one ? Must be some kind of oversight !

The T. : I'm sending you hate mail as we speak so that you know my address this time .

TAR. : Will do , I'll be in wait . . . not !

The T. : I don't own a car and I was reading a book literally the other day .

Craig Moore : Is the ball going to be under a bridge ?

TAR. : Of course !

The T. : I feel like I'd be shunned at a trolls only ball since I'm more of an antitroll if anything .

TAR. : Well it takes one to break one .

The T. : Nice to know my efforts don't go unnoticed .

Craig Moore : But there is only one ?

TAR. : Proxy ! ! !

The T. : Oh alright . I've got like a billion of those .

TAR. : That's proxies , not proxy !

The T. : Yeah , I've got a billion proxy .

TAR. : Proxies ! ! !

The T. : No I have a lot of proxy .

TAR. : Ha ha , that sounds moxy !

The T. : Is it just a little bit foxy ?

TAR. : Now I'm shredding your invitation !

The T. : What ! Why ? I thought that would be a perfect example of trolling . Don't make me drop the B-bomb !

TAR. : Trolling - the act of dragging a lure or bait behind a boat in the hopes of attracting a fish to bite the bait or lure becoming hooked and caught . You're troll bait .

The T. : That was the whole proxy/proxies thing ! And as for you , you are a troll incarnate TAR and not even a clever one .
Yeah Thomas ! Leave yourself alone ! Anyway I was supposed to be invited but they tore it up after I arrived .

TAR. : And you call yourself a miracle worker ?

The T. : You want a miracle ! I'll show you a miracle !

TAR. : What ? Hack my account ? Been done already .

The T. : That's not a miracle . Tell me what would impress you ?

TAR. : Simple , eliminate all trolls from here permanately . Should be only a minor miracle .

Tap . Tap . Tap .

TAR. : I see he cannot eliminate even one troll .

The T. : What are you talking about ? They're all gone !

TAR. : Smoke and mirrors . Don't gaslight me ! I'm an optimist . One who sees through fog clearly .

The T. : My only weakness .

TAR. : So put up or shut up .

The T. : Honest is the best policy .

TAR. : Honesty ! ! !

The T. : Thomas A Robinson your obscene proclamations are easily dismissed by adults . What would you do to a child in a public restroom ?

TAR. : I would call you for advice . Whoops ! No I wouldn't ! I would take the knife out of your hand .

The T. : You remove the knife from my hand only to find out that I'm actually a large swarm of bees wearing a trench coat .

TAR. : I would be the bee and tan your hive !

The T. : Maybe make a moovee out of it ?

TAR. : Bagging the killer B's . Pyrethium dreams . Your honey's run dry . You sting me I **** you .

The T. : That'd just **** me twice .

TAR. : Well good night Miracle worker . Don't let the bee mites bite .

The T. : I hate those bee mites , sweet dreams are made of bees .

TAR. : Ha Ha Ha , dear Annie Lennox is fumigating now . You're a Pox on everyone .

Mya-Angel Madden : How dare I miss the Ball of Trolls ! Whatever happened to Lucifer ? **** .

TAR. : Ah , the days of Lucy, when the definition of a troll was perfected !
All others now are just doormats in comparison .

Pintu Mahakul : Join in the festivities and this is very amazing definitely .. .

TAR. : Thank you Pintu Mahakul .

This is my invitational suicide,
My final coup de grace,
I can't handle this anymore,
I stand so close to the edge leaning over thinking about it,
My mind screams yes,
But my heart says no,
To wait...
The thought runs through my mind,
again,
It never fails to stop me at the last moment,
Just when I want to give up,
When self-Immolation and penance seem to be the only answer...
She runs through my mind,
Her deep brown eyes and soft brown hair catch me everytime,
No matter how fast I fall after I jump she catches me,
She tortures me,
She is the reason I live when I wish to die,
She is the reason I know my life is worth living.

Moving my glass in a circle, listening to the ice and cup collision.
As I go on and on and on, the ice melts, as does my vision.
But I'm alone, my most frequently taken decision.
Followed by correcting my morning away in revisions.

I'm caught in my hammock, tangled like a fish in the netting.
Watching my hand pick up that bottle in this repetitive setting.
And wonder of your pulse, and if it's been forgetting
Those moments, that at this point, seem to be getting
To be all that I am.

Forgetting Sundays.
Or the stars with salt and butter, to feel better.

By forgetting the corner shelf, each handwritten letter,
Forgetting long drives, how making a bed with two people is best.
Being car sick. A beer to pitch up the tent.
Gazing up at the redwoods.
A single tear rolls, a fire burns as tall as we stood.
Tied together on that forest floor.
Tighter than the knots before.

It means,
Forgetting the inner dialogue of those people walking down the block.
It's never getting the hang of how that door unlocked.
Forgetting a **** good teammate for cracking word games.
Forgetting that medicine bag that was actually lame.
Or that plate under the bathroom sink with old dried up paint.

Visiting a farm, the salsa, debating on the shirts.
Deciding who really wanted to sneak into the abandoned house first.
Someone sitting at a bar, typing the night away.
Live music, completely failing at spoken word that one day.
Waking up as two kittens. For hours to play.

It means,
Forgetting the harmonica, and songs that lived inside it.
Reaching dead ends with GPS, so we had to guide it.
Laughing for hours on a porch, smoke winding around our fingers.
Mimosas, a most satisfying breakfast smell still lingers
Answering a phone as if faintly afraid.
Remembered the songs I heard; the exact time and the day.
Leaving notes around to be discovered and sweet.
Shaking hands with the world, all those random people we'd meet.
We never went to the BBQ at the corner car wash.
Always owed the store next door a dollar.
How I would sit on that chest as you walked back and forth, deciding what to wear.
Smoking out the window.
Finding socks everywhere.

It means,
Forgetting the run to the bart station after bar hopping quests
--Those in hopes you'll say yes to that one invitational request.
Always on missions to go see and eat things we hadn't before.
Driving to that one restaurant where kids worked the floor.
And there were no prices for the plates.
Staying up late.
Forgetting how the white people dance and we laughed.
This is how you dry two sweaty hands.
Promising all the adventures we planned.
The day you tried to get me to drink the green goo. Ew.
I still drank that whole glass for you.
Helping you even out the dirt in that backyard with a slab of wood and a string.
Those songs off Pandora I attempted to sing.
A Red Bull accompanied by other snacks in a bag.
Picking you up there, and later setting one of my pillows on fire.
I packed everything but that **** set of plates.
I laughed at your knee socks, BART running late.


It means, all these things that might ring a bell;
If you can forget them, you forget me as well.

vii..xii

come to me,
my beloveds
with long nails
and squinting eyes,
spare neither
claw or hook,
delve and devolve,
critique and solve
the words of this prophet
scribbled on plastic
bus seats

give me
my due,
my comeuppance,
my downfalls

will me
to be better
or worse
if that be betterment

so eagerly
will embrace,
grasp, insert
your benailing fingers,
soften, grasp,
repoint thy claws
taking thy earnest joy
at pain inflicted
as my own
as long as you dare
just say something!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bus poem
in honor of my invitation  
my digital birthing

April 8th, 2015

You're an inspirational exciting jolt
Like an invitational lightning bolt
I'm suddenly shocked by the results
When I am blocked by your revolt

You have my beating heart in your hand
Holding me hostage where I silently stand
Staring at your ****** butcher's cleaver
That morphs me into a landlocked ******

You're a two-hander
Like a sledgehammer
Or a radar jammer
I start to stutter and stammer
When I see your weekly planner
And the lack of my presence
Because I'm incessant
You hold a pencil and an eraser
You delete when I become a tracer
And start to draw a better replacer

You hold the scales of justice
Though I claim you're unfit
You say add that to the list
From the throne where you sit
And there's no avenue for any recourse
When your other hand holds so much force
I must deal with your actions
So I can stay in your faction
For my heart's attraction

I am never right
So we never fight
And we never might
Understand each other
When we're taking cover
From exposing vulnerability
An exploding soul is filling me
Because the cold mist killing steam
Between us until you are only a dream
And my mind starts bursting at the seams
Until there's a monster barely mentally caged
But the bars shake when it is constantly enraged
When your saccharine emotions are cynically staged
My bustling brain will unfortunately always be plagued
By your neutral reactions which I'll never be able to gauge

You hold two hands behind your back
Will it be an attack?
Our two hands should meet
Instead I'm trampled by feet

night
wears
her
stunning
and lovely
ash pink rose
dress
to
The
universe ball
invitational

2am Friends

winter has set the boundage, bars of chill, escape-urge killers,
self-imprisoned by our ruthless timidity, that both comforts yet,
worse violates our truthful, unwanted inadmissible-neediness by
purging the touches and the knowing kindage, this then,
this preface, your reminding of-as-of-yet untouched,
half-invitational, half-regret, half-cursed, whole red need for
2am friends
to fill the void that poems can n’ere fill

1/1/18

I want to see you from inside out
And know where your eyes gaze about
I want to know what you always see
What could you maybe someday be?

Tell me after you have slept
-When passion awakens from its depths-
The whisper of senses that crash upon your shore,
The ones I hope you do not ignore

I wish to see you gaze at the skies
Maybe you'll frown, or even ask, "Why?"
Those waters, a place I wish to swim
Will ask you with an invitational whim
Maybe- just maybe- you will not deny

If you really don't like this
give me an alternative,
give me that,

give me reasonable cause
to live,
give me proof of my
existence
and pay no mind to
coffee spoons,

measure me in millimetres,
amphitheatres or
a
lions roar

and keep score
of my mistakes
if what it takes
is that.

You were the one that never got picked.
Almost like the girl at an invitational dance.
You were the one always chosen last.
Similar to the child's football player with limited skills.

Look at you now.
You are the envy of various ladies in town.
Those that were, is trying to be.
Those that claim to be, never amounted to anything.

So, look at you now.
You're respected in important corners around.
It's not that you changed.
In several truths, you're still the same.

You didn't adjust to fit in the "in group" squad.
You stayed yourself.
Which wasn't all that hard.
Cause you always been yourself.

Now, look at you.
You're the prettiest bride around.

Beautiful girl, I don't know why,
It's not that I don't try
I would roll with your pretty self everywhere
Enjoying your smile like the priciest fare,
You have no idea how I yearn
For your company; your trust to earn
I love how your words roll off your tongue
Like the curves on your body as if sung,
I don't want to admit it but this teasing
Has got me all worked up; thinking wishing
I don't like my mind playing tricks
When you call me I envision your lips,
Uttering sweet nothing to my burning ears
But teleportation won't exist for another few years,
Words can't describe how my heart falls
When I say no to your invitational calls,
Wish I had no other priorities
But I have to pay all the utilities,
Hanging with me might be like no other
But the way things are; you shouldn't bother
Just thought I'd let you know how I feel shorty,
I'm missing out on being around you; really...
© okpoet

I am scarier as an invitational being
Draw me a context and watch me come to life
Strive with me, we will be friends
Come and watch as unity does commence

Try and wake up in Arcadia
And watch as you lie still
The rings of Saturn turn
And the world turns downright cold

But you won't wake up again

Trust me; I've never been so timid
Every grin grimace is as lifeless as my own
Even our souls have begun to tendril shut
Forward thinking and forward feeling
Did I take you? Sorry, I didn’t mean to

Each breath drawn colder
Each breath taken lightly
Shoulder to shoulder
Beings of all shapes
Beings with minds shaped, molded and singular

They all hunger

For you, one way or another

The eyes once drawn apart
Have found their way together
Right and left
Every breath
Working on into forever
Like it or not
And I'm sure you don’t know
We will surface soon
And then we will float

Try waking up in Arcadia
You will never wake up in Arcadia
The rings of Saturn turn
And the world became void
But the dream is all there is
You have been awake
There is no awareness
I am doomed

By: Abaigeal Skye

Society's guidebook to being a "successful woman"
Was surely written by men who wanted to be more "successful with women"
For it is graced by the grimy fingerprints
That bound these pages with the soot
Of burned out attempts at seduction.

Look how
She turns her face away from you
As she erodes inward
To escape your invitational glare.

Hear her
Breath as it catches on each prickling remark,
Slowly unravelling from politeness
To annoyance.

Threatened.

Your mother
Must have told you that
We're humans, worthy of respect, of decency,
But
The posters boasting flesh and flesh alone
Invite you,
Condone.

**This is the coward's excuse.

So, a president got a thrill while in office.
Who don't believe Congressmen wouldn't have lined up?
For a invitational thrill.

We aware none of them were better than him.

So, a minister broke his vows of sermonial preaching.
And committed one of the hateful sin.
This is when the truth of news begins.

News report on everyone but themselves.
Not about the reporter that's an alcoholic.
Or the one that abused drugs.

They are a protect class.
Exposing others visual past.

Put them under those glaring lights.
And watch them avoid the cameras like bugs avoid lights.

Am I plastered?
Drunk or just hanging?
Taking a dunk or just sagging?
I am given to aphorisms
Morals that build us for a reason
Trying to keep us out of mental prisons
Words have me in a haze and I cannot erase these thoughts  that keep running in an entrancing maze.

Metamorphosis. There are matters that enforce this energy which is engorged within a metaphysical force. I use my fingers to pick up a pen so to expel a thought that lingers in my pineal gland.

Goodness. It is grace amazing that is in this place or just a god or the God who shows off his face. We are presented with a gift perennial that is wrapped with mystery. In mists the fists of fate take a swing and if we believe in the unseen we can trust grit and transcend beyond wit. Train our senses to be lit so they can send us beyond -ism's to the essence of goodness.

Locomotion. In my local state I give up my locale to some divine logic gate. I dial in to wire my mental coiling to follow a calling to inspire. Ever the wiser I should soar to the mystic spheres. But ground there is insulation and my calculation computes a technical movement in my skeletal. I am moving locating my next step, relaying locomotives which are concentric energy.

Soigné. A fine dame I dare meet on a fine day. So Ignorant of her beauty I parlay my chances with a few words of jest and curved zest to interact with her invitational tract. If I have a chance in fact I will make a pact to be with her throughout the days and forget about lustful tact. I resurge and her being is muse and to me it is a purge. I aim to converse with her for days and days so we can find confluence as we psychically converge. And I'll tell her that she is pulchritudinous and I am pale true to nought, waiting for my crafting.

Words or chords to find concordance. Some say say swords to slice and pierce and dictate worlds. I say they are mellifluous like a melody that sends a melancholy sadist out of his maladies. Magnanimously magnificent in moments of poetic artistry and meandering prose fixating methodically. From the mammary of the culinary belly we squeeze out these laid letters formed to mean but not to be mean to the means of our diction or magnify our addiction. Perhaps to quantify our intellect beyond the internet, we archive them in dictionaries and illustrate them in some encyclopaedia. Perhaps grunts and clicking of tongues is some medium... But words change the world where lords fail to write laws to keep us sane, and instead have swords forged to have any man slain.

I fall for your dark chocolate eyes
every time I see you in sight,
so irresistibly invitational, sensational,
creating milky mocha dreams
in the dynasty of my heart.

You are like the Milky Way
that attracts me to your astounding towns
of wonderfully warm love,
filling up my soul with great inspiration,
a chocolate loving king soaked
in dazzling dopeness, glowing,
overflowing with soul,
a fine brown brother
enrapturing me with your espresso eyes.

Mike Farabaugh
invitational
inspirational