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luci Jan 2018
Assisted suicide?
Physician Assisted Suicide is the process of a doctor providing the necessary sleeping pills/lethal dose to allow a terminally ill patient to perform the life ending act. In the United States, all but four states have made physician assisted suicide (PAS) illegal.When in a situation a terminally ill patient is in, they should have the right to commit a physician-assisted suicide.
In 1994, the state of Oregon enabled the Death With Dignity Act (DWDA). With 51% voting in favor of the act, it gives terminally ill patients access to PAS. Attorney General John Ashcroft challenged the act by saying it was not “real” and that allowing doctors to do perform that, violates the Controlled Substances Act (CSA). CSA protects the regulation of doctors from performing unauthorized distributions of drugs and drug abuse. If doctors are able to assist suicides, through Ashcroft’s claim, they would be using drugs as an abuse. In the Supreme Court, petitioner Paul D. Clement argued in the case about the violation of CSA, with 6-3, “we conclude the rule is not authorized by the CSA, and we affirm the judgment of the Court of Appeals” (Gonzales V Oregon).
Patients of irreversible illnesses often develop disorders that go underdiagnosed causing them to live a life that isn’t happy for them or their family members. According to Dr. Fine of the Office of Clinical Ethics, terminally ill patients usually get depressed when dealing with intense suffering. When the patient is depressed, they may not respond to treatment as expected. If the patient is not responding to treatment well, the doctor may up the dosage of medication or consider adding antidepressants, causing the patient to be reliant on medication for the rest of their life.
Patients who receive a terminal diagnosis usually experience high levels of anxiety.  According to Dr. Fine, anxiety can cause problems such as, agitation, insomnia, restlessness, sweating, tachycardia, hyperventilation, panic disorder, worry, or tension. Sleep deprivation plays a huge part in the anxiety the patients feel. The patient’s sleep is often interrupted many nights and several times to get their blood pressure checked, blood withdrawals, checkings of veins, etc. Because these medical requirements can not be withheld, many doctors may feel the need to heavily sedate the patient to make them feel lucid during the day time.
Studies have shown that patients of terminal illnesses fear that they’d burden their families. The patients feel, “grief and fear not only for their own future but also for their families’ future” (Johnson), researchers say. The feelings of being in the way can cause emotional, physical, social, and financial problems. In  doctors Johnson, Nolan, and Sulmasy’s research, they found that feelings of burden are most likely to affect emotional symptoms, quality of life, and patient satisfaction. Wanting to feel like they aren’t a burden to their families and society was most important to patients seen by the doctors. The research the doctors conducted found that out of a list of 28 qualities, the wish to not be a physical or emotional burden on family, 93% of respondents said that this was very or extremely important to them. The doctors made three categories of experiences that were related to “self-perceived burden” (Johnson). The first one being “concerns for other” (Johnson), then “implications for self” (Johnson), and last being “minimizing the burden” (Johnson). Feeling like a burden can cause “empathic concern engendered from the impact on others of one’s illness and care needs, resulting in guilt, distress, feelings of responsibility, and diminished sense of self” (Johnson).
To let a patient commit an assisted suicide means, they’re freed from pain. To force someone who knows that their time's coming to an end quickly when they do not wish to be in pain anymore should be a crime. In Epidemics, Book 1, it states, “practice two things in your dealings with disease: either help or do not harm the patient”, by allowing the patient to continue their life is harming them, all physically, mentally, and spiritually. Doctors take an oath, the Hippocratic Oath when practicing medicine. In the oath, there is a phrase that says “Also I will, according to my ability and judgment, prescribe a regimen for the health of the sick; but I will utterly reject harm and mischief”, if the patient has considered an assisted suicide, they’ve been in too much pain and wish for it to end. Refusing them the help causes them more physical and emotional pain; physical being the illness itself and emotional being the feeling of being a burden.
Patients with terminal illnesses have the right to commit assisted suicides because it allows them to end their life from something no drug would be able to fix. With the illness being irreversible, dragging it out will cause both suffering and financial problems. Terminally ill patients have the right to die with dignity. Dying by choice will let their loved ones know that they are ready and have accepted their fate, easing weight off their families shoulders. Having the ability to die will portray the patients as human beings who want to make one last decision before going rather than people who are laying in a hospital bed waiting to die. A patient knows that the doctor’s job is to relieve pain, with a doctor refusing their wish, only cause distrust in their relationship. Letting assisted suicide would allow their families to begin healing. By refusing the patient their right to die, forces them to live a poor quality of life no one would ever wish upon anybody. It is in everyone’s interest to let them go. Doctors have a responsibility to make the patient happy and to relieve them of any kind of pain, letting them go is relieving them of the pain they wish to no longer feel. PAS gives them the ability to go happily and contently.
Kiernan Norman Oct 2012
I
There is a 3% chance I'll find you here. But if in each pair of eyes I dip, I find 1/8 of you; I'll be there soon.

II
I didn't crawl here; I took a plane. I spent six hours tracing the Atlantic from my window and you rose from the sea, dry and unsalted, twice each nautical mile. I would say it was my imagination, or the California wine, but I wear glasses now and never lie about what I see. It was you. And you and you and you.


III
Stealing is easier here. Maybe it's the crowds or the way the men smile at me like I'm harmless, but my hands move without question. They don't fumble or miss pockets, my heartbeat doesn't even protest. In prayer beads, silkworm cocoons, oils and sea rings, I am in debt to a city who doesn't know it.


IV
I have no ethnicity. Deep in bone coils the apathy and flight of someone's non-heritage. But I am forgiven; in a world of paranoia, brown eyes are always trusted and the way my hair falls reminds them that I'm on their side. Even my name curls within itself, folded flat and dead before it's over. It's better this way; no allegiance, no responsibility.

V
From a curb in district nine, I see your star. It's hanging where you said it would be but I can't see god in it the way you promised.

VI
On the other side of the world you told me about a quad of green. You waxed flowers of every color, the sky I've only ever painted and the people, beautiful and dark, who will save me. I found it. In broken French and broken sandals I found it and the sun was setting and you had just left. So now we both know you won't be the one to save me.

VII
With one foot in the slanting gutter I walk until the city circles and I'm back where I started. In a daydream I found you. I smiled and quoted your book, the part that said 'When we heard the guidance, we believed in it' and you looked at me in a way that scared me. A way that translated your face into thousands of alphabets, ancient and invented. And I knew none of them. Suddenly I'm illiterate to you. Suddenly I'm gone.

VIII
I'm with a man who's made of smoke and each strawberry ring that escapes my lips is dedicated to someone that I’ve laughed with.

IX
With the intensity of archives on fire, I withdraw. You are still a body; a few hundred bones calcified and aging, a mind of words streaming like spider webs, blood you never shed, and  muscles that cross in blinding precision, but you are not who you used to be. You bound to me in a way that's irreversible and now we're both stitching. Awkward and broken we pull at flesh to remove each other. We have scars now, like stickers ripped from wallpaper. The outline of a palm stains my shoulder, a thumb the size of yours in the crook of my elbow. Small, white fingerprints tattoo your neck.


X
I might be free. Over cobble stones with broken sandals I don't trip until I realize that a city where I loved is now part of me. I can get as far away from her as the modern map allows but the red and gold bangles that crowd my wrists are not to be taken off. They're a part of me too. Like blood spilled on a cobble stone, you will walk over us every day of your life.
written January 2008. Seventeen.
Johnny Hearts Aug 2014
Irreversible mistakes, I just want to die
Irreversible words in which are full of lies
Get a gun a knife or two or any kind or rope it would do
sleeping pills, pain killer overdose which ends up with death
Wishing some words were enabled to be reset
Nicx Oct 2013
Content, clarity, no calling home
Surrounded snugly in sunshine’s roam
What naturally burns is saving
Cleansing the soul in its raving
Yet somber shadows induce chills of night
And the sun regresses in imperative flight
The moon brings forth its calming glow
So soon It’s realized she’s all alone
The gnawing proceeds from deep in her mind
Progressing forward without a bind.

Dropping, drifting, dying leaves
Just like their path her thoughts shall weave
To and fro between a mood
Sweet and caring turned suddenly rude
Cold winds lead to a chilling sight
Everything’s changed but It says all is right
Soon the world blends together as one
No longer touched by the warmth of the sun
Temperatures drop and so does her head
Leaden with sorrow as she makes for her bed.

Empty, endlessly enduring days
Isolation extends but it’s deemed okay
Dreams die, concealed by snow
She wants to leave but cannot go
Icy winds blowing cold as her heart
Frozen solid and wishing to part
Getting used to the pain
With no hope to gain
Too weak to worry with no emotions felt
She’s forced to awaken as the world starts to melt.

Free and flowering fields now bring
Hope to the girl who could not sing
Coming from the showering rain
The healing waters break through the pain
Finally she’s found the truest way
To stop and force her problems away
Soon enough she’s rediscovered her smile
And returns to the friends she hasn’t seen in a while
Oh but It’s smart, much smarter than we
So smart that nobody could ever have seen

Greatly, gladly going home
Swimming deep in water’s foam
A calm, warm night has come to cease
Their world is frantic while hers sees peace
Searching hard for a missing girl
Reaching the river, their stomachs curl
Soaking, dripping, they find what’s wrong
Realizing now how long she’s been gone
Eroding sadness, consumed by pain
Now they can feel what she did every day.
Honestly this is probably my favorite piece of writing I have and it came naturally as I was facing serious urges to start writing again, because it has been a while, and we are learning about poetry in English so I would start writing right after class and this is the result. While it may not sound like it took much to write, this is very important to me and deep in my emotions, with a few hidden twists as well.
I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time's irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.

I do not dream that you, young again,
might come to me darkly in love's green darkness
where the dust of the bracken spices the air
moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness
and water holds our reflections
motionless, as if for ever.

It is enough now to come into a room
and find the kindness we have for each other
— calling it love — in eyes that are shrewd
but trustful still, face chastened by years
of careful judgement; to sit in the afternoons
in mild conversation, without nostalgia.

But when you leave me, with your jauntiness
sinewed by resolution more than strength
— suddenly then I love you with a quick
intensity, remembering that water,
however luminous and grand, falls fast
and only once to the dark pool below.
ryn Dec 2014
Intangible is the vision I've held close and clear
The strength behind my every morning rise

Incredible was the ride that brought me back here
Past decisions that may lead to future's demise

Irreversible is the garb I've worn soaked with many a tear
Fits me ill; but still I wear with swollen eyes

Immeasurable are the hopes that nowadays meander and veer
Still believe even though they sang only of lies...
Ingram Apr 2020
I remember putting on my white dress,
trying to hold back tears from stress.
I knew deep down that I never wanted to walk down that aisle,
but my feet kept moving with a perfect, fake smile.

I put all my faith in God above,
and I even prayed to feel His love.
Because all I wanted was to do the right thing,
and I truly believed that getting married to a man would fix everything.

One year later I am back where I started,
but this time with divorce papers feeling cold-hearted.
I never wanted it to end this way,
and how naive of me to think I was strong enough to stay.

Now I just want to hug my mom while I cry out,
but she is disgusted with the fact that I came out.
I am filled with tears of hatred and shame
because I lit up my life with an irreversible flame.

I asked for this.
I asked for all of this.
B Lee Aug 2018
Broken flesh, infected in dissolute.
We tend to dispute our vision of the world seeing only black and white.
Our eyes decieve us blatantly concealing the harmonic view of a one race with different shades.
Philia filling my heart with philosophies of what love actually is.

Conforming to the emotions of our soul drifting towards carnality.
Seduced by the luring sweet scent that our desires tend to offer often leading to our spirits fatality.

A promise is yet to come. A sacrifice made for us with the Annointed One hanging under inri. We forget our mistakes are not irreversible and He gave us the chance to live with Him for eternity.

Agape. The love so beautiful its tangability pushes us towards Him even when our lifes are resisting. His love being the cure to my absence and His peace being the sustainter of my life...so who am i to barricade you from His real love.
This was written for someone special to me.
Harmony Nov 2015
Dough making
with flour and water
Salt and butter
Calls for kneading
In ritualistic candor
As parts come together
To an irreversible matter

The soft cushion of dough
between the palm and the bowl
pliable with every push and shove
stretched and compressed
In sheepish conformity


Blistered on  skillet
Puffed up to a chapati
Heavens thanked with each bite
For flat bread with savory curry
Fills nostrils with soft aromas-
Relished as heaven on tongue-
One is contented of this flat bread
Towela Kams Oct 2014
Yesterday, I was on my way to the mall and I decided to use public transport.
There was this odd man in the bus, who spoke in a very peculiar tone.
I heard him speak our local language, shouting, "I beat her yesterday! My wife came home late from work yesterday and I beat her! I slapped her! I ****** her! I kicked her!"
I was sitting in the back, and I thought that maybe this was just a joke. Even still, it was a rather morose "joke".
The man beside him, his friend, exclaimed in heavy laughter saying, "Yes, my friend, that's what we do. They'll learn to respect us. And they'll learn that they should not do just as they please!"
The man replied, "That's true! She must be thankful I brought her from the village and into the city. She shouldn't even be working. She should be home, being a housewife."
At this point in time, the elderly woman beside me shot a glance to the men behind her.
It could've been that she had experienced abuse, too, in her earlier years of marriage.
I knew she was stunned and I knew she wanted to say something, just as I did but didn't know how to structure her words.

I'm fourteen. And I'm very lucky to be born in modern day where abuse isn't tolerated and education for women is recommended.
It's more than "just" education. It's empowerment.
And that's what a lot of women don't understand.
I won't be quick to blame them for staying in such an abusive relationship.
Not that I'm encouraging that they stay, or anything.
I know that sometimes they stay because they can't leave.
There's their children they can't leave behind
I think it's high time society appreciated women, they go through more than we can imagine
Physical abuse is one thing, emotional abuse is the deadliest
And the scars left on these women's lives is irreversible
They learn to reduce themselves to this HORRENDOUS "lifestyle" that people from long ago accustomed to
Education is the key to success; you best believe that
Over the next few years, I want to hear the story of the girl who witnessed and sometimes endured abuse
And how she used her experience to help fellow girls
And how she further grew up to help empower women
I want that girl to be me
To be the mouthpiece for women
And it all begins today.

As my mother has said before, "If he even ATTEMPTS/THREATENS/ to hit you, LEAVE."
Due to circumstances that abusers usually encounter in their early stages of life, abuse isn't something you can easily rectify. It's not a cycle that can be broken.
So, L E A V E.
Close the door to abuse, open the door to happiness and success. Especially when you have the key to open it; Education - the key to success.

Thank you,
Towela Kams [Future women-advocate]
Unfortunately, I have tons of friends who witness abuse. And it scars them when that abuse is done by someone their mothers really love.
This piece is pretty self-explanatory.
Arianna Darshani Sep 2015
Im not a good poet but I want to get this off my chest.
Maybe this is too much of a blog. If so, I am sorry.
Nobody has to read it!
I don't mean to misuse this service or to make anyone mad.
I am just not good at poetry
But I believe my words have a rhythm to them.

This is a long and boring post.
Making this post is part of my healing
Even if nobody reads it.

I met a psychopath, I don't use that term lightly
He had been in prison for ****** against his 7 year old daughter
A monster and what most people often call a baby ******.

What was wrong with me, that I did not bolt away like a wild horse?
What made me stay? Is it my Tao to be in their spell forever?
I mean the pedophiles that abused me now forty years ago?

How could I have blocked out his crime?
Where was my outrage for the victim?

He is in Seattle, I am in Minneapolis
But we played cards for 7 months
When he showed me his hand,
I suddenly realized who and what he was.
And I was struck with a sense of horror.

Psychopaths are always charming, at first.
They fool a lot of people. He fooled me.
And I can't get over it.

I broke free, galloped away, but had irreversible damage.
I could not eat or sleep. I was on edge.
I felt polluted, I felt ashamed, I felt gullible
It is why I have the diagnosis of PTSD
because my entire childhood was filled
To the rafters with abuse and this psychopath
Touched upon that in a major way.
They call it a "Trigger" in psychology.

I thought I had burned that house down
But my naïveté and poor boundaries led me
From the paradise of my home
To this psychopath's perverse thinking.
What a sick *******.
I can't even describe
how perverse it got towards the end
So I won't even bother.
Why dwell on a psychopaths sick mind?

I was very sick and in a crisis for ten days
When I broke it off with him.

My last email to him was that,
God is real and that he is going to Hell.
He excuses his behavior with
Bible verses.
That's not going to help him
On judgement day.
He also will suffer karma until
He learns his lesson.
Prison was not enough to teach him

Im starting to sit back and take in the lesson
I've decided that for my own safety
I need to get a lot more paranoid because
Baby rapists and evil people do exist
And I have no radar and no set of boundaries.
Because I was abused so much as a child.

I downloaded an App that lists all
The ****** predators near your home
There are a lot of them and some look like
Your average guy, like the pedophiles who abused me.
Nobody next store but in Osceola, 5 minutes away.

And what about Jared Fogel? Is everyone a pervert?
Why do adult ( mostly men ) need to sexualize children?

I am restricting my easy going temperament
He took what was left of my innocence.
My heart is healing and I have vowed
Not to let him or his sickness
To ruin my good temperament.
Nor my Peace of Mind.

Lastly, I realize that it was by the Grace of God
That I found a loving husband
A man who truly cares, truly loves
In a way I never felt as a child.

As an abuse survivor, the statistics
For me to find a suitable relationship
were slim.
But my mother always told me
To respect myself.

But here we are, 31 years together
Or what my science mind calls
60% of our lives. We are 53.

I don't know how I found "the one"
A broken heart is so visceral and
With so much angst that I feel fortunate
That I've been spared that experience.

We met in Martial Arts class
I had met him at age 19 and he asked me out
I took him up on that offer when we were 22
I worked for my black belt in Tae Kwon Do
He was working on his 2nd degree blackbelt
We trained together for many hours
We hung out.
Ha ha, our first date was to see
The Karate Kid! Also plenty of Bruce Lee!
My husband began martial arts because
Of Bruce Lee.
I started martial arts for self defense
Having been abused by so many men
Made me want to never happen again.

Nice trip down memory lane
Back to the psychopath.
I don't have children and
I am not around any children.

I went to the State Fair, and saw some girls
Only 7 years old, like the psychopath's daughter
When he started his predation on her.  
I felt physically ill that a child of that age
Would have to deal with a grown man
And her father, on too of that.
It is beyond imagination.
I was abused at age 11 and 7 seems
Awfully young. Poor girl.

I felt a sense of nausea when looking at these little girls
That I had befriended a ****** perpetrator
Entirely negating his victims experience.
What was I thinking?

I feel almost like I am guilty because I associated with him.
I feel horrible that I had any relationship
With such a dark and bleak soul.

God bless his daughter out there somewhere
She is now in her 20s
His children are in their 20s and I think
When he has grandchildren he might re offend
I need to stop this and have decided
To contact CPS, and write a letter of concern
Every six months until he has grandchildren

It's the very least I can do.
I've taken a personal interest and
I vow to protect his future grandchildren
From ******, a crime he is not sorry about
He has no remorse, he does not repent
And in that way he can reoffend

Let me go back to my life now
It is almost Fall
And the trees will be brilliant
Thank God, that I realize
I need to out much tighter boundaries
Around myself because being gullible
Is going to get me killed

Thankfully I am not being stalked
Thankfully my life is not in danger
Thankfully we live half a continent away

Let me hold my husband's hand
Let me remember what's important
Let me remember that Im safe
Let me recover from the emotions
Of horror and dread, that have kept me
From eating and sleeping.

Im a bit of a yogini
And I do yoga Nidra
I do meditation
I take refuge in Buddha
I have a faith in Christ
These things all help.

Let the heavens forgive me
For ever getting involved
With a psychopath and for not
Giving his daughter's abuse
A second thought.

This has altered my personality
I am now an activist for victims
Of childhood violence.

I will hear their voices in a way
That is healthy and safe.

Safe. A good place to be!

If you've made it to the end of
This post, I give you my sincere
Thanks and if you did not read my post
I also give you thanks.

~Arianna
Mykle Matwaya Jan 2019
Throughout the course of this life, I, just like you, have made my fair share of mistakes. To compensate for this & also out of a fear of letting others down or causing pain or suffering to anyone other than myself, over the years I have tried to hone to almost perfection, the habit of seeing down the line when it comes to the decisions I make and the chances I take.
But alas, no one is perfect, especially not I.

Although I was compelled to grow up long ago, I feel as though I am still a young man, a young man with old values. Values like honor, loyalty, dignity and a wonderful sense of shame. A trait which I feel compliments the first three aforementioned values quite well.
Traits far removed from the gooey 'Quick’mix’d Battered' personalities we find ourselves standing shoulder to shoulder with in the oven of today’s irreversible societal meltdown. Everyone seems to have forgotten to teach their off-spring of that which makes life worth living & keeps the world turning. Which is of course, living for others just as much as we live for ourselves. Unfortunately, due to the selfish pace of today, rarely is anyone noticed for their gestures towards humanity. The reason for this phenomenon, being of course; Man Kinds evolution into the Narcissistic Vampire he is today. And as a result of this, not only do our efforts towards one another merely go unnoticed & unappreciated, it's far worse than that, courtesy is no longer even recognized for what it is, is rarely reciprocated, and has thus been phased out completely. And as a result of this; Man Kinds new triumphant mutation, 'The All-consuming Ego', is free to simply **** the meaning out of all that was once so valuable to the fabric of human society, while arrogantly presuming to be deserving of it all anyways, regardless of it's contribution to anyone or any thing.
Now the ego acts as a new type of biological O rgan,
an invisible 'Iron Lung'. Processing the very niceties that once separated us from the beasts, as if they were just like any other natural resource. But there is a difference & that difference is that these are human resources and in my opinion are just as valuable as the air we breathe, and just as nourishing as the sweet waters we drink. Manners are things to be noticed, cherished and savored. They are decency's. Gifts, that when given & returned, should impart on us the feeling of being recognized for our own decency and our own efforts towards our fellow man.
However, since Man has placed his Ego at the forefront, where once stood the Human Heart, 'It' now sits at the receiving window of human courtesies, absorbing and indifferent. So instead, it all goes unnoticed, unrecognized and underappreciated just like a gulp of air and is simply exhaled without a second thought, or a shred of gratitude as to how precious it really was.

If you were able to ask a fish, to name one thing which It considered to be both the most obvious aspect of his environment and also the thing most essential to the survival of its species, the last thing it will mention is the water.
Ask a man today the same question, but replace the words “his environment” with “humanity” and the last thing He will mention is another human being.

But I digress…

You'll have to excuse me. I am after-all a true romantic in every sense of the word and I have always been quite partial to dramatic effect.
I consider myself a realist, a term all too often confused with having a negative outlook. I beg to differ. In a world gone mad, I just prefer to keep my eyes wide open and my head in the game, as opposed to having it shoved all the way up my own a$$ like most. And although the world may not be so pretty out here, at least it’s real, as am I.
Allow me to make something abundantly clear, I never have been, nor will I ever be, anyone special.
And being aware of these facts is still far better than pretending that both of them are anything other than just that, facts.
I find no comfort in self-congratulation, delusions, or deliberate oblivious ignorance.
I am what I am.

What more can I say?
Another year come and gone and just like the rest of the world, it seems things for me too have only grown worse.
I am full of regret, all old, and none new. And for the exceptions of my Daughter and the Almighty Himself, I apologize for nothing and to no one else. After a lifetime of experiences and lessons learned, all that I am truly certain of, is that I am still here. And unfortunately, so are most of you.
And I am also still standing. Upright, with both feet planted firmly in reality and God willing, that is exactly how I intend to remain. There is not one ****** thing in this world which I have any control over and everything I have ever wanted, I have never gotten, and everything I have ever had, has been taken from me.
And yet here I remain, standing till the day I die. And when that day comes, the depth of the grave will have to be dug twice as deep, so as to bury me upright & on my feet.
Immovable-
Sydney Rose May 2018
beauty upon a delicate creature
innocent young brown eyed girl
perfection bestowed in every feature
every fishers’ catch, shining pearl

perfect from day one
yet she couldn’t see
skinny must be done
perfect then she’ll be

the world was her oyster
everything granted within smile

yet beauty was a destroyer
sudden death of a child

sold the devil her soul
fantasy turned to reality
one’s life desirable goal
perfect she’ll finally be

deceived by image in mirror
years of starvation to the bones
glass of ugliness suddenly clearer
lost completely from her homes

harmful inability to love
all of the world but herself

time revealed a life
truly better than this

repetitive periods of recovery
one’s wish irreversible
beauty uplifted the misery
weight eventually stable

one thousand four hundred sixty days
hidden silent all these years
one thousand four hundred sixty ways
held back brown eyed tears

her name was sydney rose
the girl who suffers with anorexia
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.
CLStewart Jul 2015
maybe I should encourage violence within conformity and seek to end impressionism or maybe NOT!- create perversions within a song split-ting hairs of the long dead being found at a youthful age washed ashore no longer breeding nor bleeding ceased of breathing to be now an exact science- scaled back models of when it was brave to be bold but hidden from news cameras for leftover caveats - I wanna go else-where and find redemption to shout ******* - desktop plants dried out from foul air and aspirin bottles ******* clad in old skin next to a banana peel- no remorse no recourse no answers for in my brain
prescribed lies conjunct with irreversible truth complexity.
AJ Jul 2013
There's something very sad about
Watching a big boulder erode away
Into millions of tiny grains of sand.

There's something very sad about
Finding the big dipper amoungst the stars
But never finding anything else.

There'a something very sad about
Realizing that this is your last horra
And the party is over.

There's something very sad about
Putting on a blindfold
And taking a sunset stroll on the beach.

There's just something very sad.
Sara Reilly Mar 2016
The effects of poverty on children
&
The development of maladaptive behaviors
a.k.a survival instinct to
in victims of childhood abuse
&
In children of mothers with mental illness

See:  Schizophrenia births ******-                               affective bipolar set-up borderline personality

&
Of Broken promises and
Of divorce
on toddlers
Subject to
Hypochondriacal
Dissociative identity disorder maniacal
Munchuasen syndrome
&
Development of anorexia in girls whose mothers
tell them they are fat
And not to eat
At the age of 3
And do not keep
food in the house
&
Of memory loss on survivors of ******
**** perpetual at brother's behest
Sibling rival/sociopath/hater
Initiate secrets to swallow later
Same same high school juvenile
English teacher hebophile
Lies beget lies with no adult supervision
Predators penetrate without permission
Especially favored males
above suspicion

Back to back with

Court ordered
reverse abduction
Too much too late
Overt overprotection
premature prepubescent
irreversible independence
****** up DNA lifetime sentence
Survivor guilt/too young to choose
Either way at 12 years old you lose
Tough love authoritarianism
Vs.
Prodromal adolescent survivalism
Now no court dare insist
which insanity trumps which
Coupled with
Biological mother "crazy" trash-talk
Teenage runaway as soon as she can walk
&
Development of trust issues
Normalized by chronic
neglect and abuse
Hyper vigilant of subtext
Double super mega
Abandonment complex
Stockholm syndrome and PTSD
Dissociation in abductees
(Comfortable with recreating tragedies)
Within exploded families
Where the truth is an accumulation
Of what is not acknowledged

diagnostic checklists
Symptoms life synopsis
Doctors office doctors office
Taper off, titraite this
between pages tranquillized
Quoth the holy DSM V
Artificial life artificial life

As dirt swept under the rug
So much dirt makes a pile
So big a pile makes a child
A child makes too much noise
Ignore her
Tell her to shut up
Make her shut up
She is a liar
Put her in the closet
Do not feed the girl child
She needs too much
She is too much
Takes up too much room
Even in the womb
It's ok if she goes away
If someone takes her one day
If she dies
If her brother wants to **** her
And tries
Pretend she is dead

Mother didn't do anything
Wrong after all
No proof
No evidence
Just a child never born
To steal the glow of
Psychosis from the flaming eyes
Of a mother crossed
Who also never saw adulthood coming

Through the delusions, the chaos
Inherent crime without cost
You can't blame us
Born and raised already lost

Generations of children
Who make bad adults
Potential unfulfilled
And it's nobody's fault.
In progress
Mohamed Nasir Aug 2018
As though their roles are irreversible,
As only comforters to bread winners,
And thought as weak oft perceived as sinners,
The men rules, women seems incapable.

Dear fathers why burdened your daughters so?
Of women's jobs but forced the girls to fill
The pails with water, wood from distant hills,
Instead of school to learn what they should know.

Herded at tender age to married life;
Heaven's rewards engraved on simple minds;
To tidy, cook and wash, no cuddly toys,
Be ever present, good, obedient wife.
They need your love, affections so be kind,
They strive in onerous world with men and boys.
The Petrarchan or the Italian sonnet. A different form from the modern shakespearean sonnets that I normally write.
Pearson Bolt Jan 2016
the memories play on shuffle in
the back of my cerebral cortex
drifting like a drug up
and down my spine
intoxicating
stop-and-go
out of touch
intermittent illusions and
misrememberances

pomegranate lingers
on my tongue
sandpaper tiles rest
beneath knobby knees
soft flesh against my palms
glasses askew in passion
the stickiness of sweat
fingers still soaked from
forays into your wet warmth

inhabiting a cluster of moments from a
dozen different angles to dizzying
effect until i lose track of reality and
spiral into some intermediate realm of
consciousness where fact and fiction
are permanently merged into
one irreversible entity
Maria Imran Jun 2016
Just how many times
I've paired words one and two,
lines after lines that spell nothing
but the damage you've caused.
The colossal, irreversible, unchangeable damage
that has blotted onto my soul most darkly, dreadfully.
How many times
Have I just
Paired lines after lines to spell that.
It doesn't go.
Hasn't yet, at least.
Fritzi Melendez Oct 2017
You act as if you aren't the root of the statements you deliberately claim.
As if telling me my character is flawed and I am everything to blame.

As if stating that I can not form a sentence without shaking and stuttering is bound to take over my life, crash, and fail.
As if hypocritically saying that I'll end up pregnant with an abusive boyfriend flipping burgers to make ends meet is how my life will sail.

Granted that I'm not even able to make anyone stay with me.
A torment of words in the prison of my home, I feel I'll never be free.  

Let me tell you something, ******.
I was doing much better until you came into my life, stole my mother's heart and ****** her.

Grabbed my hair in the intention to afflict pain and make me cry
Threw us in a cardboard box and you demanded we don't question why.

Moved us into a house for the reason being you wanted to be closer to your workplace.
No consideration of us, you just expected us to put a smile on our face.

Stole the only memories, childhood, and friends I have ever made.
Left in this empty home with my sad thoughts and the pill cabinet to raid.

Only my razor blades and the silence and my head spinning in a whirl.
You talk so high and mighty for a 40 something year old always picking on a melancholic teenage girl.

Like your ***** of a mother, like a ***** of a son.
You can't even handle the consequences when your deed has been done.

You do what your mother does, and take what I hate and use it to hurt me.
It is me that I hate, and you know how much it stings more than a bee.

Brainwashed my mother to be a replica of you.
It's so sad when I see my own mom break my heart in two.

Always said that she'll protect us first.
Until you came along and made that ideation of hers burst.

The inequality of your ethics is completely noticeable.
I'm not a ******* animal, I'm a person you caged in a bubble.

You wonder why I'm the way I am: so emotional, so sad, so problematic.
Even though I'm far from the stereotypical high school teenager statistics.

As much as you've claimed you have done so much good for this family,
You've also broken me too many times for me to count, the irreversible cracks in my brain and heart's anatomy.

You need to stop attacking my very presence.
As much as I hate myself, I'm also my own essence.

Let me get better without tearing me down.
Grow the **** up and stop making yourself look like an immature clown.

I know you'll never see this or even try to listen.
Just know everything comes back around, but until then,

I hope you realize your words are damaging to my very soul.
I hope you fix your **** and bury your insensitivity 6 feet down a hole.
Wanted to vent out about the **** my mom's boyfriend does. I'm just tired of being hurt by the very people that are supposed to take care of me.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
One evening with a few friends in a borrowed minivan, we got a flat tire.   Changing the tire was so complicated (like PhD. complicated), we finally had the owner of the van drive over to finish the job while three other men stood and watched.   This poem came out of that night.



I think you become
a grownup
the moment,
the very second,
you realize at
some very, very
early age,
you have
limitations.

Perhaps not quite
a total grownup,
mature like,
but some
irreversible threshold crossed on
a life long voyage,
a descent of no return,
a Checkpoint Charlie crossed.

You will never be all you
want to be.

Some will disagree.

the day of maturation,
they'll claim,
comes on that day,

when clouds
of different shapes
call out your name,
raining saturation
of responsibilities,
(feed your family, son).

you
initial your acceptance
by quenching thirst by
drinking 'free' raindrops.

ain't arguing,
the when exactly,
for this highway-journey has
so many rest stops.

But
when your body
cracks with disappointment,
harvests the bitter knowing
that
can't,
means there will be no defying this truth, now self-evident:

there are somethings
you ain't gonna ever be,
or never be able to do.

here's the rub awful.

the street called
Recognition Rue
is the longest road to
a dead end
you are forced to travel,

and the cruelest part
of this joke is
you rue the day
and the next day
and the very next day,
when, each time,
the Dead End sign
moves along all by itself,
another block or two,
with you following,
behind by a
block or two.

after awhile,
you cease to curse,
satisfied with the certainty of discontent
you and your
bag of tools,
cannot have every,
will always be lacking,
the precise instrument
to do
every job right.

half good is likely
your total best,
so sadly shuffle along
at the bequest of
the little voice insisting, whining,
have to, gotta go...

You
want to jack me up
on a cross of
protestations,
words like learning,
and
promises to teach,
no limitations,
words that overreach
and hint of
lesson recitation.

I can't change a tire
but don't give a ****.

this is not how
I measure my self worth.

the sadness that prevails,
that contaminates my brow,
ain't mastery of survival skills
likely I'll never need again
don't need your
complementation/approbation
of what I can,
or rants
why I can't.

For nothing will ere exceed
the exasperation,
chest ripping
agony of frustration,
that one single poem
worthy of saving
has ever,
nor will yet,
never, will
leave my fingertips.


It is
forever detained
in the prison of my limitations.

now that's worth
acknowledging,
now that's worth asking
now that's worth
answering -

why, why, then,
grown up you,
keeps on trying,
surely sure,
that looking back
regretfully,
is useless,

(and you have heard
the lock click thunderous clap of:
"sorry son,
your presence is...
not needed,
no worries, we won't
ask you to do
when better
surrounds us everywhere").

Answer is:
that it is worth trying,
writing,
a poem about why,
I can't change a tire
and it don't matter,
just so I can say
to myself,

*I'll never be all the way grown up.
Nicx Apr 2013
A small child
Only 6 or so,
Runs inside from a long day's play.
So young and full of energy.
Shouldn't have a care in the world,
Except for the specks of mud on the floor,
Left by his own foot.
His father, a large and logical man,
Raised the boy right;
Manners and all in tact.
Yet when he walks into the kitchen,
While the boy is at the kitchen sink, washing his little hands,
He sees the mud.
And the boy sees him,
Smiles up at him with his missing-tooth smile,
But the dad doesn't see;
He only sees mud.
He storms over in two strides,
Grabs the boy by the collar and drags him to the spot on the floor.
The boys heart is racing,
A mile a minute.
Never seen his father so terrifying,
So horrifying;
Until a moment later.
As his grip released him, he fell to the floor.
He wasn't hurt then,
But he would be,
As his father's fists raised and fell upon his small body.
Impossible not to feel the bruises already beginning to form below his immature skin.
"Stop it! Why would you do that?" My mind screams at the man not worthy of being even called a father,
and for the boy as he crawls away into the next room and collapses at the foot of the stairs in tears.
"How could you do that to him?! He doesn't understand! He's just a little kid! He doesn't understand.."
My heart and mind scream together,
lined with hatred, through sobs of tears.
And then I see his future:
Self hatred.
Yeah he'll go far in school, he's a smart kid, but his emotional damage is irreversible.
Quiet because he forgot how to talk,
Never smiling because he knows what people are capable of.
He sees the world in a negative light, but it's his reality.
No trust, no love,
Just alone with his thoughts.
And that's when he's finally safe.
This is what happened when I took a TAT test, a psychology test where you make up a whole story for an ambiguous picture. This is what my mind did with the picture and it's disturbing but my reactions were the same as I've written in here. It's a terrible tragedy, but it happens every day to someone. R.I.P. to the lives lost to these terrible people. Even to the ones who survived but live with the consequences. I can relate. And I'm sorry if this was a little much for some people. But it really is the sad, terrible truth for some unlucky individuals.
Owen Phillips Nov 2012
I know I've been there,
I've given into death and altered the fabric of reality
Every day we waste away transfixed by flattened images
Of the limitlessness of death
Coupled with elusive, Luciferian harm which will befall us all
Who subsist on the manipulated reality of the hyperspace information field
But one day, enlivened by the festivities of Shakori Hills
And the fungal spirits who awoke beside us
I walked the irreversible pathway through oblivion
Facing cruel destruction and terror
For a horrifying passage across Styx into eternity
And emerged within a crowd of mollusks dancing to the waves of a musical sea
All time suspended in the impossibly drawn-out ****** of the
Archetypal wizardry of rhythm,
The swirling clumps of faces in
Unshakable ecstasy
And seemingly responding to the wild currents of my conscious thought;
A longing for human touch drew the others closer and closer around me
Till they began brushing against me
Bumping into me,
The flow of the crowd saw its axis at my psychic emanation
As once more the last song of all time began with thunderous energy and applause.

I escaped the arresting confines of the crowd
By willing them aside, wearing, as I suddenly became aware, the shoes of Moses
And seeing my muddy feet upon the sands of Egypt
But I yet had no understanding
Of the nature of the garden of earthly delights
Into which I had fallen,
And fear began to envelop me,
Producing law enforcement officials hawklike swooping in to limit my power.
I had but to let go of my acceptance of their power over me to transcend them
But fear tethered me to reality,
Even as I saw about me a Dharmic mandala
Of my past present and future,
Generating inexplicable archetypes around me in a manner profoundly defiant
Of rational logic.

Synchronicity compounded upon me
As the Christos within me
Brought rain down upon us
Forcing us together and leaving me in dumbfounded reverie
Of all that had transpired to bring this moment forth

What had seemed to be the end of history was in fact
The awakening of a new rebirth
The first moment of coming to be
The union of past, present and future
As the reassuring smiles of my trustworthy disciples gently allowed me passage back into a rational existence
I beamed in utter gratitude for the eternal life which Christ afforded us.
Chaos had subsided back into normalcy
But still winked at me
In telepathic coincidence.

My soul has begun to realize that it resides in all things
Soon they are to be reintegrated
Eriko Feb 2016
those songs are always about somebody else

I've told myself not to be so worrisome

that life is what happens when I am not
paying attention

the dirt underneath my fingernails

the way my hair flutters in the breeze

the avalanche tumbling thousand of miles away

the laughter bellowing in an empty stairway

the shudder of breath upon a doorstep

the clicking of keyboards in another's bedroom

the realization dawned that time, that emotion, that next day

is irreversible

is irreplaceable
Martha O'Brien May 2015
I am sour.
I am the mould on the side of an orange
I am the face of a sickly sweet
I am the smell of dirt rising
I am the isolated fruit on the tree.
The smile on the end of a photo,
I am the one with the knot inside
bitter like broken taste-buds,
I am the sand in the tide.
It was an accident that the tip is so large
an accident to leave food out in the sun.
If I were braver, I could be sweeter
but I cannot shake what has been done.
Chloe Sayre Oct 2012
We reside in a circus tent
strung with Goldilock's curls

Blood-red rose petals drizzle
from flesh-tinted ceiling drapes,
floating over
bodies reborn.

Blood-red rose
petals the color
of a lion's heart that beats
rhythmically,
imprisoned in the ivory-white
cartilage of a rib-cage
close to cracking,
threatening
an untamed liberation.

Who has enough audacity
to draw so near
to trust his head
between unpredictable jaws
or
tinseled with moths
to dance
illuminated by street-lights,
like snow that never falls.

Now she is laughing
with ethereal camaraderie
at the physicality
of Earth reality
illuminating
how limited vision is
before the lights start flashing

human and star dissolve
as explosively
irreversible chemical reactions

The ringmaster,
tossing Saturn's turn,
a voice like wind-chimes
an honest sparkle in his eye,
welcomes one to roam
where hearts dance freely
in ever-lasting starlit flame,

Concluding:

As long as we thank love for feeling
we'll never fall again.
Victor Thorn May 2013
1.**

A horizontal fall
from the high-up slide
made for big kids was not
what I expected as I screamed
“Push me down, Haley!”

Unexpected, too, was the destruction of your wounded butterfly days later–
revenge is sweet, yet unsatisfying.
And then you left for six years,
turning up again as hormones
were in full swing
in our freshman year of high school.

2.

you said



"i'll teach you to love,

just draw nearer to me.

draw nearer to me

and i'll make you mine."



as you



laced up your best heels

put on your best face

and applied another coat

of liquid vanity.



as i


made an effort to


concoct a new way to say

"no"


and


ignore the 
rotting

carcasses of

hearts

that strewed the floor.


i'd seen your kind before


"but losing you would be a chore

my darling detritivore"



i said

3.

focus of a new kind sheds a big difference BIG DIFFERENCE upon your face bright yet shadows consume both it and your body like a prophecy. since when did that happen? so what if it never did? so you came to your senses; perhaps that was it. perhaps the realization of “you sure do know how to pick ‘em” broke you and now you’re left with a twelve-and-one-half-inch phallus in your big box of board games. we hardly speak anymore. i am now your temptress, detritivore and you’ll never escape never escape the howls of agony and desire releasing themselves from your joints your muscles your heart aches for fresh meat and you get it, **** you. you get it daily for viewing pleasure. dear heavens speak of shabby apartments and televisions that don’t work. they never knew how to comfort me; so why should they now? falling down the stairs into the pitch black night irreversible womb child conceived on camera and carried to term on God’s watch. do you remember pushing me down that slide in the second grade? it’s your turn.

4.

Unexpected, too, was the destruction of my wounded memory
of an innocent girl from second grade
now in chains and leather,
used and watched and seen and lusted over and masturbated over,
but for a hefty sum.

And I still see second grade Haley
and we still talk
and we share the occasional cigarette
and we tell of our conquests.
But I am no savior–

5.

Feeling vibrations in my palm is finding decaying matter on the forest floor to eat–
the words they carry are a substitute for nutrition.
The nearest bounty of corn is a thousand miles away,
for God places us here and our placement is the source of life’s cruelty.
And second-grade Victor would happily take a beating
for gas money; desperate detritivore–
feast on decaying matter, get your fill
and one day substance of corn will fill your stomach
and you will hibernate indefinitely.
When Robots ruled And “The Guardian” went into liquidation
It will be a strange quiet world when robots take over
there will be no middle-class the ranting of the eggheads
in the Guardian will cease their utterings will be quaint.
At the time when robots were perfected a pill emerged on
the market  made women and men infertile until they
wanted to start a family, alas, it was irreversible and it only
Takes a generation. The poor was working for the robots
picking up trash such as screws, the streets were empty
and cars were obsolete.
Some robots that had received too much learning wrote
Books to each other – as they did now- and had literary
reviews, but since each book sounded like another down
to the ****** “,” it fell out of vogue, so much academia
and no one to buy their books. At the same time as it was
discovered by the human workers that when a friendly
robot accepted a glass of beer it made a summersault, froze
and became a piece of junk leaking oil.
The fight back began the robots had not been programmed
To tolerate Alcohol, the Achilles heel, and the workers were
Jubilant waved flags
No longer should robots- any robots with mechanical learning
whether university or not- to rule over them.
Love Jun 2014
A seemingly delicate flower with a broken appearance
who's strong underneath with a will to keep fighting.
A friend to few
but a lover of words,
a lover of delicate arts
that has beauty not seen by all.
Feelings of confusion followed by sorrow
cradled in the arms of suicidal thoughts.
Caught in the web of social anxiety leads to the basis of
irreversible agoraphobia.
The fear of rejection and shame caused by someone
no other than the person I see when I look in the mirror.
Accomplished the skill of taking my feelings and harnessing them,
saving them for what I love most,
The spot light.
Accomplishing and overcoming the desire to hide from the world
But overpowering it and turning it into an art.
If only I could understand what its like within the mind,
Of someone I love
To be seen through their eyes,
As what I am to the rest of the world.
If a being such as God does exist,
may he take a moment to stop the hate,
and show love through his followers
to the ones that may be oppressed
"In the name of God"
I am a prisoner of my own mind.
Love
A big thanks to Francisco DH.
No first name, my name is Love.
Kyle Janisch Nov 2015
I am on top of the world oh so high
Living without a care or tear in my eye
I am a happy, carefree soul
Who wants nothing more than just to end it all
I stand here now atop of a stool
Noose tied around my neck, Ready to fall
The end is coming, I hold it in my hands
The thought of my death excites me beyond belief
I'm ready to throw away this horrendous life filled with nothing but grief
Here it comes, here I go
My body once filled with warmth has suddenly gone cold
I am now free from my prison
The taste of death bittersweet
My body now hangs from the branch with nothing but earth below my feet
I did it, I won, and I finally prevailed
Or perhaps I made a mistake and instead I had failed
It appears that I had made a decision much too hasty
For this blood in my mouth is no longer tasty
I regret death and now yearn for life
I mistakenly chose darkness when I really wished for light
Now I have nothing left to do but document my mistake
With hopes that it is read so no other soul suffers the same fate
So long world for we are no longer one
My old journey has end and a new one has begun
Judgson blessing Aug 2015
Anything you said is consequent to other declamation .
but i thought is symmetric to our own reflection .
our declaring prelude the inmost extend of our action .
with all but grim and glee of necessary life partition  .
learn how to hold your tongue or you may dull your mission .
so let our thought have weight upon any of our every eruption .
cause morrow Sophist will dart light upon all our conclusion .
and for our name's sake let the blaze glow to its fullest elevation .
here and there ; nothing but cheap hick town pluck   delusion .
phenomenon to blame and frail wont reach at any situation .
side-long-way , matter of rear pie but notwithstanding altercation .
the sage nut is not the one that proffers at all event ; citations .
but measure with all time honored a thought irreversible as motion .
Jane Tricky Jun 2014
dust begins to collect
frequent cleanings are nothing but memories of the past
your possessions remain
relics of what once existed

what happened to
the unbreakable bond
your endless creativity
my deceitful beauty
how can such things deteriorate so quickly

and now we sit
legs crossed
naked
in so many forms
clinging on to the past
analyzing all uncertainties
wondering of the true capability
of change
of resolution
of depth

the way things were
reminiscing
infinite romance
joyous love
unscathed hope

we are the storm

and now we find ourselves
right where we started
longing for love
lusting for something lasting
neither of which led us here

we both know
it will never
it can never
the bond
irreversible
unstoppable

one question lingers
as it always has
for days
for weeks
for years
decades slip by so quickly

one thing is for certain
nothing lasts forever
but
*nothing ever fades
see you later.
F White Jul 2014
the loss was a slow ache
creeping in like ice fog
after the time for mourning
should have been tolled

a gravedigger clearing dirt
grain by grain
was this heart-
stalling on the burn

proclaimed problem-free to public ears-
cleared like dust
from a smooth pane of promises
lifted like prints
from the scene of a
victimless crime

now the key loses
its lock
trapping that moment,
forever

in this web of
practicality
that we signed.
copyright fhw, 2014
Last evening
Yesterday
For so long
I waited for this day

Met a girl
With a smile on her face.

All I could think about is
What I wanted to say.

Words
I couldn't release.
Powerless
Around her.


She grooved
Thanks to the alcohol.

She wanted to go home
I wanted her to stay

She hugged me
It felt like
Finally a poor lonely man
Found a cardboard box
To live happily inside.
EgoFeeder May 2013
Now I must arise into my excursion of monotony
to the house in which I had my first failed lobotomy
Spreading discrepancy with every turn of phrase;
admitting to all I had let happen in an ignorant daze

The path that I took was plagued with a hysterical hate;
Projecting morbid hallucinations in which my fear did correlate
Contrasting it's laughter and scolding into a chaotic static;
Converting my already dwindling humanity into an ancient relic

A once cowardly excuse of wasted life and shameful empathy;
had then unfolded into a twisted state of triumphant antipathy
I was within minutes of arriving at her front door step;
and my anxious contemplation had faded into an overwhelming id-tep

Shifting my last strand of innocence into an irreversible condition;
within a few moments i'd gained preference to this nefarious rendition
I felt as if I was becoming one with all uncertain depravity;
and the shrouded ******* that I pursued in the insanity

Enveloped by the sheer warmth and hideous anticipation;
Each pace I took closer added to the satisfaction of mal-intention
As the dwelling became visible atop the climbing horizon;
I could do naught but envision myself as the famous Charon

Preparing a mortal to be ferried across the river of death
Enlisting her into damnation - The honorable thief of breath
Dismembering the threads of life - diminishing  the ties of destiny;
Assigning myself as the baneful mortician of this worlds' incongruity!

As I approached the entrance I Realized the sun was bringing the morn;
Our god of life taking a front row seat to the sadistic scorn
Or, perhaps a sign to my victim to awaken and escape;
If that's the case i'll send her with haste into a restless dream-scape

What a rite this shall be - To cease all carnal sin with my own two hands!
Carving out every fragment of ageless sense from her untouched glands
With the lone witness to the dismemberment of her frail limbs;
My dagger!  And, the final conclusion of our deeds so grim!

And, Alas There I stood Suffocating on memory over the sleeping beauty;
hesitantly wondering how much sincerity lay within my duty
Could I have been coaxed into performing the work of a reaper?
If I substain from his commands - Could we brew a connection much deeper?

What an untimely moment to be having second thoughts;
She opened her eyes to witness the tears of her sympathetic Iscariot
The terrors she belched ripped the barrier of my relinquished sanity;
Taking hold of my mobility - slicing her from ear to ear with iniquity

Her cries of help began to gurgle in the back of her throat;
Spewing a slander of asphyxiation like a meaningless footnote
I couldn't bare to see her suffer in such an atrocious way;
So, I swiftly slit her neck and left her to decay

What has that audacious persuasion turned me into?
How did I commit something that I could never do?
When did I put on this scarlet blouse?
Who dragged me inside of this familiar house?
Eileen Prunster Oct 2012
look at it
this poem
nothing
of it
no agitation
or dissipation
nothing of
passion
what is this poem
nothing of
anything?

— The End —