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Pluma Apr 2015
Kling Klang....  Kling.. Klang..

Tunog ng kampana'y sumisigaw ng kagalakan,
Amihan hanging sumisimbolo ng isang Banal na kaarawan.

Saanman pumaroo't-pumarito'y puno ng kasiglahan;
Mga hapag-kaina'y dinadagsa ng iba't-ibang kasaganaan,
Mumunting kislap sa bawat bahay ay pawang madadaanan,
At mga magigiliw na parol sa bawat poste'y isa-isang nagtitingkaran.

Habang ang lahat ay masiglang nagkakantahan,
Isang lalaki ang naglalakad sa makipot na eskinitang daanan,
Maruming damit, gusgusing katawan,
Balbasing mukhang mistulang mga puno sa isang mayabong na kabukiran.

Pasuray-suray n'yang tinahak ang kadiliman,
Dala ang isang boteng alak na kanyang nag-iisang kasamahan.
Mga lasing na hakbang ay pilit binibitawan,
Mumunting yapak patungong bahay na kubli sa kasayahan.

Pagdating sa bukana, bote'y itinapon sa pintuan.
Nagsusumigaw at pilit humihiyaw na siya'y agad na pagbuksan.
Isang babaeng puno ng pasa't sugat ang kanyang naalinagan;
Mayuming mukhang naging busangot ng dahil sa kahirapan.

Ilang minuto pa'ng nakakaraan,
Isang nakakakilabot na sigaw ang pumagitna sa masasayahang kantahan,
Iyak na pilit tinatago, pinipigilan ngunit sa huli'y sumuko't mabilis na nagsilabasan.

Ang katanungan, ano nga ba ang dahilan ng kasuklam-suklam na sigaw na nasaksihan?

Mistulang iyak ng pagkahabag ng kalangitan
Ang unti-unting nagsipatakan.
Ulang nakisabay sa nakakakilabot na kalagayan -
Binubugbog ng lalaki ang asawa; ang kanyang pinangakuan ng pag-iibigan,
Isang taon pa lamang ang nakakaraan!

Dugo'y nag-unahan sa pagpatak,
Nagsimula sa kanyang kaibuturan binaybay hanggang sa kanyang talampakan.
Babae'y nanghina't nagsumamo
Na tigilan na ng kabiyak ang pambababoy dito at sa *anghel
sa tiyan nito.

Ngunit ang tainga niya'y nagmistulang sungay;
Walang bahid ng pag-aalinlangang pinagpatuloy ang maling labanan.
Tengang-kawali't pinag-igihan pa'ng pagsipa't pagsuntok sa tinuturing n'yang kalaban.

Dala ng matinding droga, ang haligi ng kabahayan ay naging sundalo't kaaway sa sarili niyang tahanan.
Mistulang militar na naging ispeya't traydor sa dapat sana niyang pinagsisilbihang kaharian.

Ilang araw pa'ng nakalipas, isang nakakabangungot na kaganapan,
Ang naging usap-usapan sa pamayanan.
Isang inang nilapastangan ang nakitang walang malay, duguan at butas ang sinapupunan.

Sa gitna ng pighati't panlulumo,
Ang kampana'y muling umiyak ng pakikiramay.
Tunog ng madamdaming dalamhati.
Musikang malumanay,
.......dahan-dahang naghahatid sa inosenteng sumakabilang buhay.


*
Kling Klang... Kling.. Klang..
Bells and their ironies.
Scent of Oranges Jan 2020
Tiktok
The clock says in a hurry
Tiktok
The clock croaks in a constant rhythm

Pit pat
The rain rattling on the roof
Pit pat
The rain runs down in a fast marathon

Dug dug
The heart of your mistress beats
Dud dug
The heart of your lady pulse in a slow dance

Your lady in her white dress
On the floor she lays
Her eyes closed
Her hand closed tight into a fist

Her light lavender hair
Splayed around her head like a halo
Her bottom lip is bleeding
Her breathing unsteady

Kling klang
The chimes sings in a high note
Kling klang
The chimes chants in an attempt of announcement

Woosh woosh
The wind blows harshly
Woosh woosh
The wind whispered loudly

Dug dug dug
The heart of your mistress beats
Dud dug dug
The heart of your lady pulse in chaos

The clock
The rain
The chimes
The wind

Even her heart
The letter clasped in her hand
That contains the news of your demise
Reminds her of what she lost

Drip drip drip
The tears streaming down her face
Sniff sniff sniff
The grief starts to set in
What could be the worst thing that could happen in a wedding day?
Weißer Tagesanbruch. Stille. Als das Kräuseln begann,
hielt ich es für Seewind, in unser Tal kommend mit Raunen
von Salz, von baumlosen Horizonten. Aber der weiße Nebel
bewegte sich nicht; das Laub meiner Brüder blieb ausgebreitet,
regungslos.
Doch das Kräuseln kam näher – und dann
begannen meine eigenen äußersten Zweige zu prickeln, fast als wäre
ein Feuer unter ihnen entfacht, zu nah, und ihre Spitzen
trockneten und rollten sich ein.
Doch ich fürchtete mich nicht, nur
wachsam war ich.
Ich sah ihn als erster, denn ich wuchs
draußen am Weidehang, jenseits des Waldes.
Er war ein Mann, so schien es: die zwei
beweglichen Stengel, der kurze Stamm, die zwei
Arm-Äste, biegsam, jeder mit fünf laublosen
Zweigen an ihrem Ende,
und der Kopf gekrönt mit braunem oder goldenem Gras,
ein Gesicht tragend, nicht wie das geschnäbelte Gesicht eines Vogels,
eher wie das einer Blume.
Er trug eine Bürde,
einen abgeschnittenen Ast, gebogen, als er noch grün war,
Strähnen einer Rebe quer darüber gespannt. Von dieser,
sobald er sie berührte, und von seiner Stimme,
die, unähnlich der Stimme des Windes, unser Laub und unsere
Äste nicht brauchte, um ihren Klang zu vollenden,
kam das Kräuseln.
Es war aber jetzt kein Kräuseln mehr (er war nahe herangekommen und
stand in meinem ersten Schatten), es war eine Welle, die mich umspülte,
als stiege Regen
empor von unten um mich herum,
anstatt zu fallen.
Und was ich spürte, war nicht mehr ein trockenes Prickeln:
Ich schien zu singen, während er sang, ich schien zu wissen,
was die Lerche weiß; mein ganzer Saft
stieg hinauf der Sonne entgegen, die nun
aufgegangen war, der Nebel hob sich, das Gras
wurde trocken, doch meine Wurzeln spürten, wie Musik sie tränkte
tief in der Erde.

Er kam noch näher, lehnte sich an meinen Stamm:
Die Rinde erschauerte wie ein noch gefaltetes Blatt.
Musik! Kein Zweig von mir, der nicht
erbebte vor Freude und Furcht.

Dann, als er sang,
waren es nicht mehr nur Klänge, aus denen die Musik entstand:
Er sprach, und wie kein Baum zuhört, hörte ich zu, und Sprache
kam in meine Wurzeln
aus der Erde,
in meine Rinde
aus der Luft,
in die Poren meiner grünsten Knospen
sanft wie Tau,
und er sang kein Wort, das ich nicht zu deuten wußte.
Er erzählte von Reisen,
davon, wo Sonne und Mond hingehen, während wir im Dunkeln stehen,
von einer Erden-Reise, von der er träumte, sie eines Tages zu tun
tiefer als Wurzeln…
Er erzählte von den Menschenträumen, von Krieg, Leidenschaften, Gram
und ich, ein Baum, verstand die Wörter – ach, es schien,
als ob meine dicke Rinde aufplatzen würde, wie die eines Schößlings,
der zu schnell wuchs im Frühling,
so daß später Frost ihn verwundete.

Feuer besang er,
das Bäume fürchten, und ich, ein Baum, erfreute mich seiner Flammen.
Neue Knospen brachen auf in mir, wenngleich es Hochsommer war.
Als ob seine Leier (nun wußte ich ihren Namen)
zugleich Frost und Feuer wäre, ihre Akkorde flammten
hinauf bis zu meiner Krone.
Ich war wieder Samen.
Ich war Farn im Sumpf.
Ich war Kohle.
m Oct 2010
Ich ging durch den beschmutzten bevölkerten Korridor mit den Reben, die drinnen und draußen wuchsen, entlang und ich sah in jeder Tür mein Spiegelbild, während ich vorüberging. Ich wohnte genau zum Zimmer – nicht einhundertfünfzig Zentimeter weg; die Entfernung war fast nicht größer, als ich war, und nicht alter. Ich erläuterte meine Angst vor dem Dunkel mit einem Frösteln. Meine Zähne klapperten und klingelnden Münzen, die in meiner Tasche blieben, schrien in meinem Ohr gewohnte Lieder.
Eine Tür öffnete und einen Moment lang hörten wir das Weltall. Wir allesamt waren in dem Korridor. Ein krystallener Stab wie einer, den Leute in der Versuchsansalt oder in der Kneipe benützten, zerbrach. Der Stabinhalt floß in die Hand des Mannes, der sein Zimmer verließ, eine silberne Flüssigkeit. Das Echo des Wortes „Quecksilber“ klang in dem Korridor.
Jedes Zimmer ist gleichbedeutend wie das Letztere, aber es ist auch unterschiedlich. Jedes beinhaltet grenzenlos Fähigkeiten, und unterschiedliche Chemikalien, unterschiedliche Chemie, und unterschiedliche Emotionen.
Ängstlich öffnete ich meine Tür und trat in einen millionsten Anteil von mir selber und ich war ich selber. Symphonien flossen von meinem Kopf weiter, und von den Symphonien kamen fliegende Fische.
Es war nicht wichtig, dass andere Menschen ähnliche Zimmer wie mein Zimmer hatten; es war nur wichtig, dass ihre Zimmer verschieden waren. Ihre Zimmer waren Käfige, genau wie ihre Herzen und auch ihre Hände. Der Mann im Korridor, der hirschartige Augen hatte, blies das flüssige Metall, das seine Hand fasste weg. Die Flüssigkeit wurde Staub und glitt zu mir wie Backpulver oder Schnee im Schneesturm. Ich konnte alles hören und ich musste mich von dem Weiß, das der Staub brachte, trennen. Ich hasste den öden Morgen, den das hervorbrachte.
Ich wollte meine Tür öffnen und wollte den silbernweißen Straub vorzeigen, dass ich auch Sachen in der Luft erschaffen konnte. Ich wollte, aber ich konnte nicht. Ich konnte Sachen in der Luft meines Zimmers erschaffen, aber nicht im Korridor. Man braucht Ressourcen, um etwas zu ändern oder zu formen. Ich besaß Keine.
Die Welt schüchterte die Leute ein, die Verstand hatten.
Du danser rundt i kroppen på mig, med en gentagende melankolsk klang.
Din krop er metrisk opbygget, bygget af sten - op. Et spareprojekt.
Jeg skulle have kysset dig længere. Holdt dig tæt ind.
Lad mig ikke gå alene i verden,
For du gør mig så gal
At mit indre bliver kvalmende og jeg græder
Jeg kan mærke dine følelser, selvom jeg ikke er dig.
Du, dig er kommaet for MIN død. Dræbt af en overdosis kærlighed, som var en envejs kærlighedaffære.
Jeg flæber og græder, indtil du stopper med at betale med kys pakket ind i stjålne følelser fra andre.
MS Lim Nov 2015
MY BOYHOOD DAYS
        Klang# then was a sleepy and backward town
      But ronggeng
was the highlight of the night
      A dance with a lovely wanita** cost 30 cents
      It brought Malayan men's emotions to the supreme height.

      Mum said: study hard, ronggeng is for grown-up men
      Don't let me catch you  in the amusement park watching
      Immoral men dance with coy and seductive ronggeng girls
      Unless you want dad to give you a good beating!
Klang# is located in the State of Selangor, Malaysia (Malaya) and was my birthplace.  There was an amusement part in the heart of town where Ronggeng* (a traditional Malay dance) was very popular in the 1950's.
Ten Ronggeng girls sat on rattan chairs and patrons would choose which one to dance with--no body-touching nor hand-holding--the couple danced a foot or so away waving hands and sometimes chatting. But mothers then thought their kids should not watch this.
Wanita** is young girl derived from Juanita.  Those happy and innocent days!
palladia Jun 2013
a hammerhead percussion box:
          an inert crystalline cymbalist’s gong.
          a confession of tined tuning forks
          of perhaps a familiar keyboard?
                    the siren sphere rings of a chime—
                    brittle yet consciously polite,
                    composed by nature’s ragged pen:
                    plinking injections; stymied to tin.

! let it all reduce the klang to mere cacaophony !

a descent of bells, i am in plume,
          a riddle delivered in aged runes—
          evenheaded shots of ******
          cut by the lotto wanderlust:
                    fractal prism, stormy rhythm,
                    thunder’s din to rainy hymn.
                    up those tulip-eared scales, so brisk,
                    the glugs and gurgles of cosmopolis.  

! let it all reduce the tolling to glorious symphony !

          a vagabond melody, no metronome,
          a metallurgist’s claustrophobe,
                    an orchestral performance at home,
                    where i am absolved in the entrancing drone...
This was written after strenuously listening to Björk's "Hunter Vessel" from Drawling Restraint 9. It's my interpretation of the looped horns and exaggerated crescendos found on the tracks: the astir brass sort of made me think of travel, thus the title "Wander-brass". It could also be a play on letters of the brass ensemble Björk toured with during Voltaïc.
Literatim Dec 2016
Wenn wallende Wolken
Wie Wattebauschen
Den Himmel berauschen,
Die Sterblichen lauschen
Dem Klang der ewig unendlichen
Freiheit.
Translation:

When swirling clouds
Befuddle the sky
Like cotton-wool *****,
Mortals hear eternal and infinite
Freedom ring.

This poem entered my head while watching the clouds one day and I wanted to share it.(:
Since the rhyme scheme and rhythm only work in German, I decided to post it in its original form.
judy smith May 2016
WHILE many little girls grow up fantasising about their weddings, Amber Tan Sze Min was always dreaming about designing bridal gowns. Many also grow up letting go of their childhood ambitions, but Tan was strongwilled, although it meant momentarily giving in to her parents' wishes.

She dropped out halfway through her pre-university course, and ended up studying graphic design. It was only after graduating that she could pursue a two-year diploma in fashion design at Kuala Lumpur's Raffles College of Higher Education, and thereafter flew to the UK to major in womenswear at the University of the Arts London.

"I wanted to prove to my family how much I wanted to design. It's not something that you'd get just because you say you want it. So I stood firm throughout the years, and showed my passion for it," recalled Tan.

Last February, the pint-sized lass introduced her bridal wear label AMBERSZE to the public for the first time at The Wedding 2016, a bridal fashion event by model and event management company Andrewsmodels.

It was never in her plan to debut as a bridal designer though – it lingered but only in the back of her mind as an eventual project – but her innate interest inevitably unveiled itself. "I have loved bridal gowns for a long time so I was making them before AMBERSZE even existed, and posting behind-the-scenes photos on social media. And that led people to identify me as a bridal designer.

"I wasn't planning to do it this soon but the opportunities knocked on my door, so one year ago, I decided to bring alive all my ideas and sketches," shared the 29-year-old.

Thankfully and finally, Tan's family recognised her resolution and embraced her penchant for designing. The Klang local considered herself lucky that she was able to kick off her start-up with her family's financial support.

"They always say fashion is a rich man's world. I couldn't understand this until I started the business, and saw a lot of truth in that statement. Everything involves money," said Tan.

She added that much of the capital was channeled towards building the brand and getting it out via media coverage and advertisements.

Another chunk of the money went into producing the dresses – all hand-made, by the way.

"Whether they sell or not, that's another story," she noted.

DRESS DNA

For the next eight months, Tan set off on a lonely journey of blood, sweat and tears. With only an assistant to help sew and embroider the garments by hand, Tan was dabbling in everything from designing, material sourcing, running the business, to doing public relations and accounting work.

Now that she has a team – including three assistant designers – behind her, Tan can take a step back and take the helm as a creative director, still designing but more focused on furnish-ing concepts and ideas – that never stray far from the company's philosophy of self-representation.

"I believe everyone likes Vera ****. I admire that she has her own thought behind everything. Likewise, my collections have to have their own thoughts and research to back them up.

As a designer, you have to stay true to yourself and not copy from existing designer pieces," opined Tan, who's also an avid reader.

AMBERSZE marries the essence of haute couture with new trends, by which Tan simplifies and demonstrates the former using translucent fabrics, for instance.

"So you can see the skeleton of the corset," she highlighted.

The play of sheer fabrics and coordinates (crop tops and skirts) may sit on the less traditional, or even risqué side of the spectrum, but Tan is confident that the personal tastes and styles of today's brides are shifting towards modern pieces that epitomise their true selves – as compared to the popular princess gown offered by most bridal boutiques.

"Nowadays, people want something new that show off their taste, fashion sense or status. Something to represent themselves, I would say.

That's where AMBERSZE comes in to serve," said the eldest of three siblings.

BEYOND BRIDAL

Of course, customising one of the most important dresses of a woman's lifetime can come with the occasional odd requests and a mountain of pressure.

Especially with a clientele that varies from pregnant to offbeat brides, as well as celebrities.

AMBERSZE's track record is a week for designing, and two to three weeks for production, but Tan recommends that brides make an appointment at least three months before D-Day.

"I usually get to know the bride's interests and taste, whether they prefer urban or classic designs. Whether the wedding's going to be indoors or outdoors; at the garden, beach or zoo!

Some brides may want certain fabrics which require a bit of sourcing too.

"To me, design is not just something pretty. You have to solve problems for your customers," said Tan, who also designs bridal veils, headbands and waistbands.

Besides tailoring her clients' dream wedding dresses, Tan has plenty to juggle in the meantime.

AMBERSZE boutique-***-studio is in the midst of moving to Sunway city, and alongside an evening wear collection due to launch in September, the label is also rolling out a ready-to-wear (RTW) line at the same time.

"The RTW line is going to be resortstyle to complement our hot climate, carrying 20 to 30 womenswear pieces. They're simple and modern, yet will not lack of nice detailing," she hinted with a smile.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth | www.marieaustralia.com/plus-size-formal-dresses
I hear pounding on my head
When will it stop Bam,Klang,Boom they need to be ****** dead

I can't stand this pain
It's driving me insane

Keep poppin those pain pills
Still my head feels like it's being drilled

It's the demons trying to get in
I keep telling myself don't let them win

Run, hide, fight, or should I flight
I choose to stand up and fight

Your not coming in to rearrange me
You don't have the master key

I have more angels in my head
demons you have been misled

I was stuck in slimy goo pulling me lower and lower
I start to float up higher and higher

My angels begin to sing
And surround my brain

As the angels sing louder
The banging becomes softer

I begin to feel free again
Like a weight has been lifted

The angels begin to spin me around
The demons begin to fall off my head going straight to hell

The more I spin and hear the angels sing
I'm coming back into myself free of evil
Written by: Denise Huddleston
Louise Sep 2016
det orange skær lægger sig som et yndefuldt lag over alle de opsatte trekanter, der så fint repræsenterer den syvdags-beboende flok af festglade mennesker, der dag for dag snor sig spruttende af glæde rundt mellem de mange stier, der opfyldes af et ocean af humørfyldte druklege

jeg selv er en del af det, og jeg trasker nynnende rundt mellem lattergaspatroner, smadrede oliofska flasker og knækkede stoleben
lad os kalde det en smuk losseplads

jeg er så stærkt fascineret af atmosfæren
også selv når mit hoved sumre og pumpes op af den velkendte klang af dak
og når jeg næsten dehydrere, af alt det vand jeg burde ha indtaget, i stedet for at anvende det til at drukne min hjerne i, når mine tanker lader sig sejle roterende rundt i orange bølger
dette dræner også én fra energi
så jeg mindes tydeligt øjeblikket, hvor vi tillod os selv at falde hen en times tid
og derefter, med et sæt, vågne op af tørsten samt trangen til at fortsætte indtagelsen af det påvirkende væske

vi går over mod apollo for at
endnu en gang
opleve nydelsen af tame impala's smukke udsendelser af øregangsorgasmer
jeg har det lidt halvdårligt, og forsøger lidt akavet at rette fokus mod mine eksotiske babyhår i panden, som stikker ud fra den gule skyggekasket, der meget udiskret og med en ekstrem ensfarvet sammensætning, matcher alt andet gult på min krop
for en stund virkede ignorancen

åh, se, en pomfritbod

et sødt pars hænder smelter sammen i aftensolens skær, lige inden de vender sig mod hinanden og blidt lader deres læber mødes. selve romantikken i seancen, bliver desværre hurtigt udvekslet af et råsnaveri, og jeg ryster let på hovedet
mine midlertidige følgesvende hiver straks deres mobiler frem og filmer et nøjagtigt pragteksemplar af mit sørgelige kærlighedsliv, mens jeg står standhaftigt og udstråler et hjerteskærende ansigtstryk
under mit humoristiske og selvironiske lag af skuespil, står jeg og overvejer alvoren i den thomas helmig sang, mine ører skuer i det fjerne
og med ét fremstår hele situationen nærmest egentlig som en bedrøvelse i sig selv, når jeg realiserer sandhedens betydning

en brummende bas drøner bagfra forbi os, og jeg opfanger i selvsamme sekund, at den gigantiske højtaler, imponerende nok, er blevet hægtet fast på cyklen med knapt så sparsomme mængder gaffatape
og jeg tænker, at cyklens skarpe sving, har en vis lighed med den roterende fornemmelse af lidelse, der dybt mærkes langs min rygsøjle
om det er fra mit efterhånden propfyldte net med unødvendige, fjollede småting eller de mange udmattende gåture på pladsen er jeg ikke helt klar over

nu ligger jeg herhjemme
ikke i teltet eller hos andrea, for den sags skyld
men helt hjemme
mine øjenlåg vibrerer af savn, når jeg hører musik, der minder mig om roskilde gengivelsen af de mange øjeblikke, 'nede mette' har sejlet rundt mellem mine slidte øregange, kan ikke fremstå på samme måde, som det gjorde på festivalpladsen
lugten af cigaretter sidder stadig mellem mine fingre
jeg spekulerer over, om det måske skyldes de mange gennempillet filtre

alt i alt har jeg en mærkværdig fornemmelse af, at skulle vanedanne mig selv ind i roskildes dagsrutiner, hvilket ville være en stor overbelastning for den ellers ganske normale hverdag
men jeg sidder alligevel her, inde i min nøddeskal og tænker at min modreaktion på savnen, vel umuligt bør være andet end at lede efter de små værdifulde ligheder, der kan genskabe min fascination af roskilde festivalens mange glæder
WNDL Apr 2019
You smiling
is probably
the nicest
thing
I wish you could smile again
Louise Sep 2016
diskolysets skær strejfer henover mine blødende fingrespidser, mens hvert evig eneste lille ord fra sangen, så fint lader sig skære dybt ind under min hud, og efterlader mørkerøde blodaftryk på det ellers så hvide lagen. dog tvivler jeg på, om det kan være værre end den knugende tomhed, der finurligt forfører sig ind mellem de lydløse skrig og misantropiske tankegange, når ikke kassettebåndets søde klang af musik udløser rotationen af drømmescenarier, rundt i mine efterhånden slidte tankestrømme.
for ja, kærligheden til dig ramte mig som en syngende lussing, og mine våde kinder er stadig tydeligt afmærket fra slaget.
jeg tror aldrig jeg lærer, at leve med din signifikante tilstedeværelse, og dets påvirkninger på mig.
hver gang du vender hovedet, har du mine øjne i nakken, strålende af fascination, over dit æteriske jeg. for smuk, er du altså ikke kun - du er nærmere en spiritistisk ektoplasma, og jeg frygter altid, at det hele blot var en række af illusioner, der fuldstændigt uplanlagt, men gang på gang, plantede sig helt inden i mig.
jeg tager mig selv i at ønske ved hvert et stjerneskud, for ikke at nævne alle de gange jeg har siddet og pillet enkelte rosenblade af ad gangen, i et ihærdigt håb om, at ende med; "han elsker mig"
men som virkeligheden afspejler sig i denne latterlige metafor, så ender jeg altid med det forkerte sidste blad, hvorefter jeg med en apatisk bevægelse, smider alle de afrevne rosenblade ned på den kolde jord - som var de alle håbende, der dalede.
i en elegant slutning, afspiller jeg den hjerteskærende sang igen, mens jeg ganske nydeligt danser let henover rosenbladende,  som en ironisk præsentation af, at livet burde være en dans på roser
****-zip-bang shenyang ang;
Mang mangue flang hang prang pang;
Pinang lalang unhang kang youth defang khang;
Marang schlang gang wolfgang ying-yang xuanzang.
Klang sea get wrang.

Sang tsang li-kang gangue langues.
Thang drang crang tang harangue sprang zhang shang siang whang strang hang verdinsgang chuang;
Brang lang nang bhang xiaogang mahuang durang huang.
Hange hsiang und;

Zang rang kuomintang ourang section gang hang.
Krang pahang boomerang fang guilt;
Spang gang;
Hangsang xinjiang tunkelang slang tangue nanchang clang chang bangue vang ziyangbaoguang hwang pang the tsiang alang dang ylang-ylang.

Tang liang.
Overhang langue pyongyang.
Cangue sangh mustang stang frang yang lange kukang farang **** care sturm t'ang;
Zamang drang chiang road a jang;
Louise Sep 2016
det orange skær lægger sig som et yndefuldt lag over alle de opsatte trekanter, der så fint repræsenterer den syvdags-beboende flok af festglade mennesker, der dag for dag snor sig spruttende af glæde rundt mellem de mange stier, der opfyldes af et ocean af humørfyldte druklege

jeg selv er en del af det
og jeg trasker nynnende rundt mellem
lattergaspatroner,
smadrede oliofska flasker
og knækkede stoleben
lad os kalde det en smuk losseplads

der er noget helt specielt ved atmosfæren
også selv når hovederne sumre og pumpes op af den nu velkendte klang af dak
og når man næsten dehydrerende, forstår manglen på alt det vand man burde ha indtaget
i stedet for det euforiserende væske

et sødt pars hænder smelter sammen i aftensolens skær,
lige inden de vender sig mod hinanden og blidt lader deres læber mødes.
Selve romantikken i seancen, bliver desværre hurtigt udvekslet med et råsnaveri
og jeg ryster let på hovedet.
Samtidigt står jeg og overvejer alvoren i den
thomas helmig sang,
mine ører skuer i det fjerne.
Det hele får mig til at tænke over, hvad ægte kærlighed egentlig er

en brummende bas drøner bagfra forbi os, og jeg opfanger i selvsamme sekund, at den gigantiske højtaler, imponerende nok,
er blevet hægtet fast på cyklen med knapt så sparsomme mængder gaffatape
og jeg tænker, at cyklens skarpe sving, har en vis lighed med den roterende fornemmelse af lidelse, der mærkes dybt langs min rygsøjle
om det er fra mit efterhånden propfyldte net med unødvendigt gøgl
eller de mange udmattende gåture på pladsen
er jeg ikke helt klar over

nu ligger jeg herhjemme
ikke i teltet, som jeg nu havde vænnet mig til
men helt hjemme
alt i alt har jeg en mærkværdig fornemmelse af, at skulle vanedanne mig selv ind i roskildes dagsrutiner, hvilket ville være en stor overbelastning for den ellers ganske normale hverdag
men jeg sidder alligevel her, inde i min egen boble og tænker at min modreaktion på savnen, vel umuligt bør være andet end at lede efter de små værdifulde ligheder, der kan genskabe min fascination af roskilde festivalens mange glæder
Glenn Sentes Jun 2023
I could still recall how gently I held your seed
and brought you to your bed.
There a drop of sweat from this forehead
joyously mingled with some grains of your soil.
I lay you there and saw the approval of the sun
as he sent his warmth reflected on your cheerful coating.
You lay down restfully on your life bed
And I dreamed…

You rose with your sturdy trunk
so robust with pride that your neighboring flagpole
felt intimated by your presence.
They sang him hymns
they bowed at him with their hearts
while you humbly stood there
swaying your greens, reaching atop, conquering the scorches of your sun
so that they, underneath remain unharmed, unscorched, unsoaked.

Soon you bore velvety fruits that the young munched as well as the old
On lazy days you gave them games of soccers and boomerangs,
and tennis, and catches and fetches.

On moonlights, you appeared to be a violinist
as the lovers kissed under your warm company.

You were the silent listener to the broken hearts
when you offered your comforting barks as a shoulder
till they cried and wept
till they breathed and smiled once again.

You had a way with humans who slouch under your shade
You hummed serenades that only your chirping friends
and fluttering colorflies hear and together
you created an orchestra harmonizing songs of friendship, of peace, of love.

I saw you arise and write down histories on to your memory—
how you tried to reach for the graduates’ caps in the air,
how spirited you applauded for great speeches  on that podium
but no one ever noticed.

I saw you sway your branches gracefully as the marching band went
boom-boom, tug-tug, and kling-klang.
It was your favorite part of the day.

So many times you bore witness to silly fights
of the young and the old too,
but most often you saw these creatures
make peace at dusk.

There I saw you in eternity.
There I saw you to be forever standing tall on your life bed.

Then I heard the hellish rumble of their chainsaw,
the shrill reverberation piercing through this feeble core
as they ruthlessly cut your body.

I could not afford to watch you being slain.

You are my life.

Your death is my death.
A tribute to one of the oldest trees in our campus that was cut down one day.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
An Opus, is this. Ai do declare, my works,
my opera, taken in to my self aware, soft
and gentle
- tame the framing window

- as the Mona Lisa in chalk, let it be
So, old man, he says to me, quoteless in my mind;
what do you think of the last linear affect, my wisht
effectual request, quest for reason to will. May we?
Taste, and see.
Firsts are always free,
there, sit and stare at a stump,

At the core, before first root, the door
to out is locked up tight, living is hard.
Imagine many hands making light function, easy
shift from one sense to another, by the numbers.
Seed time.
Long time and short time
long lingering memories, short sharp reminders,
freedom, heard touted for all its worth, cost free.
Live to realize you did believe,
this is what we get, on earth, within bounds.
-mindtimespace and maybe Aristotle's four causes.
-there never was a hell those are church merch.

Coknowing, as any reader by now must be, coded,
we know freedom is not free,
we lieve be, it had to be won,
and as with any war,
winning is never done,
until we all choose, yes, or no, use our reasoning,
learn to bolt the rye,
- sift bran and endosperm
life has many
layers, many folds in a flakey crust

set… listen, windy March time flooding prayers,
asking the boss of all the weather, for wisdom
to come
on the folk who rebuilt
on the new sand.
Knowing, high and mighty.
Storms mean less to a house built solid/
broken bricabrac and whatnots galore,
shattered anvilt'dust,
as in the wind, once used to sweep away,
my married mind, unwound, or un raveled
as may be the case, aitia, as accuser.
opera operates deus ex machina

Is he free,
is his task his alone?

May be, may not, who could say?

Science with its native usefullness,
knowing good and evil, as translated
from the idea,
pride.
- Whence comes contention
How much, how little, measured out
so my part and yours, balance, against
all our worth as ones among the many,

duty service warring minds, stealing time

let this be the palimpsest, recovered
from
radical actual chthonic stage
between the rootedly other wise, simpleton
sublime curios spirit, settling soul substance
hope imagined
image, form imagined in motion, in access

the unacknowledged legislator, impotent
in the wasteland populated by the poets past.

Empty of spite and venom, distracted ******,

the dread of failure, is past me now,
I have become a defender of the faith used
to form my bubble of being,
thinnest of walls, translucent lattice seen
closely enough
to discern the marvelous vision, not to be
lied about by one who never watched selecting
portals accept the usefull and abhor the useless.
-cellular ATP [pop]
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,

Take the poet's high seriousness, this
which brings a self forward -duty
to try signaling-- here,
here, exactly, as
by standing acting out that light announcing danger,
dare not come too close.
Mime meme, mea culpa. {as we cross another's line}

"compulsive excavation
of the void inside"

Irinia, HelloPoetry.com said that,
- goodnight, as an exclamation
-  she said that right
Peace, be still.
And I, the old Weaver's fan,
known as Happy, whishing
wafting hot ai
r, we there, as my soup cooler
slips in a Disneyified whatifery
pool where wandering minds wait
recoknowning, groan growing,

silliest little diamond miner
of 'em all… so stupid, he's cute.

And in that way, the hero being
generated, on the pattern
handed down, to be seen

when you gaze in to your
close kin's eye and see co-known,
we were made
for this,

Klang, that Zildjian once again!
Exclamation, thus marked, calls
attention in the mind's contextual
effectuality, becoming
realized,
instant by instant, at first glance,
whose enemy am I, is the game,
truly
win or lose?

End act one.

Act two. In realized ever after that

The Internet exists, and we were here,
to help announce it,
then we made decisions, to make this.
-Opus

Spiking hopes up, we are among
the first billion mind text to text artforms
to survive
the transition to whenever next insight
sets us right, functional, operational
points,
in reality, centers, of shapes.
- of things in mindtimespace
In this medium, this is my realm,
your role,
is yours to define, any time, think ahead,
see if this goes there, what if it does.
Read'm and weep.

Then what do you do? Ever being after
learning enough to come this deep
when
time arrives.

Short time and long time,
made some mutual sense, muse using me,
and me,
I wished for this, that's so,
I asked to know the meaning of certain things.
I third in to knowing grown, as a tiny we
takes form of information in words rye,
or reasonably surprising to confess,
you know, McLuhan says yet, you know
nothing of my work. Awry.
Successfully making pasta with home-milled, bolted flour depends upon an appreciation of the interplay among grain selection, mill settings and bolting equipment. Failing to consider these factors increases the likelihood of making a weak dough and pasta that breaks when cut and/or cooked. Although one can mask the impact of a weak dough by choosing a more forgiving pasta shape (e.g., creating cavatelli instead of making tagliolini or tagliatelle), knowing the interaction of grain, mill and sieve will help you to create the pasta you envision. Google it.
Certainty is madness, has been resaid
in many ways, all the same, nothing changes

until the bubble of all we call awesome, pops.

AND Boom, it's Art for art's own sake, and me,
for my own, as we two witness, here,
this has already happened this once,

upon, operating the game, shame is left
in your -wherever,
compost it, tell the world.

I made nothing of myself.
I made something else, and then
I made U,
my qwerty symbolic friendly stat set,
bound near-letter
to peeling layers from this particular pearl,
today- in the post Everybody Knows, Cohen
sacred making idea in other words
sacrificial artifice,
offering unto that
super positioned we, humanity has set aside,
holy
holy
hoho ** green giant, ma jones, whole earth

Stewart Brand, right worthy former breather,
with us to this day, in word, and you know,
wheres words take us,
a we spirtitually untied, we
these days, depend to the nth degree,
on real estates in mindtimespace, literaturely.

Ben mentioned, awesome,
I did not catch the reference, I see,
I said a third I line pattern stylized me.
I see, I said for the nth dime degree
Phryigian Liberty Lady.{PLL} appearing

on the silver dimes entangled in the web,
of what Bacon knew or did not know,
when he invested with Madoff.
I know.
He did not write the sonnets.
Marking timestretched most point. Here.
right passing the point.
We imagine everything, am I right?
Line upon line, messaging any thing reader
ready, right now,
this is not the act, no novel form
of a sliver of if,
this is not that.
this is vid licet, per missions taken
for granted, as
meaning clearly I believe I have the right to say
reflectively

I know a whole
other story, new to you, but not to many readers
you were,
in previous experiences
in poetry, and books
for lievers being brought online
in due time.

Ever after that. You may, pause, and imagine roses.

Act three Realized mentally

At the end, it is mental ascent, we do form,
in conformity to the commonest of codes,
Berners Lee's Hyper-code, as manifested in hopes,
of artists,
so called by all who knew them, the framing crews
at Aaron Brother's Art Mart Penny-Frame Sales
events for staff, same
kind of crew glue,
as seen any where,
apron clad, badged, same grinning, that's me,
I did that, too. Grind,
locked in midnight restocking

Walmart, yep, #26, Van Buren, Arkansas.

Target on… Cuyamaca, Santee, San Diego New
Trolley End, right, future planned in action..,

I got black dirt cred back to Moses, m'friend,
I am as full blood American as may be by imagining
I am a Union man, distant scion of a soldier
who had a son prior to dying, around 1781.

In the war for freedom of the press, yes, Ben,
my childhood proverb provider, reminds us all,
owning the use
of money is better than owning
money.
Freedom
of the press, belongs
to the man, wombed or un,
the awesome asexual after all we know,
who who followt Jeffy, and yet did not die in shame,
I mean
after all, we know, we think, why any might
be
so tempted to throw in a sorted *** scene
to envoke audience reaction
by invoking spelchekian mastermind.
Freedom
of the press, belonging
to the man, wombed or un,
who has access to HelloPoetry, past all the 502s.

Free, if you will. No yoke. Seat of y'panting/
Ai aiai

This ain't showbiz. It is one act enacting another.

A writing being ready and read, at once, later.

SO, I bet the Diamond Farm.

Friendly local game, envision a vision of your own,
drawn from what you know is good, for food.
Good idea, fishing for everything.
Got one,
governing meat eaters,
keep your gun, pay a meat tax, by
buying a deer tag, which you may use
or put in to a deer harvesting pool.
That pool then gets used
to pay hunters and packers.

Living forests allow humane behaviour.
Be having the right to use the proteins,
- but you must pay the butchers
- as you might pay yourself
- for the gutting and skinning and all

tastes may be acquired,
that is a power, that sense, too any thing
taste
at first, too bitter

resending hate hate hate, thought caught,
infecting all who take free time to think.
Sweet persuasive, tiny
taste, ah
any, ha, may take a direct object status
in any story, told to gurgling gut gladly
reminding us, aha,
food is not imperitive, o see, im per it
-this instant, soon, however, bread's a must
imperit
ive found myself a happy enough
moment,
dopplering blue jay flies by, says Hi.
- I read myself into the game, and call

Back to Bellow, he told of a fellow in Spain,
who spoke of nudists on the public transportation
in Frankfurt, so, I slip in time slime, no crime time,
¿when was that,
in the era Bellow was an adult in,
when I was just a kid… living in those days?

Poker on the Diamond Farm, in the dust,
we swept into play in the after you believed,

what-did-you-get-to-do game?

I got old. After a while.
Actively participating in the spirit
of my time.
And most of my future happened as I did,
we happened to be here,
at this time, reading.
An opus set to end, when the contrabassoon
blow ai ai ai.

Curtain.
Art  for no other reason, than this makes me happy, and no one dies.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
A constructed carrier
at rest
this
now state set to seek
next via
next via-ble duct-
--- course, of course, I think
fluid mind wandering, conducting
place in time aware, I am, bleeding out…
then I see
you may be, if I can,  see you bleeding real,
stretch the point I make to yours,
touché,  eh… shall we by
chance, feel around for a grip
a hold on, seep in, through to sense

some thing sense, sol-idity, I think
I sense seeing sometimes smells good,
some times other… space is the why
since time took my cares away,
suddenly, how is immaterial
so far as any given word
could ever care…
space
you sighed, looked at me askance,
asked me if I thought I could dance.
-------
ductile (adj.)
mid-14c.,
"hammered, beaten out or shaped with a hammer,"
from Old French ductile or directly
from Latin ductilis
"that may be led or drawn,"
from past participle of ducere
"to lead" (from PIE root *deuk- "to lead").

From 1560s as
"flexible, pliable;"
1620s as
"capable of being drawn out in wires or threads."
Of persons,
"capable of being led or drawn,"
1620s.

hardwired, intuitive art… hammered home,
the point of any thing made most honed…

Klang. Echo from ever.

A via duct to hold a thought,
writ once right to left,
then bent this other way,
construed to sense in you,
as you
see time from the underside.

Look up inside the mind you
authorize to come and see,
is this me thinking each line,
are you listening to the real as
ever life  
in tumult considered
common sense, edge wisdom limits
felt
thus far, not further, sings the shore,
wait to see, wait to know, wait to feel
the settlement

intent on spreading comfort, safe
and solid, sound somewhat other wise,
at the bottom of it all,
at the very be-gin engineering conference.

What do poets imitate? If the imitators
are the proverbial poets who trouble the polis,
and not pretenders, bent to be other than,
inner getic agoraphobic aggregators
of scattered knowns, organic sword
dust collector on the hearth of Haephaestus,
hanging where my uncle hung the Winchester,
where now my thread of thoughts en now,
I bend in time slowing sent to
signal me, come and see, and I wonder
if you recall the time this phrase formed
this door,
the closed off sense, since when began, earlier
in mindless archaia sorting stages, filters formed
from sticks and stones and shattered bones,

seeing time, from the canyon floor,
the river is new,
the course is old.

All any canyon does is carry fluids down
to the solar pump,
as the world turns, it turns for cold
wishing to be warm and hot wishing to cool,
being never willing to unknow being
the reason things change
on a regular basis,
at all  angles off the point stretched
from all sides, to form
a floor, for us to see up from.

A series of days- accrue to the appointed time…

From the instant in thin time,
when the last grandmother with no child, back
in the time
of motherhood's highest value,
once,
as long as
any real story told tellers is real, ago, long
in the state of no begun ending,
sensing ever
unrelated state - single mind stability
life as a point, has an
up, up - on a moment, much like now, though
thicker in some sense, things we knew by rote,
seemed right to some, and practical,
- degated knowledge delegated
- upright walking, one way
- pfft - first act, silent
- pht pht pht, no- yes no\hmmm
- set this straight,
- equal and opposite, see-parted out
- breathing in aaaaaaaaaaaaaa
- perfect balance stop
- I am afraid I am doing no good.
God's only fear, the very beginning of wisdom.
Po-et-try- umph-oommph, feels so
good, hurts so bad, feels so good, oh no
virtual
- creation, in no time.
knowing needed limits, lines,
edges
form -freaking stringy gnosis, know, is not, is, isnot
wiping gnostic snot,
will of me says, this one thing
I think you know,
theory of mind, I think you know
differing
is how life ever matters, well,
and good
take comfort in doing
best nexts, from the penultimate
quest-ion sprung from the fear of failure
to launch.
Chiral sorting started from a way
made to hold two bits worth of e,
outside time's distance inversing rule,
being
is another pose supposed effectual, we

lift up the feeble hands that hang down,
jump and dance,
orantic, antic anticipate, seeing
all hands raised, I know,
a thousand thousand times, I know
all hands, joy bound,  thinking
we should clap.
free the non applauded hand's value
each to form a half clap
- shake
hands hindered from the knack needed,
feel the sense, of knowing this the other way,
animus in animated wedom,
hanging from a tree,
see, be the idea that knowing is.
Only the idea, not the constituent parts,
only the knowns
being formed, first seeds of this
said to have been
forbidden tree, bending, fully fruct-
ified branches -
low hung knowns, children's first wish to know
another certain thing,
if you don't mind,
if I had known you knew,
here is beyond understanding,
in the overall we stand beneath,
feeling
CRAZY LOST AND HOPELESS
uplooking each bit of sense, since feeling once
a thought,
a curious thought, a window above a door,
vvassistdas, transom
AH,
architectural acknowledgment of wind
and its will to cool too hot and warm too cold,

touch too much, or none, still as inbetween breath,
not out nor in - ******
being bound and determined to win the joy
of finishing a thought,
caught while fishing in Gods seasons of forgetfullness,
being empty of care.
Unconcerned with misconstruth,
Let all liars be men, and all truth be true
before men could have imagined
knowing as a flow… that piles up behind
those who admit we did say,

I'll be dammed. That worked.
Like putting pepper in your coffee,
a ripple dam, shape of water near the shore,
same as washboard roads after pneumatic tires
became the most comfortable travel imagined,
before memory foam.

What do you think
of quantum foam or in quantum foam, here on out?
What is the softest thought you have imagined?
Note: Peppercorns can mellow an unexpected step into an active logger's flume
down a sulci un exploitted in our mutual time frame
Donall Dempsey Oct 2020
THE VOICE OF ENERGY - In memory of Florian Schneider

"The people who understand music understand silence."
                                 David Hockney


1975 or thereabouts and
my father is infected with

Radio-Aktivität
I lost in it

Kraftwerk's latest
offering.

It emerges from its inner
white sleeve

with a slight shhhhhh
tuck

shucking off its black
'Deutscher Kleinempfänger' cover.

Alien as anything
we have heard

straight from
Kling Klang studios.

Enjoying the fun
of its hyphenated pun.

Fizzing with radioactive decay
conflated with radio communication.

The album spinning
a black pool of sound

mesmerising the mind
as the needle picked up fluff

advancing from track
to track

finally arriving at
"Ohm Sweet Ohm."

"Dónall son...what on earth
is that!"  my father winces.

The da da dit bit
eating into my father's brain

spelling out its name
in Morse of course.

"Aghhh I can't stand it!"
he blurts out.

"Sorry Da!" I say.
Turn it off 'til he goes away.

But a mere day later he
hums as he saws

wood to make
a window.

"Radio-Aktivität
Fur dich und mich in All entsteht!"

Contaminated with it now
he even sings the Morse Code bit.

"Radio -Aktivität
Strahlt Wellen zum Empfangsgerat
Radioaktivität
Fur dich und mich in All entsteht
Radioaktivität
Strahlt Wellen zum Empfangsgerat

Radioaktivität
Wenn's um unsere zukunft geht
Radioaktivität
Fur dich und mich in All entsteht

radioactivity
For you and me in space arises
radioactivity
Radiates waves to the receiving device

radioactivity
When it comes to our future
radioactivity
For you and me in space arises

— The End —