Hey Jessy
You and Honey were always besties
The way you played around
Jumped and bounced on the ground
Always looked so young
That same puppy that we once brought home
I remember that day very clear
It feels oh so near
The first thing you did was hide from us
Until I went and made a fuss
You sat under that tree for hours on end
I remember sitting there making you happy
And all you did was be snappy
Our friendship grew from that moment
You never understood how much it meant to me
The little piece of my heart you stole
You will stay with me for ever
Me and you we went through everything together
If feels so strange to say that you have left us now
How can that be; you were always so strong
Why can't your life still be here and long
You were always so timid to new people
But once you got to know them they were like treacle
I remember the day you first attacked the letters
You were so funny but so naughty
I remember the day that Tilly past away
You stayed so strong but showed your heart
Just like the way you loved Honey from the start

Jess you character oh so different
But that's what made you who you were
To be special to me takes real might
I will always remember you as being the one that went down with a fight


I have put you into writing so that you will never be forgot
Faces of new and faces of old will always remember you as Jessy Kilsby-Steele
Jessy I will always love and remember you and your beauty

~AlphaX

There is a mystic thread of life
  So dearly wreath’d with mine alone,
That Destiny’s relentless knife
  At once must sever both, or none.

There is a Form on which these eyes
  Have fondly gazed with such delight—
By day, that Form their joy supplies,
  And Dreams restore it, through the night.

There is a Voice whose tones inspire
  Such softened feelings in my breast,—
I would not hear a Seraph Choir,
  Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a Face whose Blushes tell
  Affection’s tale upon the cheek,
But pallid at our fond farewell,
  Proclaims more love than words can speak.

There is a Lip, which mine has prest,
  But none had ever prest before;
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
  That mine alone should press it more.

There is a ***** all my own,
  Has pillow’d oft this aching head,
A Mouth which smiles on me alone,
  An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two Hearts whose movements thrill,
  In unison so closely sweet,
That Pulse to Pulse responsive still
  They Both must heave, or cease to beat.

There are two Souls, whose equal flow
  In gentle stream so calmly run,
That when they part—they part?—ah no!
  They cannot part—those Souls are One.

hey jessy if you were here,
what would you say right now,
would you pat my back and stay,
until the dawn comes around?

hey jessy would you let a tear,
for all the nights i cried?
i think your story is as sad,
behind your broken smile.

yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******* writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.

the great thing about being an alcoholic...
you never quiet know
when you're drunk or hungover;
but it makes up for great twilight sunsets
pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch -
kisses a honey stick stuck to ****
in a hollywood crescendo of
                     paparazzi and applause;
and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift:
that's called smiling i have you know -
                          enter michael jackson - hippie hip he;
if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have
            been frisky twenty-nine into a thong.

or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.

181 to 200 of 3251 Poets
«891011»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by  
Joelle Biele

To Katharine: At Fourteen Months
Veronica Patterson

Marry Me
Rick Campbell

Heart
Mary-Sherman Willis

The Laughter of Women
Sharmila Voorakkara

For the Tattooed Man
Max Mendelsohn

Ode to Marbles
Jonathan Holden

Car Showroom
David Tucker

The Dancer
Today’s News
Marianne Boruch (b. 1950)

It includes the butterfly and the rat, the ****
Some dreamily smoke cigarettes, some track
Trish Dugger

Spare Parts
Carrie Shipers

Medical History
Love Poem for Ted Neeley In Jesus Christ Superstar
Steven Huff

Safe
Lee McCarthy

Santa Paula
William Kloefkorn

"I stand alone at the foot "
Jackson Wheeler

How Good Fortune Surprises Us
Steven Orlen (1942–2010)

Three Teenage Girls: 1956
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
Steven Schneider

Chanukah Lights Tonight
Jessy Randall

Superhero Pregnant Woman
Anne Pierson Wiese (b. 1964)

Inscrutable Twist
Columbus Park
Regina DeSalva

Snip Your Hair
«891011»

poetry is the perfect tool to plagiarise, well, technically "plagiarise", since it involves the circle, akimbo, a micro akimbo shuffle, sketching the same statue over and over until full circle, 360°.

paris, ah, paris, well d'uh, paris,
umbrella rich paris in the summer,
first year in edinburgh and it wasn't Scottish,
sunshine throughout the year,
one morn took to feet  and kneeling climbed
arthur's seat (figure of speech,
i.e. not really) to see the sunrise
better, came down, went into
a supermarket and bought myself
a bucket of cornflakes,
third year i danced on the old college
roof in the night listening to
the shins' *new slang,
tried getting a girl up on the roof,
failed, i said:
by the white fluorescent tangles
and dangles of the firth of forth are
coming up like the northern lights!
she didn't care... on a roof on
prince's street threw chimney parts
off the roof... could have killed
someone... on the same street
a year before on hogmanay kissed
a ****** in a wheelchair in full love
for the new year, got scolded by yet
another girl... god, this misogyny isn't
really working out...
on a date in a jazz cafe, first time i read
a rendition of neil young's old man
loved it so much, got confused by
the girl dragging me into the ceilidth twirl
pit akin to turkish sufi dervishes with a partner...
but paris man... oh man...
first time round we drunk ourselves
into silly animals dubbed children,
ran out of the hostel / bar into the streets
trying to find the compass point of
the city that's the eiffel tower,
didn't find...
broke an italian girl's heart, my sprechen es
tour guide, who took me atop the sacre coeur,
hostel's name? something duck...
not quacking duck, laughing duck? don't know.
second time i had a canadian-russian
tour-guide speaking quebec french (i know,
the cliche irony)...
we spanked baguettes and cheese and wine
and talk of literature bundles together
as the sun settled beneath the eiffel tower on the grass,
a group of french girls were deliberating
a fancy of my lean legs and armpits (when
i weighed 86kg and was suntanned),
and the best moment of my second weekend stay
in paris?
watching a guy high on ecstasy play ping pong
to a drum & bass drumbeat in a shady parisian club,
true too with the hand movement,
higher than a kite in a sky of diamonds he was,
and, it was fun to remember it:
no brooding exercise of thought:
memory attracts no thinking, just re-imagination
and memory in orthodox terms is happy nostalgia:
it happened because i was there...
not this modern paris the slum **** hole of algeria;
apropos - modern leftists and their censorship
of people's vocabulary... listen...
i had long conversations with a communist
party member, ok, an ex-communist party member
(my grandfather), your socialism is ridiculing
vocabulary... added to the fact that this proto-atheism
is exclusive, it's not communist inclusiveness:
god is dead, lets work together,
origin of the species and corporation,
now everyone's as selfish as a tsar...
there's not togetherness - i'd rather be a jessy james
in such times than a robber of thinking something
doesn't exist... and that's my conscience on the matter.

Powerful Focus
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
5-20-2010
1:23 PM CST
Poem 14

I need to escape.
I need to run away.
This mind is frazzled.
Hell I am having grounding myself.

Too much going on.
Can’t keep track of it all.

When I’m scared.
When I’m hurting.
When I’m angry.
I come back to this.

I try to come back and comfort myself by taking up the pen.
It seems to be the most healthiest place to go to.
Inside my mind the one to judge me is me.
Only I can punish myself for the mess of my mind.

Yes, right now I know not where I’m going in my life.
And with any silence I can come across. I seek out answers.
I ask to be taken out of struggle and out of strife.
Right now my nerves are tied in a knot.

My own personal happiness cries out to be sought.
Knowing where I’m at now has been a battle hard fought.
I want to cry, but my body won’t let me.
I can’t right now. I have to be strong.

Words again flying through my head.
A lot of them going too fast for me to catch.
Wishing just a few of them would crash onto my paper.
At this moment in this place and time they seem to be finding their flow.

I do now recognize that my path starts to again grow.
A newer life is starting to ignite.
Into this flame I bravely and gladly go.
It is time for me to embrace freedom and take flight.

I need to escape.
I need to run away.
My mind though feels a little clearer.
The hour are now drawing nearer.

I know not what the future holds.
I am just trying to live in the now.
Though I find myself still drifting into the unknown.
It gives me some strange form of comfort.

My time now is here to experience a new zone.
I am now free. I can and will do what I want.

I will escape.
I will not run away.
No longer am I a being to haunt

Blistered Heart
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
5-3-2010
1:34 PM CST
Poem 8

This pain is loud and very much alive.
I wish I could say I know not where it comes from.
But, I can’t. It’s made itself quite obvious.
I wish it would just let me go numb.

I know what it is. It’s the rock hard fist of reality.
Reminding me that it was me that made a decision.
One that needs to be followed through all the way.
Giving me absolute reason and leaving me with nothing to say.

Is my world falling apart?
Or is it just following the rhythm of this blistered heart?
I don’t like having to make tough decisions.
But, neither does anybody else that I’m aware of.

The Universe tells me the time to move on has come.
It tells me I’ll have the support that I’ll need.
So why must I still bleed?
Hardships said to be coming my way.

Only is it me that sees them only as an illusion.
A reflection of growing into the future self.
For a being that lives in the sunlight of the Now.
A reflection such as that is hard to swallow.

But it is the way of making this being more secure.
Secure in finally being my own person.
It is to the stars that I pray.
Pray for the strength to face this new vision that’s not so far away.

My time has come. My time is here.
To fulfill my own prophecy.
The one I’ve ran from. The one that has fed into my fear.
Burying myself so deep into the darkest of my shadow.

A claim to the energies of something chaotic.
No I must embrace them.
May the flame again rise in me.
Revitalizing this heart so blistered.

ÓMinistries of the Chaotic Publishing Inc.

Pale Moon Light
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
5-4-2010
9:29 PM CST
Poem 13

Into the night I again go.
Faint light touches my skin.
No shadow do I cast.
Haunting only to those who bother to cast an eye upon me.

What they see will  burn deep into their memory.
How long will it last?
That is for the one who cast the eye on me to determine.
I again become a child

This is where I once made my mark.

The night time world was once caught unexpected.
It embraced me then as it embraces me still.
In it was the strength to heal.
I go back into it now for the same reason.

Pain, it’s a constant in life.
It’s cold, staying sharp as a double bladed knife.
Such a strange energy and feeling comes from this power.
Opening these arms to it I am.

I merely await the witching hour.

My eyes are trained to stay focused upon a darkening sky.
Breathing in the oncoming nights air.
Taking on a very pure high.
I want to go out and dance among the stars.

Melt away all of my past scars.
All of my past fears.
Encompass me within the soft breath of night.
For now I am it’s child.

I walk out into it and take a deep breath in.
I sense a storm coming in.
I release the breath and feel tingling underneath my skin.
As others pass me by my eyes stay focused on the darkened sky.

The faint light that now graces my presence.
It will soon disappear into total and complete blackness.
I’ll stand in it as the thunder roars.
I’ll get soaked as the rain caresses the ground.

Into the night I will now stay.
Moving silently, I will not make a sound.
Others presences and thoughts are mine to haunt.
Without the light of the moon they are my victims.
They are mine to haunt.

Write You Out
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
8-10-2010
11:07 AM CST
Poem 18

This is the last time I will write about or to you.
This is the last time I will ever have anything to say.
It is now time that I submit to writing you out.
It is now time to erase your manifestation from mine.

It’s taken me three long months to admit I’m fine.
Three long months I’ve had to come to terms, come to peace.
I watched as you started wasting away.
I counted the days to the time I could make what we had cease.

I don’t hold a grudge against you.
I just want nothing more to do with you.
I don’t care what you think about me.
I don’t care how you feel about me.

I have merely released myself by setting you free.
Yes! You abused the love I so willingly gave.
You were that hard lesson I was hoping I would never have to learn.
Your touch isn’t a memory I want to save.

Think me cold, think me harsh, think me mean.
Keeping you around wasn’t worth the hurt and pain I was accumulating.
With you I was becoming too weak and too vulnerable.
A future we weren’t allowed, we were too busy be complicated.

This is the only time I recall my heart and mind working as one.

Now don’t look for me. Don’t come and find me.
The damage is done. The illusion has died.
I eventually saw you for who you were.
In me you found it too difficult to confide.

That unfortunately was half your undoing.
The other half was your multitude of lies.
Some day I will be able to forgive you.
Some day I won’t  feel so cold.

Right now that doesn’t matter and I must heal with time.
I wash you out of me.
Your energies I no longer own.
I’m taking much pride in surviving alone.

No longer will I be inhibited.
No longer am I a boy too easily fooled.
Too many shadows of former selves do I have.
What it is that you really saw of me I’ll never truly understand.

Too long I’ve let you have the upper hand.
I’ve said my goodbye.
I’ve released you from my heart.

This is the last thing I have to say to you.
How to love me you had no real clue.
Hopefully life for you will some day be worth your while.
Hopefully without me you’ll be able to bear a smile.

Regret
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
2-25-2010
1:24 AM CDT
Poem 3

I feel no real emotion towards regret.
To me it’s not really an emotion.
It’s merely a darker part of creation.
A darker part of the spirit.

The darker part where only self loathing breeds.
Where all that will destroy feeds.
Not a pretty place.
Regret, if left unattended finds its way to the brain.

Once there it becomes like a fungus.
Hard to ignore, much harder to get rid of.
It penetrates and grows heading straight into the blood stream.
In the beginning when your first in its grasp it feel likes a very bad dream.

I don’t allow any place for it.
There’s simply no room.
If it tries to enter it instantly gets a access denied.
No room for its seed to grow into a bloom.

Like a wound if given no oxygen to breathe.
It will merely just disappears.
Evaporating like the rain left from a storm that ends suddenly dissipating in the sky as it clears.
That is the freedom from regret.

It’s just a word.
It truly holds no real power.
Only those who believe in it allows it to exist.
And when they open the door it becomes harder to close.

I’ve watched as this has happened countless times.
I’ve watched as it has come to haunt those close to me.
The mystery of why they allow this to happen remains unsolved.
Regret in itself should be dissolved.

But, it’s exposure is very much on a wide range.
Reluctant it is of course to merely change.
It’s a part of our human condition.
A part of our governing psyche.

Breathing in its toxic breath.
Following us into our very moment of death.
I refuse its company.
A key it is to the very corer of depression.

An emotion in itself is strong  enough to ****.
I feel no emotion to this thing called regret.
Complete I become still without.
It’s place within me has no residence.

Look inside and what you’ll find is such clear evidence.




©Ministries of The Chaotic

Never Again
Written by:
Jessy Andrews
6-25-2010
11:24 AM CST
Poem 15

Walking into a new day.
For the first time in my life I’m truly terrified.
Don’t really know why.
I’ve spent all year preparing for this.

But this morning I woke up with a new feeling.
My perception of my own life came back.
Something inside did finally click.
Putting me back on track.

Truth be known I am perfectly able of healing my own wounds.

I let darkness come back over me.
In solitude I gave no reason as to why.
It hurt and it was very uncomfortable.
Spiritually I began to suffer and that in itself is a very cold way to die.

Been looking to the moon.
Asking her to shed some wisdom.
Quit reminding me of where I’ve been.
Educate me on where I am going.

In stillness I must allow myself to go again.
There is a peace still worthy of knowing.
I’m far from ready to give up.
Far from read to just let go.

To live naturally I must again practice.
The need for immediate reaction I need to sacrifice.
Life works on its own terms.
Right now I need to be a follower.

Running away and escaping is not an option.
A guardian to myself I am now.
Sacred energies I must now again contact.
From the outside world I am no longer its to distract.

Anybody that comes into my life understand one thing.
This moment in time I am a walking evolution.
I will not be side tracked again.
I will now induce my energy transfusion.

For me there is no final destination.
Even beyond the grasp of death.
My comprehension is limitless.
I will not ever again be stripped and be made powerless.

Some say you are your own enemy.
Some say you are your own greatest threat.
I don’t totally agree.
I still have yet to witness another pitiful downfall.

Now that my vision has come back intact.
The path now again illuminates with the colors of my never forgotten neon vision.
As the colors bleed back into me.

It is forever my right. It is forever my privilege to embrace my life that’s free,

Jessy
is
a fine
laddie boy
and
Jaime
is
a good
lassie girl
stop here
and
rest awhile
make yourself at home
in
the
green hills of Ireland
but
not to worry
your
weary heads

I finally found you
The world will never be the same
Before you
I was in endless game
I was in endless pain
I felt no shame
But I wasn't fine
I was the one to blame
I wish I could even know your name
Now I have my pearl
A very beautiful girl
I love you no matter you do
I miss you all the time
Come next to me
Come and be mine
Let my life shine
My heart is full of joy
Full of love like a baby boy
Jessy, be with me
Stay with me
Hold me
Kiss me
Hug me
Love me
I will be wherever you will be

When Mr. M came to their house,
Little Gigi and her sister could hardly believe the fact-
That he was not their late papa
Such was the resemblance
Perfected by Mr. M to a T
Even the mole-thing on his cheek
Looked the same as their papa's.

You could hire Mr. M
To Metamorphose into any person you wanted
-A dead husband or a quadriplegic wife
(i.e. before they became dead or quadriplegic)
Or a celebrity beyond your reach
Or a college sweetheart-
Mr. M would transform into that person
With the right prosthetics and measurements.
(Besides, he had a highly Malleable and characterless body)
He'd learn their manners by watching videos.

Little Gigi would not run into his arms
Unless he called her the way her papa did
Mr. M cast a sidelong glance at the mother
At whose smile he regained confidence and cooed:
"Come to papa, my bouncing ball"
At which the girl shot herself into his arms
Like a cannonball.
Her sister followed her, although indifferently,
Her hands behind her back.
Little Gigi thanked her mother
For hiring the man.

Mr. M's service lasted for a period of three months
Or until the clients got over their feelings for the person.
Mr. M was sworn to secrecy
About his clientele and his 'lives'.
Nobody bothered about his true identity
So long as his name was reduced to a Mystery.
Mr. M never forgot the details of his 'lives',
Unlike how his ad had once claimed-
Which he later removed (and no one seemed to notice)
As he was taking a hot bath-
His mind wandered to a recent life.
Dressed up as a woman named Jessy Peter
Mr. M was ushered into the bedroom by his nervous client-
A bestubbled young man rejected by Ms. Peter.
He said he was drowning in a pool of jealousy
As she kept taking one lover after another.
Sweat ran down his face
As he took off Mr. M's skirt-
And with apprehensive fingers
Pulled down the *******.
His face shone brightly
At the perfection of the work
But his expression soon changed
To a blank faced melancholy
He said he was still heartbroken
As he could n't **** the real Jessy Peter
(Stubbly cheeks against Mr. M's fat shaved thighs
He whimpered through the night like a child).

Little Gigi said Mr. M smelled exactly like her papa.
Mr. M smiled, taking it as a compliment.
"...like boiled beef," she added.
Even after Little Gigi had left,
Her sister remained a little longer.
Then, slowly she placed her bottom-
On Mr. M's hairy thigh and sat there,
Her eyes fixed on the wall opposite
Mr. M, nonplussed, broke into a sweat
And thought, of all things he could do right now,
Stroking her hair was the only right thing.
The girl sat like that for a while and then
While leaving she said he was a nice person-
Unlike her late papa.

Please don’t be hurt. Please don’t blame yourself. This is not your fault. I just couldn’t take it anymore. The voices in my head, the emptiness in my heart, the darkness in my body. But I had everything, I know I did. A loving family, a bright future, a promising life.

There was just so much going on inside my head. I felt like I was 10 feet underwater with my feet tied to an anchor that was pulling me down, down, down. I knew I needed to find my way back to the surface but I couldn’t seem to untie myself. My willpower had reduced to nothingness.

You know, I was terrified of mirrors. Every time I looked into them, I felt like I was under a magnifying glass where every single one of my flaws was staring back at me, mocking me. I looked around and saw so much perfection, and my own imperfections made me feel so small. Like I could disappear into thin air and no one would’ve noticed because they didn’t understand, or care. Everyone thought it was easier to pretend I was still the same girl I used to be, when they all knew I wasn’t.

Sometimes, I tried to think back to the exact moment my depression became too heavy to bear and my anxiety became too prevalent to ignore because then I could’ve found a way to retain a tiny shred of who I used to be. Unfortunately, every time I did, I came up empty because it wasn’t a specific time or a certain moment. It was something that developed over time and got to a point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore. There was so much bottled up inside of me and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

Depression slipped into my system, and slowly, it got a little harder to wake up in the morning. I felt like I was moving, but not getting anywhere. Soon I started to feel numb, like nothing mattered in the world. I found that all the things I used to like doing, didn’t bring me joy anymore. Then suddenly I was sitting in my bedroom, alone, wondering how I got to such a dark, sad, empty place and I tried to find a way to make myself feel anything other than this overbearing numbness.

My anxiety came in small bursts. It started off small and barely noticeable, but built up overtime. One day, I was getting overly nervous and scared about a specific situation, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then sometime later, a similar situation occurred and that time, I was sitting on the bathroom floor trying to breathe, telling myself to stop crying. My chest tightened, my vision blurred, my hands and feet went numb and I couldn’t think straight.

In the end, all I was left with was the feeling of wanting it all to go away. But my mental illness was just like a layer of skin: I could never get rid of it.

I know I seemed fine, happy almost. But it was all fake, a simple act I put on each day. I know I should’ve told someone, I know I should’ve reached out for help. I just didn’t want to seem like a failure, I didn’t want people to think I was weak. I was put on a pedestal and I was scared to come down from it. It would have crushed my family to know I wasn’t an intelligent, confident young lady but rather an anxious, depressed freak. But it still isn’t anyone’s fault, it’s mine for caring more about how people thought of me than my own mental health. It just got to a point where there was no other option. Whether I was living or not, I was already gone. There was no soul, no life, left in me. I was just an empty body.

Goodbye.

Jessy

i've just changed my tyre and my inner tube
on my... very cheap viking road bicycle...
i've also had to cough up 10 quid from a stash
of 100 quid i was willing to pay a *******
for some love...
how i will spend the rest of the 90 quid
leftovers... i'm cutting back on...
glorifying the night
with mannequin drunk antics...
              and smoking cigarettes... so... it's pretty
much a flip of the coin...
i'm starting to abhor
the coverage of the Olympics these days...
they're only showcasing women in sport...
yawn...
ooh! wait... there's that new medal up
for grabs... the Nigerian mixed gender team
tried something new...
let's call man (Y) and woman (X)...
the orthodox tactic stated:
YXXY...
the Nigerians tried to pull off a Jessy Smollett...
they did an... ha ha...
YXYX...
it looked great at first...
the Nigerian man gained about 10 metres
on all the women...
but then... the Nigerian woman lost
the lap with slowest man...
that was fun to watch...

look... i've tried to do an ode to Bukowski:
seeking out small poetry magazines...
"building-up" an audience...
a lot has changed since the typewriter became
defunct...
i've looked into several "magazines"...
rejected by a few...
i looked into this one... rising phoeni(c) review...
i'm still looking into it...

i was like: wow! the message!
fresh perspective... angelhead hipsters...
i have a beard and a viking haircut...
but i'm not a hipster...
   i looked and looked...
of the voices represented by the so-called
review... truly underrepresented voices
in democracy...
obviously they have to be women...
no one is ever so truly "under-represented"
in society... not since that episode
in Bewitched... where... the wife's mouth
spends the husband's dollar...
or the sugar-baby spends his... mah'jesty's
premature he'jaculation...

this is the last time i trust the editorial process...
no... clearly... *******... in original print...
in the original stake on:
burning a forest to get your ******* *** of
a fist a full arithmetic of knuckles off your chest...
not here... not... now...
the classical route...
i can smell.... it...
it would have to first bypass the tastes
(criteria of the editors) to later reach
a larger audience...

but not now... we can bypass the whole
charade of the editorial process...
if youtube.com was what it was
in circa 2016... having fun with
A.I. algorithms... we had fun...
i mean: i stopped using last.fm... didn't i?
a computer acted pristine like:
what the **** happened to both
the ****** megastore / 'his master's voice'
on oxford street?
i was waiting for someone interested
in music to... do the **** people don't do
in a museum: curate to my tastes!
no?

i'm done in appealing to these editors...
i was thinking about posting something for
the rising phoeni(c) review... as a joke...
oh they will read my stuff...
but... they'll only accept a ******...
or a 'lack un' to compensate for the ratio
of men to women...
dare! believe! a plumber... a roofer...
might have a degree in chemistry! OCH!
gosch!
mein gott!

hellopoetry and allpoetery... eh...
i too was thinking... "recognised" pedigree...
am i something less for...
if i were here first... you being second:
you think that term / status of platform...
translated into journalism is equivalent
to... tabloid-press?
who's pressing what? i'm pushing in 26+ digits....
the plus enforces the use of punctuation marks...
the odd sequence with Hangul or Katakana... etc.

no one waited for the advent for bypassing
the editorial process as much as i have:
i've become the butcher to the raw thoughts
in my 'ed...
why... not press harder...
if the status of platform is to be deemed less...
than the status of publisher...
hellopoetry / allpoetry is...
it's not a social platform... it's a reading platform...
it's way ahead of... ha...
that's ha: never used goodreads...
or twitter... or instagram...

for that loved up tactic of: in defence of democracy...
the classical approach to publishing
is a pyre...
i'll **** on it some gasoline if it might just
burn a fluorescent fire of blue...
too slow... 1 to 3 months waiting for a hopeful
reply: it's a bit like waiting for access to
a nightclub where only the colts of
the rich few are allowed access for
a staging of Solomon's harem...
while there's: Solomon has left the building...
with the queen of Shebah...

insomnia libido coupled with insomnia "printing":
i can't wait: not that i "can't"
i'm already geared up for the cascade...
platform ≠ tabloid...
publisher still equates itself as publisher...
that... ******* lackey of "good tastes"...
forlorn in keeping to the sensibilities of:
catered to women...
no fun... if their thumbs' up is all i were
ever after...

look... the "mission statement" reads:
all inclusive all this all this other...
i'm an aging schizophrenic...
an aging quadratic-bi... lingual...
i'm hardly keeping up with either anchor
or ship... the sails?! the wind... oh...
i'm all up for that...
i don't even know whether i'm truly schizophrenic...
i treat it at a metaphor...
like William Burroughs might have...

but as a platform... pushing my doughy-eyed
geriatric gazelles "aside"...
here's me making a tide:
the old-school editorial process of...
"envisioning" print: no ******* print...
forget about it... as publishers you will see
as much eyes-glued to the emptying of
eye-sockets with your editorial fancies
as much as i will see: zombies
slurping up cones of: less cream...
more of that vivid juice shared by all...
in the form of 'strawberry opposite of icecream'...
the A.I. result is clueless...
you know... no cream...
i forget the word... just the proper sugar...
and water...  frozen...
not sherbert...
                       strawberry ice cream vs. the other type of ice...
still no results... ah...
strawberry... what if i type in...
watermelon... ah ha ha: SORBET!
and i thought i was **** as
crossword puzzles...
genuine: herr Franklisch...
herr... Merovingian...

   but at least i'm something of an Iraq:
i's: raw... whenever the western
democratic export might be minded...
introspect...

eh?
me too... #bewildered... feels like
a bee has just stung me...
no... i wouldn't feel safeguarded by
the obstructive publishing practices of
a "new-age" internet...
i.e. via the editors... later: the public...
oh no... first the public...
the editors can ******* by then...
curate "what"? by "then":
the ******* mortals teaming up with
XAOS... to overthrow the immortal
gods of Olympus...
just like the Olympian gods
overthrew the Titans?!

it's a platitude: most certainly...
i can't wait for editorial scrutiny to...
publish... eh? you're implying:
"publish"? i can publish on a whim...
if i can gravitate to a higher realm
of exfoliation... why should i be...
curtailed... stopped...
why in this body of a weaker gorilla-take
i'm still the anaemic tadpole...
why would i want to guise myself
in the concern for editors...
they'll reject all i'll ever write:
let's listen to the sinew...
to the wrath... the broken bone...
the lubricated extension of tendons...

if this is somehow lesser than
what might be... editorially approved...
the legality of...
i'm not here for the money...
look at me... i'm throwing those
30 silver coins in the air...
get rich young...
tire yourself... dying... old...
i've seen what dying old amounts to...
no much...
you earn: my gob's worth...
i'll add a bonus of my own phlegm
and a serpent of a tongue to quiz you...

but i will not reserve myself for
making myself "evident" by choosing
the "classical" publishing "en-route"... ha!
who has the monopoly on paper thereby...
ink?
i.e. what "paper"... what ******* "ink"!
high-brow ivory-tower guards of...
what?!

limited readership!
throw your words like grains of wheat
against the "deaf ears": subsequently
watch them turn into pearls!
platform ≠ tabloid journalism...
after all... tabloid journalism is still...
editorialised... isn't it?

it's neu.... it's mutated: Darwinism allows
mutation to take place:
i don't see how it can't...
it's the 21sst century! didn't you hear?!
em... do i have to look for inspiration
for scribbling... because it's merely / simply
out of ha-ha-h'america?
oops... lobs... aside...

i'm pretty sure the concept of platform:
is curated by the public...
long live platforms! long live the streets!
to hell with publishers and
speaking hush-hush coerced speech
in tenements owned by disgruntled Jews...
who... thank you: thank you:
for the Egyptian Moses...
sharing his insight into...
the eye of Horus... sure... ha-shem lettering
came later...

like i'm a ****** having lived all of my life
in ING-LAND!
by way of editorial "integrity":
who would publish any of it?
ha! noo... oone...
        watch me: **** on the necromancy of
pyramid... subsequently into the Nile...
because i'm immortal and i have enough
"time" to... "sort of"...  "wait"...
hit the iron while it's hot...
i'm not waiting for the restrictions
to restrict my freedom of expression:
too much of the beach has been tamed...
by those who didn't scribble...
instead deciding to make videos...

to yawn like the seas...
eh... to grow intact like they are to be towed...
but to bypass the editorial scrutiny:
this... envisioned:
"surprise" of a "concept" of "summer"
via England... there's no "summer"
in England...
September = an Indian Summer...
which is beyond metaphor and misnomer...
it's... weirdly placed for an islander "typos"
to.. stay... well addressed in a workaholic
trajectory of: FUNCTION... BASIS...
CUE!

publisher vs. platform...
                 there's no real "vs."... is there...
it's not an immediacy contra:
the highest quality when
the "highest" quality is only arrived at by...
WAHMOON!
**** it... let's leave it to the coliseum

the bread: the butter... the bread: the butter...
just "another": cheap-ink-dosage of...
"IT'S NOT FAIR! IT'S NOT FAIR!"
well of course it isn't...
you do X... i'll do Y...
if we're not doing some
"middle-fiddle" in between
for a compensating status quo:
then... what the **** are we living
for... some Muslim niqab: the Taliban has
come! welcome the Taliban... the ****?!

democracy: platform... allows this...
editorial scrutiny passes this back...
back years... alongside...
a Mongolian horde invasion: tease;
but i write in a zunge zeer
people have no "question"
or... thereby... knowledge of... off.

oh i'm supposed to feel worse than the
better of... off the worst?
pull me in... gravity... time's: a plenty!

Bossy Jessy bought a dish of chicken curry
Comes out he from fastfood in an unknown hurry
Steady stony head and chin up he goes
Spare not from dog **** neatly gleamed shoe toes
Intended coincidence bursts funny fury.

-01/06/2007
(Miagao)
*Topsy-Turvy Limerick Ironic