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vy Dec 2013
i. "Why did the number of parking tickets spike
when Persephone was carried off to the underworld?
Demeter wasn't working."
She liked greek mythology puns.
It was a good thing I was creative.

ii. Truth or Dare, I asked her what
was the best decision she's ever made.
she answered with, "In 7th grade I named my puppy Achilles,
so when I saw him I could say, 'Achilles, heel!'"

iii. It took me two weeks to realise that
when we held hands, I wasn't really
holding her hand, but a chainsaw,
ready to slash through anything that stood in our way like
Hercules chopping off the Hydra's head.
I was immortal.

iv. August eleventh; 9 PM
we watched for the meteor shower.
I connected the freckles splayed upon her knee,
told her they looked like the constellation of Cassiopeia.
"Be Sirius" she jested.

v. She had a bad habit
of smoking at the beach and I
Wondered if she knew that with
every single flick of ash into the water,
Poseidon was cursing her to the River Styx.

vi. Headaches visited her often, I joked that
maybe she was getting ready to birth
a Goddess from her cranium. She
did not find it clever.

vii. You could say we became like Aphrodite and
Hephaestus. I, longing for her. She,
lusting after another. A synonym for her
headaches would be me.

viii. Apparently if you hack off a Hydra head, two
would grow to replace it. Knowing this sooner
probably would have saved me from numerous
amounts of Kleenex and chocolate.

ix. She left me a note on the dresser,
"Fun fact: Medusa's favourite cheese was
Gorgon-zola. PS - you remind me
of Medusa, please remember to brush your hair."
She reminds of Medusa as well, I do not doubt that if we
meet again, her eyes would still turn me into
stone.
Stanley Zakyich Feb 2016
I'm addicted to knowledge,
and so helpless to absorbing it
that falsities and mistaken truths
will make their home in memory,
only to be brought out
to make me the jested.
All can serve on a jury,
judge my errors, spread more
into the world, to abhor
and be abhorred
by the bullies and the bored.
Save me from this world of waste,
this constant copy and paste
of information with haste.

Social media stories with pictures and lies to enthrall,
The Digital Age will make false prophets of us all.
Comments about this Digital Age and how stories are spread for the desperate need for viral content for marketing purposes.

Inspired by this article: http://www.cracked.com/photoplasty_761_the-22-most-misleading-viral-photos-explained/
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
The groove, the rut, and the cut
were walking down the street.

As good friends do oft,
Cousin in name and in shape,
They strode sided, but said not a word.
Still understood that three
So different, nonetheless, one design.

The cut was old yet still bled
From time to time.
The groove and the rut, always in touch,
T'issued spear-carriers, armed and
Loving, dabbed and blotted the cut clotted.
For that is what the friends are 'the for,'
For the clotting, the knitting and the closing.

The bleeding came when it came,
They jested that they could never leave him,
For tho he bled regular, there was no schedule,
No knowing the when, but the why, that they
Understood. They would not have left him anyway
Exception of course now and then, but leave
Their man, their cuz, was not to be conceived.

The rut was long, thin, you had to look down
To see his full length, for he grew bottom-down,
Every day another ring, another inch, on the soles
Notched, they dared not, count them, so many days
Rutted in the tedium of a blood count of unable,
Incapable of being broken, his enemy, arch, was his friend.
Tedium his companion, his drug dealer,
When groove and cut were at work, failing to supervise.

Rut could only sigh. Sole solitary sound, except for the
Quiet ringing only he could hear, rings forming,
Day after day, and he could not count that high,
So instead each rut was given a name,
For blessed endless the world of words that say
I am a daily existence, nothing more, nothing but less.

The groove, hero to the cut and the rut,
Had his moments.
But he had secrets he did not share with them,
But as an outside-looker-in, I was privy to the
Privy of everything.

The groove was oval, wiry, snakey shaped,
But prone when prone to twisty turns when
Objects like objectives met, in counter ed.
But when groove was grooving,
There was full blown full mo, the world observed.

Strict silence for the poems that
Shook lose from his frame,
Bad his eyes, wept he,
Lines of ones and twosies,
Fat and wide his fame,
For when the groove was
Cooing and cooling,
Life infused him and sips of tea,
Each transformed into the heat of ooh and the ahh,
When the cup was empty, he had his finished 'aha,'
Of a new parting, gift giving in his heart.
For he she see saw the angle of simple, and thus could
Groove on grooving.

The rut and the cut were happy for him,
Watch with incredible incredulity and an itty bitty
Jealousy of which they never rudely spoke.
But they would board his poetry-train sled,
Down they rode, the white snow
Of being a a lookalike groovy kid,
Even if and but, for just a few minutes.

Everyone loved groovy, and watch his every movie,
Licked the whiskey wooden snowball words from his lips,
but would not admit they kept them hid,
So they could be reread when they were at home
In the closet with flashlight, and the weeping was easy.

The three cuz went to the carnival.
Fun house with mirrors that made you look like
Who You really were.

But not them, for "the for" was different,
For when they strode sided before those mirrors,
They could plainly see that the
Groove, the rut the cut
Looked exactly alike,
Exactly alike,
All looked
Like
me.
For Rebecca, just because.
Created October 19th, 2013
Jenny Gordon Mar 2016
...for love.
(sonnet #MMMMMDXXXIX)


He jested that he'd write a book whose tale
Was "I forgot to cry" as twas mine thence
For his love drying the endless tears' vain sense
Oer losing Mum, my best friend, and prevail
As bashert where I've never known to hail
Aught soulmate; loved me more than life, to fence
The twinkling hours with him in sheer defense,
And aye, eclipsed my grief oer her, t'avail.
Thus where Death called his lease, or ours as twere,
His last speech mine, he prayed another'd do
That for his Baby.  Yet aught else is poor.
I weep sans comfort, maddened while I rue
Whatever sin brought our demise, or fer
What took his life.  Cuz I'll e'er love him too.

22Mar16b
He said in closing [giving his full name]that he is mine affectionately forever in love for eternity.
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nm7riM3rqI]...for love.
Poetic T Dec 2014
The acrid smell of darkness
"Permeates me"
I am surrounded by the skies
Of hell fire,
Brimstone,
Sulphuric,
Odours
Breathed as if air
Burning with each inhale,
This is a place of eternal penance
Why do I sit on a thrown of spines
Those around grovel
Hungry as if to ******* milk,
I look down, hot coals are under foot
My thrown room blacker than sin,
I am jested towards the window,
Torture,
Screams,
Souls
Bound to instruments, some scream in
Redemption, why'll others ask for more,
Broken, crazy lost souls that once
Screamed as the souls now bound to
"Smouldering coals"
I glance as heavy doors open,
Skin,
Bone,
Muscles
Entwined with black stitch
No words permitted,
As stich tightly woven
Upon blooded lips
I felt enticed at her vulgerness
She approached as if to touch my Hand, I
Repelled,
Declined,
Opposed
Her advances, I cut in to her muscle
she moaned as if ecstasy,
As black droplets burnt upon the floor
"She again ushered towards my hand"
I let her grip as she cut the
Stitches
From her bleeding lips,
"I smelt her breath"
A thousand souls decaying within her,
Breath
Exhaled,  
Putrid,
Odour that was irresistible,
Lips meet, flesh burnt and the
Mists of what was clarity was ushered away,
My reaper of souls beauty of the underworld
I tasted with that kiss corruption, hatred
"He who shall never be named"
"At his tricks once again"
"I sit o my throne of spines"
My horns ignite once more
The light that shined briefly now
Extinguished,
Smothered,
Obsolete
Feelings from a place one stood upon,
"I am that which others need to fear"
As all will pay for this
"Moment of Clarity"  
As I engulf souls, redemption
Is for above, below there is just **hatred and misery
Life's a Beach Dec 2014
Sleep paralysis, like your body
is wearing a ice-en straight jacket
and your mouth is laced up with skin.
I could see the blanket, the pillow, I could feel
myself trapped within layers of
suffocating covers, every neurone struggling to
free my trapped limbs
sapped of strength
As though my spine had snapped, and the
length of Central Nervous System had
strapped itself to the base of my bones
I tried to yell, to scream to moan
MOVE
WAKE UP
at my body
couldn't sob
robbed of movement

I sank into the silence of a nightmare

This is what I saw there:

My childhood home, demolished, my accommodation
stood sturdy on it's grave as though it had
never existed
My Lady and My Mother were there, and they
resisted my protests, laughed cruelly in jest as they
marched into my flatmates room
I ran after them as their voices loomed like
mocking magpies
Every word a jab and peck

Then

An awful clarity
In hilarity, my flatmate jested that 'junk' had
been left in his room, but as I looked in, expecting gloom, I
saw, instead, the living room of my childhood home
Nailed down where it stood by the
additives of a university life.
I didn't see the past strife, but photographs of happy
times lay scattered or enlarged, their presence
marred by the fact
that, if they were here,
then no-one had wanted them
No one had cared
They had been left
lost
littered
scattered into the breeze of
demolition

Then calm
By the fireplace that had never been used
The adopted Nan sat and soothed by her
Life torn husband's side
Fire resided beside them as she and he
coaxed the flames across the wall
missing the grating
Every flickering flame pressed into a ball
as it spread
I lost my head staring at her peaceful white hair
She wasn't stuck in her chair
Or swathed in blankets
She looked right how she was
And I felt bad because I took a foam and
dampened the flame from the walls loam
Fearing injury I stole her
warmth
But she was always so exothermic
She doesn't haunt she fills

Willed forward with affection
But her questions sank into
a sudden guilt of my self-neglection
and as I tried
to hold
myself
together
I found my breath
was snatched
I didn't want to let her down
Couldn't bear for an
angel to see
a frown
so
I tried to catch
the tip of my mouth
and force myself to smile

But she knew all, of course she did,
and as I was marched up the aisle of
wakefulness

A single tear slid down my cheek
An emotion was allowed
to leak

Loss and Shame
Guilt and Pain

You shouldn't be like this
*Take care of yourself
I had an incredibly vivid dream yesterday, it really shook me, so I wanted to get it out somewhere. The woman I call Nan was honestly one of the most beautiful human beings. She's the grandmother of my platonic other half. Seeing her so clearly and finding myself unable to tell her something positive about how I was, well, it completely ate me up. If she's watching me, then this isn't what I want her to be seeing, she deserves to see happiness.
When I was dead, my spirit turned
  To seek the much-frequented house
I passed the door, and saw my friends
  Feasting beneath green orange-boughs;
From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
  They ****** the pulp of plum and peach;
They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
  For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat:
  Said one: "To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
  And coasting miles and miles of sea."
Said one: "Before the turn of tide
  We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one: "To-morrow shall be like
  To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
  And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow," cried they, one and all,
  While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
  I, only I, had passed away:
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
  I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
  No chill across the table-cloth;
I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad
  To stay, and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
  I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
  That tarrieth but a day.
Poetic T Nov 2014
I saw  pig wearing white fronts
I looked
Perplexed,
Confused,
Laughter,
Then came out,
"Never wear white, with an **** like that"
Trotters to small to wipe,
"Skids bigger than the grand canyon"
Brown with white, I
Gagged,
Heaved,
Smelling,
Like crap, I just looked as it went
Past, I started to follow as it
Trotted along, It stopped turned
"Growling at me"
Woof Woof GGrrrrr...
"Ok its not just me? don't pigs OINK"
I stared open mouthed, fingers in ears
Making sure no wax had altered the sound,
"Did you just bark and growl at me"
"Ok I'm now talking to a barking pig"
It stared for a moment
Me at it , it at me
Then it clucked
Cluck,
Cluck,
Cluck,
Front trotters flapping wildly in the air,
And then quiet
From the white which turned more brown
Now fell an egg not white
You can guess what dropped upon the floor,
Shaped like an egg, but smelt rotten to the core,
Then it walked off on all fours,
"I was puzzled"
"A dog"
"A chicken"
"What more"
"I am forever off eggs"
Never seeing them the way I saw before,
It trotted to a farm,
A farmer I saw before my eyes
Opened mouthed, hands jested towards
The pig, dog, chicken thing,
O you meet harry, he's special you've seen
That's nothing wait and see,
"Harry what do you wish to tell the gentlemen"
"Dear sir"
"Would you mind paying up"
For what I confusingly said??
"I'm the worlds only ventriloquist"
"Porker"
"Now you have experienced the show"
"Now pay up"
"I may be a porker, but I not stupid"
"The talking is extra"
What,
Why,*
What,
Is all that spilled from my mouth
I handed over notes,
£10
£20
£30
Mouth still open, as I walked
Before I knew it at the hotel I strolled
In to my room, friends standing around
"What you get up too"
"You'd think I was telling porkers"
"Want a bacon sandwich"
I look at them opened mouthed
"Really"
They say I was as white as a ghost
"No"
I replied,
"I'm a vegan"
Since when they asked??
**"Since about thirty six minutes ago"
Never looking at bacon the same or white fronts Gag :)
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
god i love fiddling with Kant...
i still don't understand why
Nietzsche thought he was
a senile old bachelor in the end...

**** similis...
      the grand APE...

now...

    is the ape a creature:
a priori,

os is the ape a creature:
a posteriori?

then again, i was once accused
of speaking out of my own
*** by a slob Jew in
Edinburgh,
as i was also jested at
with the words
    'we'll crucify you'
at a UCL drama take on
the plight of the Palestinians...

**** me...
     motley crue dr. feelgood style...
i guess when the last of
the last Holocaust survivors
are dead...
  the gloves come off
and we can... rattle the bare-knuckle
slicks...

nope... i always preferred a drunkard's
slang to an ***-licking
            ****** addict's slack;
but don't get me wrong,
i could read a Burroughs' novel
in a day...
    just... drenched....
in (a) hypnotic chaos of juxtaposition;

frantic vagary...
like watching a **** of a fly
darting here and there;

p.s.
   (adjective & noun -
so, no... frantic vagary is not
a "misnomer"...
   it's a doubled emphasis).

ah... the benefits of acquired
rather than the native
usage of the, spreschen -
hen hen... no spre(h)-       -shen.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
when language becomes as clarified as mathematics, i'll call each grammatical categorisation a number, e.g. noun (1), verb (2), conjunction (3)... and then i'll ask you to define arrangement, whether by arithmetic or calculus, to define a usage, without mistake, to provide the canvas of theoretical robotics (a.i.) and actual robotics (vacuum cleaners).*

i'd never want to fall in love with the self-love
you write about; the end: and as the wise saying goes:
it takes being cruel to be kind... and people
after my generation deserve more than that...
they came and ruined the world;
oi *******! pork chop me a line!
you're the ones that ruined
the music industry... you bought ****...
you downloaded like mad,
you were the ones that said: free art!
but nit free bread...
you keep it up, insulting Africans,
by sprouting new charity schemes...
keep it up like cotton picking...
keep, the, ****, up...
1st prize a 12" *****... get happy... get analysed...
get the ******* my shoulder trying to make me
be a daddy i never wanted to be for a wedding ring...
as you said... "maybe it's all about the chemistry?"
i guess it is... you thought ester patrons of scent
would never be anything explosive...
but there it was, stared at by the many socially
acceptable voyeurs... and you faked
reading the first page and instead took your top
off for the contrast of importance filling page three;
oh sorry, was i being rude? perhaps realism
is a feminine stance of spelling when the masculine
asks of reality, and neither gesticulate a finite coarseness
compared to the infinity of sandpaper / 5p.m. stubble.
next time i'll be in love i'll be dead...
keep that love for your mother or father
and leave me to live out a finite enjoyment enjoying
threes with hands of what could be easily divided,
minutes and hours... seconds are pet-peeves
and gnats and ticking... ticking...
i can't afford to make my life represented by...
but i can represent billions by the time's division
into seconds stressed... yet still more
raindrops than insects... and still more atoms...
so why quest for an individuality among the numbers,
when among words you over-stressed a concern
to the point of not lacking adequate expression but
with words too for the numbered millionaires and billionaires
you suddenly jested a queen's hand wave on parade
for a miscarriage that wasn't really worded but numbered?
and i guess that's a rare eloquence, as nonchalance is.
Melissa: I've still rever'd your Order [she is responding to a Parson] as Divine;
And when I see unblemish'd Virtue shine,
When solid Learning, and substantial Sense,
Are joyn'd with unaffected Eloquence;
When Lives and Doctrices of a Piece are made,
And holy Truths with humble Zeal convey'd;
When free from Passion, Bigottry, and Pride,
Not sway'd by Int'rest, nor to Parties ty'd,
Contemning Riches, and abhorring strife,
And shunning all the noisy Pomps of Life,
You live the aweful Wonders of your time,
Without the least Suspicion of a Crime:
I shall with Joy the highest Deference pay,
and heedfully attend to all you say.
From such, Reproofs shall always welcome prove,
As being th' Effects of Piety and Love.
But those from me can challenge no Respect,
Who on us all without just Cause reflect:
Who without Mercy all the *** decry,
And into open Defamations fly:
Who think us Creatures for Derision made,
And the Creator with his Works upbraid:
What he call'd good, they proudly think not so,
And with their Malice, their Prophaneness show.
'Tis hard we shou'd be by the Men despis'd,
Yet kept from knowing what wou'd make us priz'd:
Debarr'd from Knowledge, banish'd from the Schools,
And with the utmost Industry bred Fools.
Laugh'd out of Reason, jested out of Sense,
And nothing left but Native Innocence:
Then told we are incapable of Wit,
And only for the meanest Drudgeries fit:
Made Slaves to serve their Luxury and Pride,
And with innumerable Hardships try'd,
'Till Pitying Heav'n release us from our Pain,
Kind Heav'n to whom alone we dare complain.
Th' ill-natur'd World will no Compassion show;
Such as are wretched, it wou'd still have so:
It gratifies its Envy and its Spight;
The most in others Miseries take Delight.
While we are present they some Pity spare,
And feast us on a thin Repast of Air:
Look Grave and Sigh, when we our Wrongs relate,
An in a Compliment accuse our Fate:
Blame those to whom we our Misfortunes owe,
And all the Signs of real Friendship show.
But when we're absent, we their Sport are made,
They fan the Flame, and our Oppressors aid;
Joyn with the Stronger, the Victorious Side,
And all our Suff'ring, all our griefs deride.
Those gen'rous few, whom kinder Thoughts inspire,
And who the Happiness of all desire;
Who wish we were from barb'rous Usage free,
Exempt from Toils, and shameful Slavery,
Yet let us, unreprov'd, mis. spend our Hours,
And to mean Purposes employ our nobler Pow'rs.
They think, if we our Thoughts can but express,
And know but how to Work, to Dance and Dress,
It is enough, as much as we shou'd mind,
As if we were for nothing else design'd,
But made, like Puppets, to divert Mankind.
O that my *** wou'd all such Toys despise;
And only study to be Good, and Wise;
Inspect themselves, and every Blemish find,
Search all the close Recesses of the Mind,
And leave no vice, no ruling Passion there,
Nothing to raise a Blush, or cause a Fear:
Their Memories with solid Notions fill,
And let their Reason dictate to their Will,
Instead of Novels, Histories peruse,
And for their Guides the wiser Ancients chuse,
Thro' all the Labyrinths of Learning go,
And grow more humble, as they more do know.
By doing this, they will Respect procure,
Silence the Men, and lasting Fame secure;
And to themselves the best Companions prove,
And neither fear their Malice, nor desire their Love.
Kain O' Stella Jun 2014
I want to set you on fire. Take heed;
Don't play with desire
Life could be on the wire
With time growing tired,
and your love not invested.
But I digressed and just jested
at the idea of investment.
As if I haven't stressed this:
Take your love and your time
and invest it,
before time and desire
arrest it.
Add depth to the time you spend by casting your love unto others, or spend it selfishly fulfilling your unwarranted desires.
Molly Smithson Jan 2013
When we hear the sirens’ banshee wails,
Flying up behind us,
The four horsemen of the apocalypse,
We say a silent prayer:
“Thank God it’s not for me.”
Then continue on our way,

Until the traffic begins to slow,
And the crowds appear
With their clown faces agape
As the sharp reds, flashing blues, hard blacks,
Charge haphazardly into the scene.

An acquaintance approaches to report the news,
Our faces blank to white as a sheet,
Tears spring to our eyes,
The floodgates of sorrow open:
No. No. No. It can’t be him.

The boy, strong and quiet, funny and kind,
Who hiked mountains up and down the coast,
Who jested in stealing cigarettes,
Who jammed the bass,
All with a twinkle in his eye:
Almost gone
Out a seventh floor dormitory window.

Each of us silent,
Our minds race:
Prayers saved for when God is really needed,
Memories of happy moments,
Nightmares of what ifs.

But then silence,
As the stretcher emerges,
And there he lies
Covered only in a sheet
As white as our faces
We all feel it:
A void, then sudden surge
Love, Despair, Faith,
Past, Present, Future,

And we are with him.
Audrey Maday Mar 2015
I was fooled once,
By the crystal hopes,
Of love and happiness,
I've decided now,
To close shop,
Lest my heart be jested again.
Once had been shame on him,
But fortune had not my favour,
Fooled again, twice it seems,
And I only have myself to shame.
Poetic T Apr 2017
Woven in tears of collected misgivings
for his voice never to be heard in the halls
of man, just echoes of nothingness.

For he was a fiction of man, fed through mouths
never one his own, for courts jested verses of
there needing not those repeated and reversed.

Words are power in anyone's hand, the tonged syllables
are hypnotic in a wrong mans purse. Listen to knowledge
and fact, falsehood is a serpent biting back.
Tis MIC May 2015
I could not imagine
The way you jested me
I guessed
I would be the game to play, to laugh
When you were boring
When you had no one beside
But I did not fathom you were bad like this.

I wait and wait
For the one who just fights for his joys              
Do take no interest in other feelings                        
Which make noise in my thinking                    
"You are no good"
My mind struggles
Between what you have done and what you haven't done
To me, to others          
Just feel disappeared more than ever.
You are false.
Someone told "He is a bad guy". I used not to believe.
Terry Collett Nov 2013
He first notice Elaine
as she waited
for the school bus
standing there

in the pouring rain
with her younger sister
and other kids
from the village

he noticed
how drowned she looked
her spectacles so wet
she couldn’t see out

her dark hair
hanging limp
about her face
and she looked down

not up
as she climbed
aboard the bus
making her way

down the aisle
of the bus
like some female Crucified
and sat in the seat

by the window
and peered out
her sister sat
next to her

equally as wet
yet unperturbed
laughing at another
who jested

at her state
but Elaine's
was a separate state
a lesser one's fate

knowing other eyes
gazed and sniggered
and whispered
into their hands

but not John
he saw her through  
his own eyes
pushed away

the sneers
and sighs
and sniggering japes
and saw a deeper soul

within peering out
through the window glass
that showed
the falling rain

he looked away
taking note of her hair
and eyes
and glasses smeared

and how she pushed
her wet hands
between the caresses
of her knees

and dampened skirt
how by the look
of her face
revealed

her inner hurt
and as the bus
moved off and on
the radio blaring

some Mike Sarne song
the voices of children
competing for the space
and John half listening

to Trevor talk
some such of fishing
with a friend
at pond or river

he did not discern
or Trevor’s sister
across the aisle
chatting of some dress

her mother bought
not the fashion
she complained
but John held close

the image of the girl
who sat behind
across the aisle
whose dampened

state of dress
and soul
had moved his mind
and touched his heart

but said nothing
to either Trevor
with talk of fish
and rod

or Monica's dress
or clothes whatever
it had been
unfashionable or such

as undesired
he looked out
at the passing scene
as the bus raced by

thinking of Elaine
sitting a little way
behind
wiping the raindrops

from glasses
so she could see
and not be
half blind.
SET IN 1962 ON SCHOOL BUS.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
may my grief residue to no depth sunken into as worth being kept,
but let it reside in falcon wing, ever rising higher
from such burial grounds as to be ennobled by wing
as once ennobled by thought, in kindred with soul,
and levied with tongue lip and kiss a bellowing hark and hiss
chimera beast loved for a minute of its existence;
nein! nein! a third nein be a minded counter well worth a find of an aye;
i too will regret a veto on the life i wished to commence
death-like in a wandering quote in the book of job,
but the new testament jested worse with the commence
of being crucified asking of self-belief as crucible -
and all adventure collapsed into fictive visionaries relegating
the chances of such experiences ever taking place,
as about adventurous as flipping pages: hence
escapist realism.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
they want to read you and not think, so too they want to read you and  not see, they hardly care for punctuation necessarily used, so who's out there to please? n'ah really, i was onto something, i meant that if the Kantian thing-in-itself was applied to the cartesian expression, either thinking-in-itself or being-in-itself is jested at, then we can explain the freedoms of disobedience and obedience, truthfulness and falsehood, and the parody of paradoxes, as highest claimants the claimants: (singular plural) choice - whereas will (plural adjective congregating into singular) is always a butterfly fluctuation of measuring an exactness akin to dating and remembering 1066 the battle of Hastings.

mingle Kant with Descartes and you get thought as the
per se* existence - splitting into either fact of coining
phrases or robbing someone: no doubt (existential
good faith) and certainly no denial (existential
bad faith) - mingle Kant with Descartes
and you get the twins
cogito ergo sum mingling with noumenon,
and thus somewhere along the line
you get to see the membrane of the zygote,
like the thought behind a criminal life
where the life is unexplained because the thought
of such a life is "easily" accessed,
so too in reverse, i.e. being a councillor
or a clerk makes such thinking easily explained
for the prop of the life lived "easily" justified via
the person trading tomatoes or lamb shanks
to keep you unthinking in a bureaucratic role.
OnwardFlame Jul 2015
Tonight I set a piece of my hair
On fire
I guess I thought I was above
Being licked by a flame
But as the old and the new
Jested, tumbled, and leap frogged
Over my name
I shake my head thinking back
With sour disdain.

7 dollar beer and we all cheers
I hit the table with the bottom
Of my drink or shot now
Because Chicago ain't nothing
Like the ***** south
Or filthy philadelphia.

I've had my hands above my head
Looking for a sun king
24 years of kissing toad after toad
After toad
Multi colored mane
A flame licked the hair in my face
It's so painful to hear no.

Wet dramatic eyes
Betrayers gotta throw some daggers out, can't stand to see me be so happy
On my own.

I wonder how you really get by
Telling and feeding yourself lies
As your phrase "2017" threatens
To stifle, *****, strangle
What once was.

But what once was has been defeated
A suit of armor on my front and back
I jingle and jangle with every heavy step, lest I forget
How many men have slept
And I chose to forgive and forget
But I go my own way now.

sleep longs to take me into it's arms
As I hear and see the joyful sun
With rays of the same fire
That made me question my beauty
As pixilated stemming hairs
Brimmed and mocked
But he gave me Boy Scout socks
To wear in the summer, fall, winter?
But they don't threaten to leave, deceive, or make me feel
Less than the beaming bird I am.

"It sounds like you've kept busy"
"I love how deep and complex you are"
"You are so dramatic"
"You are a beautiful, amazing swan"

Always ooze moon light
And those who are meant to, will carry a bucket to capture some of your radiance
So that it can be treasured and remembered,
Siempre.
Poetic T Dec 2016
Modulated essence of vocalization
does not escape my seized lips.
Motionless they are without movement,
a corpse of inactivity are my verbs.

But when stain white sheets are lingering
in front of my eyes, I'm jested to use movement
of wording to express the convulsions that
expire from my mind to that below.

Seismic episodes expel and what was a land
of undiscovered wealth ruptures forth.
My expression is unformulated but even though
whispers aren't heard, ever syllable is understood.

Even though my vocalization is versed in silence,
every word is throw into the words understanding.
Hear me through muted words of expression that
vocalize from your eyes on my versed words.
OnwardFlame Feb 2016
If I compiled a pile or list of
All the painted skeletons
Of yesterday, 7 years ago
It would look just like a
Heap of
Me.

So many ***** in the air
A man at a festival meeting comments
My gold nail polish looks ******* stupid
I think sometimes I am just the worst
Just the worst.

Standing in front of vats of permeating grilled carnage
I serve and I serve, but its never enough
Its never enough
Glutten on a broomstick
I gaze out at the windows teasing me
But the gloom like the X-acto knife I wrote
And carved just how I felt
My room mate and I both wear sadness today we say.

The women around me also all seem to be in a fuss
I pondered the shadowed moon last night
Looking for answers, solutions
The signal on my cell phone to my mother
Holds strong underground
I stick up for you, I still stick up for you.

A frenzy of beautiful moments
I replayed and watched them all in my head
My hands and body intertwined with grease
Just how you look down at me
As your body and my body
Long and search for the answers.

Hearing nothing but poetic phrases
Wishing my mind could record just like
Ink on parchment
My God, I do wish I had it all figured out
As unrealistic as that all may be.

Snap chatting singular moments
I grapple with money signs flashing across my face
Mama and Papa are just so glad, so glad they say
I don't do that dancin' game
To get by.

So insanely busy, we pontificate our schedules
As if butterflies and the fact I almost just deleted this
Entire poem by accident
Mattered at all.

"MY woman" A male friend of mine corrected me
But I only jested
I only spoke in jest
I'm the jester, I'm the self destructive clown
The beautifully tragic clown
With the crooked sly grin
Turning and covered in chicken grease.

I'm not ******* special
I'm not special that I hustle and work those day jobs
I'm not ******* special
I tell myself to get through mornings
Tag teaming and gang ******
Just how I lessen myself every time I look for
Validation.

Remember how you use to respond to me in poetry?
I cannot tell you how much I miss those days
It was the only thing that ever made any
Any ******* sense to me
I still pine and yearn for those times
When I felt like the ball had been bounced back to me
In such an unexpected way
But you, you went away so far
You buried your heart in the dirt
But they aren't because of issues you say.

I'm not angry, I'm not hurt
You have been so good, so sweet this past week
It just took, it took me once again
I turned to you on the street
My hair whispering in the wind
You grabbed me and held me
Like a sea otter would
My tentacles and tendrils mystifying you
But you stopped splashing the water back
Though sometimes in those singular moments
I catch you contemplating the pitter patter and swirls
Of the ocean around us we wish we had answers to.

Betrayer is moving away from NYC
"Seems so"
He said to me
He use to tie up my wrists so well
Comparing me to ****** and trinkets in the street
I don't know that we will ever see each other again.

My poems have been getting longer and longer
You comment, but I know that sentence is so much more loaded
I gotta go be a person, I gotta go do
I gotta stop getting in my own way
And I am so, so very relieved
That we are good
Lets please stay good.

Your eyes looking down at me
As your skin and moments we treasure
When we make love,
Everything else around us washes away
Engulfed in our elaborate unity
If only we could hold and treasure it
Here, here
Here here
Here, here
Hear
Her.
Stephanie Frank Dec 2016
In this never ending tunnel darker than night
Is where I found myself after taking flight
Those gruesome looking creatures with sulphuric smell
Have forced their way into my wishing well
Should I call it forced snuck or stolen
Fact is I didn't notice the wound till it was swollen
Swollen itchy and overflowing with pus
That's when I started to make a fuss
Or at least I made an attempt
For of healing that wound I could only have dreamt
The beings teased, chortled and jested
If I fussed too much, true colors manifested
I couldn't think of an escape plan
These were beings and I was just human
Their brains are superior and I'm not smart
Knowing this left me downcast
Michael May 2021
"**** stupid raccoons!"
An angry man, ****** at everything in the moment
fiercely kicked his dumped-over trash can into the street, as he stared enraged at the mess of thrown out crap that laid open
for all to see.
A neighbor seeing his crazy fit of rage jested,
"You know, trash cans have feelings too."

To which the angry man replied,
"Yeah!  And they should feel like garbage!"
William Jun 2019
Aspen of Appalachia, away,
Bereft from bleating, brooding bovine.
Clay County contrives conspiracy
Doomed, darkened, deceitful. Directed
Eastward at Eastaboga’s emp’ror
Full of most fitting flight, fleeing from
God. Those good graces known given up,
Heartily, exchanged happenstance his
Immortal soul for idolatry.
Jeered at Jehovah, jested Jesus,
Kingdom keeping the kicked knaves knowing
Lowly that the Lord lash little at
Men who make ****** and mudwork made
Nightly. Nefarious no-goods now,
Open but not ostracized. Oh, old
People praise the past per penchant but
Quickly they quit; queerly quell their quest,
Running from redemption and rambling
So he stopped searching, got set soulless,  
Turned to the tantric, tuned to the tumult,
Unburdened with useless unknowns. Up
Verily and vivaciously, vet  
Words which will warrant wonder. Why not
*******, excellent, exuberant?
Yet, ye of yellow faith, yon Yahweh
Zeros the zest of zig-zagged zetas.
Genesis X Dec 2014
Words are the most wonderful things that would have existed in this world,
but now words are poison.
Even the world is rotting with liars, deceivers and flatterers.
Now words are merely dropped down, like candy wrappers.

Now I figure why no one desires the truth,
when words that would have been worth diamonds,
were merely said as if they were just soil in the ground.
when precious words that would've been treasured were just foolishly given away.

How many words of admiration have been wasted?
How many words of affection have been jested?
How many terms of endearment were truly heartfelt?
How many confessions were ever truly meant?

Words come and go as a craft of our tongues,
rather than a masterpiece of our hearts.
Words slip carelessly like unwanted wastes,
rather than carefully thought endeavors.

Now I am the boy who cried wolf,
whose words are mere garbage.
When I learned to truly tell you I love you, I adore you, I revere you, I need you,
'Twas too late, for the sugar has lost its taste.

Now then how can I tell you the sincerest words,
when the honey has already numbed your tongue?
Now how can I tell the sweetest affections I have for you,
when the words I've already wasted were as good as gone?

Now these words I offer, to your ear they may never sound new.
But know this, from now til the end of my days, all these words shall only be for you.
To my dearest Husky, the matter and energy of my universe... my everything. I know I've wasted a lot of words before, but now words wasted for you- they are words well spent. This is for you and you alone.
Poetic T Sep 2018
I jested,
           then you showed
           me your point.

Bleeding sarcasm,
               I died with a smile
on your face.
Eventually the festivities drew to a close,
"Back to reality" we jested yet 'twas no joke.

I remember thinking this all could have been a dream,
Oh sweet, lost memories that we struggle to gleam.

Body & Soul, mind or psyche.
Summer Solstice [2K15]
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
even i'm surprised at my palette...
i shouldn't be enjoying this...
this being a Bohemian absinthe liquor...
some strange pellets at the bottom
of the bottle... coming in at 60% proof
(read, past participle, i.e. "red":
not, reed, to)
my guess was... coriander seeds...
but no...
        it tastes like absinthe does:
few things put me off... easting or drinking-wise...
szechuan pepper: certainly turns me off...
the spice with the added tongue numbing...
evil food ingredient in the wrong hands...
but... aniseed? **** me... even i'm bewildered...
why do i appreciate this flavour?
well... it's absinthe...
it's a long way away from herr whiskers
and ms. amber of the whiskey...
or sweeter, finer than silk:
the greatest thing to come out of
the u.s. of A... bourbon...
this Bohemian absinthe "liquor" has all
the aniseed: Annie... not ANY: seed...
but an added twist...
the bitterness of an IPA: indian pale ale...
bitterness... that's another dimension
i appreciate...
mr. Joshua was defeated by a Crimean
Cossack... a balance of racial-baiting
has been achieved...
long distant cousin... actually:
no cousin at all...
   one's a Slav the "other" (me) a Slav...
lost the supposed attached E...
Germs & Germans in Berlin...
in London... once upon a time...
i much prefer etymology to Darwinism...
i like the history of words...
"like"... faux pas...
        ooh! ooh!
touchy-feely...
           my ooh to your: ouch...
lick some ice...
        it's an implosion of the burning
sensation...
humanitarian aid for
lobsters... it's apparently humane
to freeze them... first...
rather than boil them: outright...
and such are the concerns of English politicians
these days...
if i were asked... relatively speaking:
freezing something: alive...
is... more time spent on the same sort
of agony jested with boiling them
outright...
the usual Hapsburg absinthe: 90+% proof
tended to be sweeter...
i even allowed myself the whole
ritual of soaking up a cube of sugar
with the "stuff" and setting it alight...
i'd roam in havoc while displaying this
burning sugar-cube to
inanimate things in the kitchen:
catching a 2nd tier better shift at
proofing myself for bones & tendons:
and... ****** expressions that
i could turn into cold lamb poker...
etymology rather Darwinism...
Darwinism is big in the Anglophone sphere
of the world...
it's like... Copernicus in Poland...
a... an... ahem: a "national treasure":
a bit like Judie Dench...
but outside? history killer theory...
like: living in stasis: living with static...
from the ape to the current man:
the same old boorish ******* excuse:
but it's the 21st century...
                                                    and?!
everything was to be solved in...
the, 21st century?
everything was to become apparent...
clearer... rainbow lights flickers: "better"?
the excuse of all excuses:
but it's the 21st century...
it's a century not distinguished from
all the others that have passed...
well... there are some additions i wasn't
expected... electric bicycles...
moi... i like the idea of generating my own
momentum... it's not enough
to just press a foot on the peddle
of a oil drinking dachshund / horse...
i'm Pontius Pilate when i'm on a bicycle...
i've washed my feet clean on the matter
of having a carbon footprint...
count one of my awkward farts
as loosening up constipation:
not one with the cow brigade...
holidaying?
Havering County Park...
trees... forests & ****...
deer... foxes... horses...
the one time i visited Kenya i lounged...
and fed greedy macaques bags of sugar
and tea... and we lounged on the balcony
while security guards on site aimed
at them with slingshots...
- hardly think that the piano (only)
rendition of Wagner's:
Valhalla: the gods' entrance into...
is somehow anaemic...
then again... if Chopin or Debussy
or Satie were to be orchestrated...
just this once piece...
it's not anaemic... it's profound:
as ever a piano is... crashing down
in metaphors... it's not Ysaÿe
with his violin... you'd need a Westminster Bridge
for that, mate...
and a stray cat to keep you company...
you can reduce a Wagnerian
symphony to a mere: ahem...
ridicule on the piano...
but you can hardly make a Chopin out
of a Schopenhauer (shopping hour,
joke... like there's no joke: ha ha,
to begin with)
- my my... what happened
to these native folk... who told black comedy
jokes... it's like... they have been
stripped bare-back backwards....
and can't tell a saucy... acid proof joke
these days!
ah: i guess the imagination also dies...
a certain death: not the sort of death
associated with memory:
that fickle creature to begin with...
i guess it comes with the grounds to
make one's effort in...
the dodo undermining project of
the most schematised of men...
i guess i'm trying to posit a +1 scenario...
in a way that... Bukowski was chased for not
gearing up to the suicide squad while
Edward Hopper spent his days...
******* joyfully in Mexico...
- one of my pet peeves is...
how the English shorten names...
Edith becomes Edie...
Abigail becomes... Abs...
Matisyahu... Matthew becomes... door...
Matt...
Peter becomes Pete...
Thomas becomes Tom...
Jacob... well i like this one...
Jakub in ****** becomes Kuba...
you could even write this in katakana...
i abhor how the English shorten: "pet"
the most crucial nouns associated with a person...
i like the fullest of the full of the noun...
like... an apple is... not an app...
start off with yeast: end up with the Zeppelin:
ist...
for ****'s sake!
i'm chasing Zeppelins in my mind...
all the psychopaths are already leash-free...
i'm the schizoid... "problematic": üns...

your language is all tatters... tartan...
churns & chores...
if i were a closest neighbour:
geographically or / and historically...
a Spaniard... a German...
a Fwench-man...
ha ha... English being so unanimous in the lingua
franca domain could be obliterate
on the focus of nuance...

you can: rather: you could have had all the pride
that comes with the implosion of Empire...
but...
no luck... no here: not right now...
how the cards folded how...
so little of England actually remains at its
epicentre... das kapital...
frivolous women who... can... will...
cats have it all...
i like these bonsai specimens...
a dog is a creature most associated with men:
i don't like leashes...
cats allow me the leisure of:
no walking the **** out...
no leash... why would i want a substitute for...
ahem... "company"?

Edith should not be Edie...
write me that one... phonetically...
E-D... ****'s sake Edith!
Abigail becoming: Abs... is it... "cute"?!
i like the name: Abigail...
why a shortening "comparison"
with a six pack of Fosters?!
not matched up to a 6 footer of prospect
dating material of a man in the torso region?
- i abhor this sentiment in English...
shortening names...
one wouldn't shorten the noun:
trousers... trou?
pet names me not like...
apes are for us!
       Darwinism didn't simply bother a vanity
of man, according to Freud...
while Marx based his ideology on...
Hegel's lecture notes.. it's not like
he read the phenomenology of spirit...
                          Darwinism for me kills the concept...
nay! more the concern for history!
Darwinism doesn't **** off a human vanity:
what does Darwinism present:
everything has a purpose..
nature abhors vacuums..
physics, satellites... Newtonian projectiles
might like them so much...
in nature everything has a purpose...
there is no "room"... cube worth of "thought"...
how romance biased to suppose:
Devonshire had anything original to
posit... Darwinism in a nut-shell:
nature abhors vacuums
all is used to use...

what's allowed in the Anglo-sphere Empire
implosion: dicta...
curry curry curry...
we're all supposed to taste the food of
a superiority complex... prior to what happened
when Genghis Khan reached...
Crimea?!
squint eye:: BAL-WA-RUK...

i have here... a list of ingredients of the absinthe
i'm drinking


my foremost mistake was...
associating females within the confines
of deities..
i sketched them...
one: young... peering into a mirror
seeing herself old...
some others... i didn't have a **** of envy
for i sketched them...
too bad..

like the mythological drive for the will
of the Nazis...
sourcing their fakery in Scandinavia...
me?! Aryan... Samaritans...
pleb as whole...people most grieved...
start to chant in katakana...
in a makeshift of...

no... purely...  consonants...
the vowels extend the breath...
the consonants give base...
CHANT CHANT CHANT...
  
the list of ingredients of "that" Bohemian absinthe...
i'm aiming for the coriander pellets...
no chance: ****'s sake:
i'm not reading Czech... no ******
with a second name like
Conrad....
   how about Lothar....ever... would?
yew...

              awry: you: this... yew... yes?! no?!
whichever... right about... now!
Jenny Gordon Dec 2018
cough, cough* my brother jested that if I keep this up I'll resemble General Mattis (sp?) soon was not entirely a joke, I suspect.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXXIV)


Fatigue.  What 'zactly is't?  My birthday thence
Mere hours from now (I text YOU), work in pale
Excuse leaves me too zonkered in betrayl
To even...finish?!  Yes.  Three pieces hence
Of dainty purple lingerie for sense
Lie in the laundry basket, cold, sans bail
Quite wrinkled where lo, midnight'd tiptoe: hail
Me with my sorry failings sans defense?
From washing floors, I vacuum in a tour
Through Monday's tasks, with turkey soup to do
As twere me in, was that? The fresh-cleaned crew
Of clothes saw how what is't again?  Tis poor
I could not pull that off.  And then to stir
Old cries for babies augurs what, think you?

26Nov18b
Give me lectures if you wanna waste your breath.
Brian McDonagh Apr 2018
What I used to crave
Has now lost its pleasure;
I have dipped into the abyss
Of emptiness in life’s glitzy amusements.

I have access and power
To what had seemed far from reach.
Pity me! I take freedom for granted
Unlike those uncountable souls past
Who chiseled history to now.

Believe me, I have jested with struggle
But not for day-to-day freedom
Of choice
To grow my character.

I meet my carnal needs
So want flushes me
With the drive for more.
As if I can’t be satisfied
For a breathing moment.

No more do I receive
Gifts the same.
I know I will live for my birthday
The luxury of how I live
Taken for granted through the years.

Instead of indulging in the anniversary of my birth
I consider the significance of life.
No more is it a brainless fun
Where I ignore what I cannot see.

No more do I receive
The day in childish anticipation.
Eagerness exists still, but when it wills
To water the blood inside
My soul, a life I leave starving.

Road trips neither blast my pulse
Nor weigh as a burden.
I am only more familiar
With land connectivity,
Surprising my sense of location lesser.

Instead of looking at my belongings
With a thankful tone
I mumble: “There’s dust on this!
That takes up space”
And mourn the items
That enslave me to them.

“Can’t you be happy?” most retort me.
Yes, but growth shall have its share
Of struggle
Thinking this phase as death itself.
My interpretation of growing up.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
is she always going
to be the woman,
hiding behind a girl,
                             aged 22?

            apparently so...
for a boy becomes
a man aged 16...

    but a girl?
       hoo-hoo! ha!
          she's a girl
till and only until
menopause strangulates
her purpose.

what?!
   a stick has two ends...
it's not a cul de sac weapon...
you can hit with it,
but at the same time
it can be grabbed from
your hands
  and you can be hit with it!

you're welcome.

come my pretty,
              to these isles,
come the cowering
caeser: veni, vidi, vici...
tail curled beneath his
torso, running blind...
back toward the continent...

come, my pretty...
    tell your tale!
        come!
         we're all, so, eager,
to hear it!
   from across the pond!
     we are all europeans,
gagging to hear tall tales
from the other, continent...
so, so, so eager!

         and have you jested
eating baltic sushi?!
purely, herring...
  but, alas, you haven't,
have you?

            promises from
vienna...
                  demon shadow
shackles from london...
only london,
  prettier than paris when it
rains...
         long forgotten moth
of late 19th century fog...
   now, london,
21st century bulging:
              opulent, when
                         it snows.
A Silence

I sensed before
Making my calls today
That they
Would have their own
Destiny of sadness
And disarray
One taken to hospital
This morning
Not without warning
And the next
And last call
Her husband had died (06-12-2021)
And had his funeral
Only yesterday (20-12-2021)
We talked for quite a while
And i think i made her smile
As we jested
At our mutual dislike
Of technology, and the like
A few other calls beforehand
That usually answered
Lay in an uneasy silence
Of forbidden Foreboding
During debrief, later
It was said
It's that time of year
Asked if i was okay
I said i think so
I'd had my own echoes
Of silent tears
Over many lonely long lost years

by Jemia
Wendy Oct 2019
There is a house on a hill. I like to go there after school.
Aren’t any math equations for me to solve,
aren’t any classes I have to revolve around school.
Not in my house on a hill.
There was my mom in an apron, she hugged me.
I saw a garden full of veggies, ripe and vibrant in greens and yellows.
I walk into the house and all I saw was the stairs.
My mommy leading me to the dining table.
It was a cold night out and I was working hard.
On the table were my favorite foods.
Curry, Pad Thai, fish sauce and brown eggs.
My mouth watered from the thought of food I had had been lacking.
My stomach growled, howling like the wind for it to be fed.
I ate the delectable meal and lick off my plate.
My sisters laughed and jested at me.
Once I am done we all sit on the couch and discuss life, and how are day was. Something I plan on keeping as a tradition of my own.
The conversations turn from happy and humorous experiences to tender, heart-rendering, soul drenching ones.
We talk about friends and how my sis wants new ones.
How I love my friends to death. And how the elementary kids don’t dote too much on the topic.
I smiled to myself, thinking how much joy there was in my house, oops I mean home.

— The End —