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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
when the moon resembles a Cheshire smile,
a sickle, or a scythe,
away from the two-dimensional
experience of a full-moon,
when the moon looks two-dimensional...
the night comes,
and then the shadow of
the earth is launched
against the moon...
a full-moon is when the sun
can "see" the moon in
its orbit, a perfect orb...
but when the moon
resembles a Cheshire smile,
a sickle, a scythe,
or a scimitar...
   the moon is peeking
from behind the earth...
only partially exposed
to the sun...
i've watched, i've tried to listen
to the sound of the vacuum,
being filled with Holst...
  sorry... no...
yet... light reflected,
rather than initiated, sourced...
can allow you to see
a three-dimensional shadow-object,
which is earth, projected
onto the face of the moon,
when it is...
  Cheshire smile, sickle, scythe or
scimitar shaped...
i always thought...
ever peer at the canyons on
the moon, the darkened spots?
ever think that if another world
existed outside our own...
the white bits in between
the canyons of meteoric impact
where the landmasses
on another world, similar
to ours?
             that's why the moon
is not a perfect orb...
the earth casts a shadow onto
the moon...
               i.e. when the moon
is a fullness orb...
it is in-front of us...
    that's why i was asking for
what substance emits light
on the moon... light from the sun
hits earth, the seas,
and illuminates the moon
in its pristine orb glory...
  or so i think...
   only when the moon is behind
the earth in orbit,
so we only see fractions of it,
fractions of the Cheshire smile,
the sickle, the scythe, the scimitar...
that's when the earth is in-front
of the moon, and the moon is behind
earth, hence the moon is partially exposed...
earth casts a shadow onto the moon...
hence?    )   and the variant degrees of it...
you wouldn't think it,
but when there's a full moon,
and no shadow cast:
  the moon looks two dimensional,
or... what became known as the flat-earth
argument...
but if you look at the partial moon...
you can see the shadow...
and the shadow looks three-dimensional!
i'm not kidding...
i might be drunk but then, by being drunk,
i see no monopoly on lying...
drunks hate lying,
drunks hate lying because there
is no ******, no 100m run parallel in
a straight line...
  the whole labyrinth tract
of "truths" while sober?
   it, doesn't, work, on, drunks...
i just want to get this observation
out of the way, and return to my
gingerbread man cocktail
of pepsi and whiskey...
and that wes borland album...
  wait a minute...
the sky is blue because when
light hits the oceans,
       the blue moves into and construct
the atmosphere...
so a full moon is when
the moon is completely hidden
from the sun,
or fully exposed to it?
   ****...
    what's copernican in terms of north,
east, west or south?
    ah...
so a full moon implies...
the moon is wholly hidden behind
the earth...
     the light sourced from the sun,
travels into the Pacific ocean,
and a light refraction occurs,
a bending of light...
and those of us on the Atlantic scale,
who are experiencing night
while those on the Pacific ocean
experience day...
               so the moon is illuminated,
hence... light refraction,
  hence the moon is "not really" an orb,
but, given its orbit, a curvature ) or (
although momentarily being an orb...
to reiterate...
    a full moon is when the moon is
in front of the earth,
or a full moon is when the moon is
behind earth?
            well... given Einstein...
and the gravity dip...
   how light bends and doesn't travel
in straight lines...
  d'uh... the ) or ( curve of:
              half the moon in light,
half of the moon in shadow -
          and thereby other fractional exposures
of the orb, and thereby other
fractional hiding places of the orb...
i have my excuses:
i'm either drunk, or i'm drinking...
but to think, of these sober people,
having serious problems with videos,
comments, opinions,
           whatever you want to call it,
sober people?
    sober people drunk on resentment?!
i'm a drunk with a resentment at...
having "my" jukebox being ****** with...
i don't listen to any new music,
i turn into an anemic,
or an albino...
   no new music, my thinking enters
a period of involuntary starvation from
a lack of: a chaotic new playlist...
and like i "said"... looks like the freedom
of speech cue has become overrated...
writing is what would always become
the Georgian Stalin of Russia,
or the Austrian ****** of Germany...
writing would always subvert free-speech /
video commentary...
it would subvert it...
after all: the devil makes work of idle hands...
just as: god makes idle work of excessively
waggling tongues.
Satan is love and love is Satan
You are one and the same,
In texture, scent and beauty,
You all blend into one
Commanding three quarters
Of heaven’s loyalty
Ninety percent of human allegiance,
The church and the mosque are your marionette
All the temples are your domain,
African Shrines are your beautiful turf
As synagogues thrive from your love.

Satan, this sonnet is for you
My lyrical dedication to your glory,
An Ode of all odes to you Satan
As for you will reign
In the natural systems
As the sole queen of my heart
Your regal time in my love-sphere
Will infinitely pullulate in times to come,

Of your nature I know not
Of your abode I know not
Whether you are in ethereal
Or in the realms of hell
I know not but to your glory,
Of your race I know not
Notwithstanding your black label,
But your glory and mighty I know
You reign the earth and the heaven
With unmatched stature, unprecedented
Your foes forlornly left minus option
But only to desperate wistfulness,

Your works are a tor among mountains
In seas, oceans, landmasses and heavenly systems,
You designed colonialism at Berlin conference
You inspired slavery in the powers that be
You inspired heart of apartheid among Israelis
Against the foolish Palestinians,
You masterminded forceful occupation
Of the oil wells and Lands of Palestine by Israelis,
You designed Apartheid in South Africa
And nascent racial hatred in America
That saw death in Ferguson and the poor lad
A ****** Treyvvon who is better dead!
And it all went all without simple fetter
My dear sweet heart, the one and only one,
Satan the dearest Lucifer Alias Ibilis,

Your accolades are unique
And true Spectacle of spectacles,
They stand garlanded out of the rest
To sure glory of my dear little dove,
The flower of my heart,
Was the gift of nuclear power
to the stoogish Einstein your protégé?
Was the gift of *** to the Irish Scientists
Your efforts and sweat of your brow?
Is Ebola your latest tool in depopulation move?
Will you spare the black souls my dear love?

My heart misses you dear little love,
Where and when can we meet?
For us to have our light moment
To have a heart to heart chat
In the fullness of flowery flora
And monkey Fauna of Africa,
Can we meet on the **** shores
Of warm and elegant Lake Turkana?
The beacon of natural beauty
On which human sorrow melts
Into the mellifluous warmth
Of your love and delicacy of you romance,
I look forward dear for this day,
On which I will be swallowed
Into your softly touch and caresses
As your warm kisses land on my lips
I will softly moan to the warmth in you love.

Can I come along with my friends, dear sweetie?
For they are unhappy and proscribed to a legal corner
In this dark abyss of African political culture
They are Lesbians and gays, drug dealers,
Polygamists and polyandrous ones,
The laws of the day have pigeonholed them,
Let them come to your table for a treat
On buckers and Nyama Choma of he goats,
For truly they are your current brainchildren
Forlornly isolated by black primitivity.


I will sing to you all lyrics my dear
As your works are marvelous and wonderful
They crystallize into a power of powers
I will sing to you; ‘the poem to Satan’ of dear Marx,
And ‘evil’s idol’ in the glory of your love,
Will sing for you ‘the night in the forest’
And ‘Ode to my mother’ of Adolf ******
As I shower your reign with classical lyrics,
In praise of your power on human heart,
None else calls the tune of human piety
As you powerfully do my dear lollipop.

I am now tired
And the lamp of my house now faintly goes
As my heart yearns for sleep
Into which I will dream
The blissful dreams
Propelled by the sweet scent
The sole outfit of your lovely reign.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
long before the Greeks started applying diacritical stresses to their letters, the English should have applied them, following their European counterparts in the use of the Latin α-β sabbatical - but of course, they wouldn't, the English poker hand had a royal flush compared with the Greek pair of tens - the reigning delusion given the British Empire? we are the Romans reincarnate - sure, it worked to produce us the Canadian, the American and the Australian accents - but they really, really have to dress-up for the occasion - it just won't do leaving the alphabet naked without stresses that invoke a spirit of universal pronunciations, leaving it a mongolian steppe instead, a wild-west you might add, adding to the social hierarchies established when the hierarchy rests with someone seeing the invisible standards of elocution in that numerous number of examples ready on hand... this is a second English Revision, the first one was economic with Marx... this is another altogether different revision... to appropriate English into what other European nations have done prior... of course, not appropriating the stresses to the fall of the Roman Empire gave them the delusion as successors of the power established - but only for so long... they're not looking over at America with admiration anymore... they're wondering: what the hell is going on?! but i deem this project a half-failure in waiting - given that establishing a universal pronunciation system will not work miracles - Silesian Polish is one example in the making, but if you at least add necessary invocations to stress certain letters, you wouldn't write poetry using the word blah from time to time - it's still bewildering in the Copernican sense that English, out of all the European languages hasn't bothered to wear a cravat of acute vowel or a belt's worth of umlaut - straight out of Eden these people are, stark naked in the moonlight - obviously because of this lack of addition the power balance rests with them, but the English know that they were once occupied by Romans, the Americans can have the naked Latin... the English aren't so sure as to why not join the exercise of additional-revision... the polygamy of accents wouldn't disappear - but the orthographic revisions would aid the less concerned with saying certain words right... but then again, it might be too late, given that because no diacritics were ever ascribed to how the English encoded sounds leveraging toward a poly-phonetic-diversity on these isles alone (let alone North America and Australia) - adding stresses to these 26 popes will have no effect at all... but still! why did the Greeks decide to add stress and eloquence and the reincarnate delusional Romans didn't follow Greek suite?! one thing is for sure... start adding them... and acronym English / ugly English will disappear - people simply need quickly-identifiable stresses, they want linguistic calculus, to ably differentiate and integrate.

after your required reading - *what did i miss?!

with the classics - you look at your contemporaries
and become slightly peeved off -
what ontology can't explain is the instinct
criticising the coal-miners of words -
you rarely see awe when the obscure nugget
of some precious metal is chiselled out -
like the αρκενστoνε - but tmesis will not be
akin to a precious stone (tmēsis - why did the Greeks
insert necessary diacritics and the Anglophiles
were so lazy reducing Aphrodite to Prostodite?
it means e.g. ex-*******-aggeration of something) -
with such a paradise some of us become
coal-miners of words, precious vocalisations -
20 carat with that ontology of yours;
poetry ought to make philosophers like heroes
of Homer's day - give the battlefields shifted to
libraries rather than pecking menus of crows
in muddy Ypres - after reading the book reviews
comparing Saturday reviews with Sunday reviews
i get the picture - it's not a beauty, it's just there -
money is not the dirt people speak of hoping for
a win on the lottery and an escape -
money invoked a necessary loss of tribalism -
of excess labour when no labour in what area was
prescribed earning was necessary -
offices hoovered like hospitals, but then hospitals
incubating super-bugs, resistant to antibiotics ***** -
a baby held captive in a cupboard -
since Hippocrates' times sadism crept in -
people are so sane they perform it automatically without
knowing - until their time comes;
every time i read Bukowski i feel i'm at home,
the latter Bukowski, the posthumous writings -
i too wish i wrote with the sensibility of philosophers,
limited vocabulary, the so called systematic approach -
they simply said: 100 words, written to the volume of
1000 pages - systematisation in philosophy involves
a limitation on vocabulary - they want to see how
far their stressed limit of vocabulary eats away at
the potential sigma of potential - poets on the other hand
rarely systematise - they'd rather jump in with
as many words as possible, and leave anyone reading
their word bewildered, because their vocabulary is
not drilled in, it's not perfected, it almost looks like
a prosthetic limb - the moment when you see a dictionary
in action, the odd word from them all, breaking
the fluidity of a poem that could have been a waterfall -
there are plenty of dictionary moments in almost all
poetry - there's no ticking clock event in them, there's
pause, reflection, revision.
for me this poem started in thinking how ridiculous
using certain words can be - Roman Empire, pseudo-Christ -
i mean, in poetry at least, such words and compounds
look ridiculous in poetry, there's no dogmatism in poetry
to allow such words a serious use - esp. when
compared with what philosophy practices -
a systematisation / containment of a particular vocabulary,
stretched to its limit, dismissive of synonyms of words -
(variations of particulars), i.e. the founding principle
of establishing universal meanings to words:
on that rainbow canvas: red is red, blue is blue,
green is green... all together they're white / mirage of paper
and sclera - the so called invisible -
systematisation in philosophy is a rejection of multiple
meanings of words (deviating 2nd through to 6th meanings
for lying / ambiguity) - and limitation of what can be expressed
with a border on tongue - after all borders exist in
landmasses and in seas -
yet i still don't think poetry is all about music -
those days are long gone - poetry started nibbling at
philosophy - they are heroes to me, i mean, Francis Bacon
died after trying to invent a refrigerator (hypothermia -
hyper-thermal? perhaps a variant of hippo or the trait
of the lizard - the lizard disease - below thermal acceptability
for mammal, true indeed) -
yet after reading the crunch (2), mahler, sometimes even
putting a nickel into a parking meter feels good-,
and esp. am i the only one who suffers thus?
i just
think of C. G. Jung - i don't know why - that little
book of his i have: the undiscovered self -
i really don't know what there is to discover -
when you start writing you never actually think from
the beginning that you have it in you -
you never do! it's a lazy beast, writing is -
even a poem a day can be a welcome presence -
for me it was never something undiscovered,
discovering that i started to smoke cigarettes aged
21 after being so anti-cigarettes coming from clubbing
stinking of tobacco - the self i discovered was a bit like
a portrait of Dorian Grey (great book by the way,
better than an adaptation on screen) - that self i didn't
expect - although less ****** and definitely less
fetish spandex clubs - i don't know why i'd mingle
the abstract simplicity opening doors and corridors
to walk on that poetry is (however mutilated due to
a lack of respectable technique like some English teacher
telling you to coordinate yourself with metaphor, pun
or imagery vectors - modern painters can paint
******* and their expression is still art, but when it
comes to poetry... everyone suddenly needs old
Chaucer dungeons or Shakespeare with whip to tell
you it's poetry - a ******* black square on canvas isn't
Raphael!) - i just realised that it's not about discovery -
this is going to sound ridiculous, but it's how it goes,
i don't attack too much significance in examples as these,
i know the meaning of such example, but the meaning
is shallow due to the peddle-stool that C. G. Jung
ascribed the compound: the undiscovered self -
with poetry it's always the inner self that introverts
and shuts up when the world never bothers -
the crucial moment comes when that basic unit of life
(of course, vary it with existence or reality and the matrix,
whatever) reacts to a world it can no longer understand -
poetry then enters the realm of the individual,
the undiscovered self is found, once a healthy individual
weighing 75kg, now a drunkard at 115kg and somehow
still content (the invisibility shroud from back in school,
as with Plato: 18 through to 21 - beauty is a short-lived
tyranny
- and 3 years is enough) - and the self begins
digging, and digging and digging (yes, i know, it's
how pronouns interact with each other, the ~self is never
self said - old Germanic - the telegram technique -
self said that self would - funny how all psychiatric theory
or psychology is so ****** obsessed with pronouns and
no other category of words - that's where the sharks swim
sniffing out a drop of blood from a cubic mile of sea water) -
and by digging there is no actual stasis of an undiscovered
self - there's only the continuum of perpetuated inner
and more inner; but what is discovered is not what
is necessarily categorised as zenith, an undiscovered potential,
for that's motivational speech - that little book is
about motivational talk, therapy to craft an illusion of
self-assurance... never mind... after reading
the book reviews from Sunday, most notably the biography
of Philip K. ****... i found that English is a language most
beautiful, but also a language most dismissive -
as with the late acceptance of existentialism -
the slow nibbling at the walls of English utilitarianism -
for that could only be an English product of thought -
and the results? well, teenage suicides and too much
pill-dropping to cure depression: nothing that hurts.
it was hanging in the air, like a guillotine blade -
too much faith in English sensibility and that bloodied
doctrine that utilitarianism is, it's not about big words
these days, when behind those big words there are crude
actions - talk about really inventing a blanket to cover
the crude actions behind what was said in variation of
the supposed vaccine program to make people immune toward
crude actions.
Ivie Aug 2014
Dear AK.S,

I wanted to write you poetry, but my words fail when it comes to you, but my heart revives when i think of you,and i still don’t know why you call me the queen of cheesiness,surprising name.
I wanted to coat our times with synonyms and rhymes and metaphors,but when comes to us, simplicity is the beauty.
Simplicity might not be beautiful to you, but i hold it like like a fragile flower plucked from its ***, and put in a vase,with water, mere water, what is water in front of dreams.
And you have known my dreams circling around new york and road trips from the beginning and i have known your dreams, around chasing boys and the boys who circle around you like man-eating lions, since the beginning, yes, i disapprove of every boy you have ever liked, but YOU held me tight when i drowned in the hopelessness of these dreams, and i hugged you, and ranted about how they were foolish frogs, little *****, as we blocked them on Facebook and they floated away like clouds, their lanes got cut-off from our highways.
We have danced with flaming fire ,and danced ,jumping across barbed wire and we have danced with cunning liars, and times have made us dance to beats that deafen out hearts,
And we have screamed and shouted, in the club like maniacs chasing after beats,and out of club like we have just lost limbs , like Britney spears and will.i.am not at all like them.
And dare i forget, the coffee trips and song tags, nine inch nails,to t swizzle, macchhiato to java mocha chip we have covered them all, we have dreamt of texan to cali beaches and we have dreamt of those new york skyscrapers and apartments all white filled with Bukowski and Lang Leav, we have lived on the edge and lived with the mainstream,
We have lost it all, like distorted bouquet, and we have forgotten all the love and given out aré hearts to people to rip the pictures of each other inside of us, and we have fought and fought brutal civil wars, and world wars with nuclear bombs to have to all back, to have it all back,

WHY?

WHY?

Because no one can compare to you, to the words you say, even if sometimes they are like requests of candy crush game, no one could make me as happy as you do even if our bad days are like a B-grade horror movies, and i am pretty sure are, you have no one that talks as much *** as do, so you only keep me around to hear my wild fantasies, but our good days are better than 90’s rom-coms.
We hurt the ones we love, inevitable, and regretful, but we burn and scatter the ashes of those moment for those we know we wouldn’t be better off with,   and i have burnt countless chocolate molten lava cakes to come up with the perfect gooey one for you.
In all honesty darlin ,this final attempt did come out perfect, it needs a little finesse on the edges but we can sort that out, we have won, we have won wars that they haven’t seen ,and when they look us like we are made of stars, they could not even reach, i know, I know travelling 10 light years and all these meteors shooting through me , the gruesome struggle to reach the stars has been worth it.
I wanted to write you sonnets that will do down in posterity and sing you pitch perfect love songs in front of millions, and graffiti your face in thousands of brick walls throughout the landmasses,
                                                            but all i have is this love which grows like wildfire,
                                                          which I hope is enough for this lifetime.
SO PLEASE STAY,EVEN IF WE MOVE TO DIFFERENT CITIES NEXT YEAR.

I PROMISE TO **** ALL THE WASPS AND SPIDERS THAT FIND THEIR WAY IN FOR YOU.

Love, V.J
st64 Feb 2014
When the fog burns off and the air's pulverized  

diamonds and you can see beyond the islands  

of forever!—far too dramatic for me. It hurts  

something behind my eyes near the sphenoid,  

not good. I prefer fog with fog behind it,  

uninflammable fog. Then there's no competition  

for brightness, no Byron for your Shelley,  

no Juno eclisping your Athena, no big bridge  

statement about bringing unity to landmasses.  



All the thought balloons are blank. The marching  

band can't practice, even a bird's got to get  

within five feet before it can start an argument.  

Like dead flies on the sill of an abandoned  

nursery, we too are seeds in the rattle  

of mortality. A foglike baby god  

picks it up, shakes it, laughs insanely  

then goes back to playing with her feet.  



I have felt awful cold and lonely and fog  

has been blotting paper to my tears.  

My dog is fog and I don't have to scoop  

its **** with my hand in a plastic bag.  

There are sensations that begin in the world,  

the mind responding with ideas but then  

those ideas cause other sensations.  



What a mess. We stand at the edge  

of a drop that doesn't answer back,  

fog our only friend although it's hell  

on shrimpboats. There, there, says the fog.  

Where, where? You can't see a thing.


                                                      by D. Young






21 Feb 2014
Dean Young (b. 1955)




Poet Dean Young was born in Columbia, Pennsylvania, and received his MFA from Indiana University. Recognized as one of the most energetic, influential poets writing today, his numerous collections of poetry include Strike Anywhere (1995), winner of the Colorado Prize for Poetry; Skid (2002), finalist for the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize; Elegy on Toy Piano (2005), finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; and Primitive Mentor (2008), shortlisted for the International Griffin Poetry Prize.  
He has also written a book on poetics, The Art of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction (2010).

Strongly influenced by the New York School poets, and Surrealists such as Andre Breton, Young’s poetry is full of wild leaps of illogic, extravagant imagery, and mercurial shifts in tone. Using surrealist techniques like collage, Young’s poems often blur the boundaries between reality and imagination, creating a poetry that is enormously, almost disruptively, inclusive.
In an interview with the journal Jubilat, Young admitted of his poetry: “I want to put everything in.”

And speaking to the centrality of misunderstanding in his poetry: “I think to tie meaning too closely to understanding misses the point.”
alaistair Jul 2014
step one: you must realize that
villains are the protagonists of their own stories;
ergo, everything does revolve around you.
you really are not worthless.
why should you care
what the people trying to overthrow you think?

step two: use your anger to create.

step three: or use it to destroy.

step four: allow yourself to feel.
allow yourself to
hide.
you are not wrong for shining in the light or for shying from it.

step five: you must realize that
this too shall pass.
in one thousand years louisiana will be underwater
and new landmasses will rise from the sea like individual venuses.
geologic time will march on, inescapably slowly, on clocks you cannot read,
regardless of you.
we are still only in the holocene era.
the universe doesn't care how many times you try;
the universe doesn't care if you try; but
someone has to, and i believe it should be you.
on the word-a-day desk calendar of existence,
humans only arrived on earth on
the last minute of december thirty-first:
whatever pain you're feeling is temporary.
Aphasia Sep 2014
I am breathing water through my skin -
Thirsty living sponge absorbing
thought bubble exhales
Inhaled opinion torrents against
the current of mental oceans
flowing through the river of
my [self-creation],
Liquefied individual seas filing
the space of bone, blood, *****,
Fleshy container of moon-tide  movings,
white capped vocal waves
splashing into the port of ears,
Smashing boardwalk, tropic  landmasses
opposing progression of this internal
flooding,
There was no Arc for my [air self],
two-legged, old self,
I am irrigated in washing lake water,
fresh stream sweat beading on the
lip of prayers to old goddesses,
crying melting glacier eyes,
transformed – reformed
further informed,
[simple oasis
pond]
in the [desert] everything
~
It's irksome how we claim
people like landmasses.
"He's mine."
"She's mine."

Now all you need is a
"Private Property" sign!
I
Swear
Tonight
I shall slay gravity on this bed
And take thee
High and higher unto farther skies
Or probably where the ozones touch not

There
Shall I pull
The migrating moon and twinkling stars nether
And plunge the whole universe gloom
For
I shall
Unleash my golden acts and play thy hormones right
The landmasses shall grand marvel
And bind themselves with our heavy petting

I
Swear
Tonight
I shall awaken the demons within thee
And make you croon the melodies of seduction
That echoes on the beaks of the most pulchritude parrots
For
I shall
Make thy mind tread on a pilgrimage to wander lands
And rent the cloak of dolour
To shame amongst thine emotions

I
Swear
Tonight
I shall devoid my tongue
Of the most decorum and taste the dregs
Of thy skin
And cause the grand sacrilege to thine holy grounds

For
I
Shall make thee vulnerable and restless
Yet very robust and creep into thy soul
And calm the yelling taunts
To an eternal repose
For
I shall feed thy famished emotions and desires
To satiety and drown thee in the abyss
Of my love
And bury thee in their cabins
With the feathers of the eagles

I swear tonight I shall

I Swear I Shall
©Historian E.Lexano
foreplay
Teo May 2017
Chrysalis
Ever since I was young, I always loved that word
The way it rolls off the tongue, the way the letters are heard
Just give me a second, I want to say it again

"Chrysssaaaaalllliiissssss..."

And I kissed you, just us two in my room
Watching some show about nature that ended too soon
Yeah, I was distracted, but I learned something new
That butterflies
Can ascend as high as a plane
Still, they migrate to my stomach whenever I hear your name
I don't know what this is, guess I have to call it just friends
Even though I still love you, I can't lie or pretend
That my days aren't punctuated by our time together, I don't want it to end
Can't tell how long I've waited
For the moment you allow me to kiss you again

Chrysalis,
I'm growing more amused by the minute
Maybe I'm mistaking that for confused, I admit it
Before, you were just a fun thing to say
But now, I see you more as an icon for change
Cause my smile relies on how I woke up today
Which side doesn't matter when my bed is empty
While I stare at the space you left vacant
You know there's still plenty of room
On my couch if you wanted to take it
I stay up all night, day dreaming that you occupate it
I still know what I want, I just dont know what to do
I see, I'm not what you need, and that's not something new
So I'll spend my time spinning some kind of cocoon
Oh chrysalis, don't let this be my doom

But nature, you *****, you're ******* amazing
How capable a caterpillar is of just suddenly changing
Of growing wings that take them from the ground to the sky
And I've been inspired to live again, or to at least try
It's harder without you, but I'll be okay in the end
Whether things change, or we don't even stay friends
But my soul can't forget that sublime melody
Whenever you let your energy intertwine and coalesce with mine
And it hurt so **** much, thought you'd disappear in no time
That you would just hate me, but I'm still right here
Still crave to be near you, even if I'm not making you moan
You don't have to change my name to some dumb **** in your phone
But I know it's on me, the fact that I'm all alone
Because I am who I am, and you are who you are
And it is what it is, but I promise I'm never far
So you decide when I'm better, maybe it will be never
Which is my fault again, but I know I'm not the same
As I'm growing around this heart throbbing pain
The very essence of life is the fact that things change
Chemical compounds and how they rearrange
The earth and the moon, the sun and the stars
This whole ******* universe of ours

And I don't care what you say
People change every day, landmasses are moving
The moon is falling away
In the grand scheme of things, sure
I don't even mean a thing, but I still exist, I'm no chrysalis
But if I'm ever missed, then just maybe I can move something within you
Maybe one more day is worth muddling through
Because even if my soul does grow, metamorphosize
Girl, I can't shake these ******* butterflies, I miss you so much
I miss the quiet moments, conversations, the warmth of the rush
When I'd see you in the mornings, the first kiss and touch of the days
That hurt like a limb lost to rot and decay
Just ******* come whatever may, I don't know what more to say
Simply keep on moving, be it closer or away
I'll do my best and just call it fate
Hoping good things come
To those who wait
.........
Graff1980 Jan 2017
The river runs both ways
For miles and miles
For so many day
Through years
Through loss
Through love
The cost
Is never high enough
Time racing towards the end
Clock clicking and ticking
Starting once again
Cycling back
Through circular cracks
Through birth and death
Through breathe to breath
The river turning and twisting
Foaming and swishing
Picking up speed, faster and faster
Water rising and receding
Constantly feeding
Into the Oceans
Up to the heavens
Clouds culminating in tears
Fall, softening the earth calming our fears
Back to the beginning
Though I be mortal, I still stand grinning
For the river, I run the risk
Of losing myself of ceasing to exist
Of being forgotten or not being missed
Cutting through landmasses
Picking up passengers as it passes
The river, not eternal will still live longer
Then you or me, with no thought of profit
Swelling the seas with its ***** deposit
Changing the courses of history forever
Oh sweet river, what a wonderful river
Graff1980 Nov 2016
It is a quiet and uncertain passion
that rips my painted paper thin skin.
False bravado to show even though
we all know I have no real machismo.

But, under the night sky I am second
only to the full moon’s illumination.
I am cool as my midnight walks,
as sweet as my imagined talks
that flit across my flat notepad.

A thousand lines of what I would say,
a million bits and syllables of what ifs
dying quietly to become whatever
in the pitch black infinite indifference
of those stranger’s black hole souls.

I crack the plates tectonic,
stack the shifting landmasses
one more put upon
parallel spinning kitchen ware.
Till all of time and space breaks.
Cosmic energy crackling
with me in the middle
absorbing all that I can see
alone in the silent vacuum of observation,
inspired by the void my peers sired.
Ingrid Murphy Jul 2019
You ask Am I lonely?
Not so.
But my waterlogged oars and my arms long for landfall,
for an old oak with a swing in its wing
rooted in rock and years,
for the sleeping quiet of snow-laden pines
anchored, tethered, still.

I accepted my charge with grace and resolve:
Uniting these distant shores.
I commandeered fleets, armadas even
of ships biscuits, canons and men
I made the journey again and again -
I travelled the earth for what it's worth
and repaid their investments a hundredfold
exchanging trinkets for gold.
But now I am almost old
and still I've not done as told
For a good anthropologist always goes native
The landmasses slip and slide
Setting foot on one shore makes the other recede,
widening the divide

So if I'm lonely it's only for want of a winch
explosives, groundwork,
iron

If I'm lost it's just the absence of feathers,
a flight of ideas, an arrow, a bow
a quill and the will
to use it​

If I'm surly it's purely for want of a fire
crackling with promise, a raging pyre
on which to cast
wet wood.
KG Jul 2021
The landmasses conspire together
To release us into tartarus.
It's hungy blackness is only hightened
Lines of red like eyes of fire
Filled with the sight of blood.
Silence takes a wry turn
Mingling respect with mourning.
Will I see you're faith restored
In the soggy skies that drift
Over sidewalks that mark our territory.
Our pain may pave the way they
Wish to take
Ashamed.
I face the dawn alone, sweeping up ashes
Perhaps this pheonix will wake
Before these nails are driven home
Continental drift spelled birth
once spelled Pangaea,
in early geologic time,
a supercontinent that incorporated
almost all the landmasses on Earth.

While rifling through mine
treasure trove of poems,
yours truly chanced upon
satisfactorily worded
geological event
where plate tectonics wrought
subterranean violent transformation
about a half dozen years ago.

Rust never sleeps courtesy zinc
without rhyme nor reason ye shan't
blame Neptune for unleashing
Indonesian tragic phenomena
just by his innocent wink
merely intended by regular
casual reminder
for Earthlings to think
seriously how (inhabited
linkedin chain of islands,)

yea kinda resembling a slink
key, within the ring of fire,
a large 40,000 km
(25,000 mi) horseshoe shape, -
Yukon also envision
a vague watery rink
encompassing basin of Pacific Ocean,
where e'en the subtlest plink
(no doubt unintentional), thus
absolutely necessary for inhabitants

to catch the latest
drift (albeit continental),
he gave forewarning
just days prior,
possibly relayed after
getting tipsy from overdrink,
hence warning not taken seriously,
where majority resident didst think
a practical joke got played,
yet a coterie of attentive people

accoutered in faux mink
(dressed to the nines
fur a gala fete
also taken by surprise,
no one sensed
any sudden high jink
then the cleaners),
and really the entire
population sustained strong kinship
with what they believed

tubby reasonable god
(a carry over from Greco
Roman Times font size 12),
hence could never suspect,
he would hoodwink
boy (and girl), whar
they ever wrong, come
Friday, 28 September 2018
at 17:02h military time,
or 7:02 post meridiem

an earthquake measuring 7.4
on Richter magnitude scale
leaving Indonesian island
of Sulawesi in total ruins,
from said rat fink
and additionally webbed,
wide whirling countersink
triggered a massive tsunami
razing humongous *****
essentially wiping off the map

in an eye blink,
whereat his lordship
could not be reached,
thus survivors bethink
sum - man tricks brought
watership down,
ah buoy big boon
dog gull upon his head,
boot nonetheless ****
sitter ably less of Neptune!
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
Apart at me in a latitude
Cross with the seams
Nostrum of commands, chartered
Owning for tomorrow, quid ad
Tully portentous of penmanship, questioning
If I had more battlecry moratorium felt lighter than the sword, but, took to the ethicism, to write it with serried disabuse
The revival of the crimson tide pegged for the trident of sorts from Martian landmasses, criminal smooth as the craters
Please open, the probes to the ice of the closest countries first, make global anarcho stuff our moral precedent
Aiming for life, you tend to lose sight of it all, along with the opportunity to make amends.
Sorry, the germane nature went out of nature, this is specifically directed at the single simpletons in the simplicity of laying out
Words in the degree of simple logical statements, which can neither be passive or active
Passionate really isn't that our motives are both not driven by passion and ambition
Curious, isn't I look intolerable in the promising outlook
Carelessness isn't it that I know love is growing a par two with my liveliness
Comeliness, truantly nuanced underbellied, becoming or bellied or becoming in the transcendence of the existential crafty wiz of nihilism that feels like your
Furr it's relaxed by its poetry, somehow we die off too young like some poet at our age
Polymaths and opsimaths might be alike, in some time
I've hope I've found a place in the line
Clever and quick climbing through the snakes on the lazing sun of the ladder come from the tinted passive line
Sunset horizon mindful of your mindreading crimson tide
Placid of the mature of the maternal greed, beyond the, claiming the doors
Of the possibilities, probabilities of the fraught lives among the cosmos of the karmic lives
Of the obliqueness of the strychnine streets that can be moonlit in the daydream of the sonic youth

— The End —