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"masse" poems
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.   As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
0
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
toreinss-pinwinkel-iii
Glyph
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.   As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation.  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
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6
Far away in ancient Jerusalem Stood a garden, long, long ago Home to giant oaks and figs And plants and shrubs of every kind. On every season, from time to time Merrily they would burst into bloom Filling the air with fragrance sweet And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer. Amid the riot of flashing shades Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads In a corner, there a Lily stood, Sans scent and sans grandeur. A poor loner never once noticed Nor skilled to steal the show, Those, brilliant in shade and shape With contempt openly quipped ‘It’s such a shame She grows among us With such pallid shade And nothing to rave’, ‘Lilies are such lazy lot Giving only seasonal blooms’ Rang aloud their haughty comments Rashly blurted out and blunt The poor Lily wilted in shame Wishing she had never been born. Late that evening, through the garden Into the newly dug up grave A band of people came with lights Bearing someone cut and scathed. With blood oozing, drop by drop From wounds, left by piercing nails The body, carefully wrapped in linen Was the body of Jesus - Son of God The one who bore the sins of the world And courted the most accursed of deaths. The body embalmed was laid inside And sealed with a giant block of stone Soldiers posted to guard the tomb And every vigil so prudently kept. Early by dawn, three days hence While it was still very dark From inside the tomb had come Rumbling sounds and a blinding light. Flowers en masse blinked their eyes Beheld a man, gently walking out The wounds still fresh on his palm And the linen that swaddled, lying behind. As they watched this queer sight In awful amazement, they did see A host of Lilies, white as snow Far more beautiful than any of them Bowing their heads in reverential glee And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life. All the flora in silent shock Sighted from whence the Lilies came They sprang unforeseen in those spots Where drops of blood from his body fell Then onwards, without fail April sees the grandeur and grace, Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze, And giving delight to all who behold.
0
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
valsa-george
Blood Blossomed
Far away in ancient Jerusalem Stood a garden, long, long ago Home to giant oaks and figs And plants and shrubs of every kind. On every season, from time to time Merrily they would burst into bloom Filling the air with fragrance sweet And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer. Amid the riot of flashing shades Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads In a corner, there a Lily stood, Sans scent and sans grandeur. A poor loner never once noticed Nor skilled to steal the show, Those, brilliant in shade and shape With contempt openly quipped ‘It’s such a shame She grows among us With such pallid shade And nothing to rave’, ‘Lilies are such lazy lot Giving only seasonal blooms’ Rang aloud their haughty comments Rashly blurted out and blunt The poor Lily wilted in shame Wishing she had never been born. Late that evening, through the garden Into the newly dug up grave A band of people came with lights Bearing someone cut and scathed. With blood oozing, drop by drop From wounds, left by piercing nails The body, carefully wrapped in linen Was the body of Jesus - Son of God The one who bore the sins of the world And courted the most accursed of deaths. The body embalmed was laid inside And sealed with a giant block of stone Soldiers posted to guard the tomb And every vigil so prudently kept. Early by dawn, three days hence While it was still very dark From inside the tomb had come Rumbling sounds and a blinding light. Flowers en masse blinked their eyes Beheld a man, gently walking out The wounds still fresh on his palm And the linen that swaddled, lying behind. As they watched this queer sight In awful amazement, they did see A host of Lilies, white as snow Far more beautiful than any of them Bowing their heads in reverential glee And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life. All the flora in silent shock Sighted from whence the Lilies came They sprang unforeseen in those spots Where drops of blood from his body fell Then onwards, without fail April sees the grandeur and grace, Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze, And giving delight to all who behold.
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64
- by Ashley Capps Ophelia, when she died, lay in the water like the river’s bride, all pale and stark and beautiful against the somber rocks, her hair an endless golden ceremony. She made the water sing for her; it flowed over her folded arms. Not so my father’s sister Karen, swollen in a day-old tub of water when they found her, needle tucked into the fold of her arm, her last thing: a wing. So everything went as nameless as the men who lifted her naked from the tub, or those who rolled her into the mouth of the furnace, which is what you get when you don’t get a service, when your mother’s years of grief turn last to rage: I won’t pay for it. Leave me out of it. And even though they finally said it wasn’t suicide; a mistake— no one knew what to do with all of that anger, or in the end how not to blame her. Even now, in her unmarked container. * People once believed a deeper reason, some dark secret motivation to the way the lemmings threw themselves en masse into the sea. Were they weary of their lives; could they, too, despair? Or like those second-vessel swine when Jesus exorcised two babbling men of their demons, driving the demons through a pack of bewildered hogs— the way they plunged? The truth we know now: they leave when food is scarce, when they’ve grown too many; believe the roads they follow lead to new meadows, a place to start over. I think of Karen, feeding and feeding her veins, how it is possible she saw us all suddenly there—miraculous and festive on some bright and other shore, like the life she had been swimming toward all along, trying to get right. Like those sailors long ago, that tropical disease, calenture— when, far from everything they knew, men grew sometimes delirious and mistook the waving sea for green fields. Rejoicing, they leapt overboard, and so were lost forever, even though they thought it was real, though they thought they were going home. —by Ashley Capps
0
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
XNtricity
Mistaking The Sea For Green Fields — by Ashley Capps
- by Ashley Capps Ophelia, when she died, lay in the water like the river’s bride, all pale and stark and beautiful against the somber rocks, her hair an endless golden ceremony. She made the water sing for her; it flowed over her folded arms. Not so my father’s sister Karen, swollen in a day-old tub of water when they found her, needle tucked into the fold of her arm, her last thing: a wing. So everything went as nameless as the men who lifted her naked from the tub, or those who rolled her into the mouth of the furnace, which is what you get when you don’t get a service, when your mother’s years of grief turn last to rage: I won’t pay for it. Leave me out of it. And even though they finally said it wasn’t suicide; a mistake— no one knew what to do with all of that anger, or in the end how not to blame her. Even now, in her unmarked container. * People once believed a deeper reason, some dark secret motivation to the way the lemmings threw themselves en masse into the sea. Were they weary of their lives; could they, too, despair? Or like those second-vessel swine when Jesus exorcised two babbling men of their demons, driving the demons through a pack of bewildered hogs— the way they plunged? The truth we know now: they leave when food is scarce, when they’ve grown too many; believe the roads they follow lead to new meadows, a place to start over. I think of Karen, feeding and feeding her veins, how it is possible she saw us all suddenly there—miraculous and festive on some bright and other shore, like the life she had been swimming toward all along, trying to get right. Like those sailors long ago, that tropical disease, calenture— when, far from everything they knew, men grew sometimes delirious and mistook the waving sea for green fields. Rejoicing, they leapt overboard, and so were lost forever, even though they thought it was real, though they thought they were going home. —by Ashley Capps
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56
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience . As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation .  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
0
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
toreinss-pinwinkel-iii
Glyph
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form .  Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet .  As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form .  The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction .  The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience . As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born.  Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .   The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved .  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms . Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility .  Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus . Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation .  Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .   In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
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6
Gather your arms Your strength, your courage The foe before you comes charging through Pray tell, who dares to breach this wall Built with sweat, and tears, determination Shall no one try nor succeed to break Integrity, honor and for all at stake Lessons learned from painful past of enemies who destroy en masse There once was one who gave full trust that those around them were of same heart How quickly vanished the innocence of what we're born, this purity Now stained with blood, with wickedness I take no more and give no less No more, I say..no more I allow I will not break, nor will I bow Stand strong, here comes the hostile band of haters and liars that we must withstand But wait, I see a flag of surrender? Shall he not break me forth asunder? No fool am I, tis only a ruse To trick and betray as the **** ensues You will not win, not over me That point will come when you will see I am stronger than you....because of you My time has come to win this war For that is what life has become A battle for whom the strongest will win Not by brute strength, but by character within
0
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 1:31 PM UTC
marinela-marie
Fortress
Gather your arms Your strength, your courage The foe before you comes charging through Pray tell, who dares to breach this wall Built with sweat, and tears, determination Shall no one try nor succeed to break Integrity, honor and for all at stake Lessons learned from painful past of enemies who destroy en masse There once was one who gave full trust that those around them were of same heart How quickly vanished the innocence of what we're born, this purity Now stained with blood, with wickedness I take no more and give no less No more, I say..no more I allow I will not break, nor will I bow Stand strong, here comes the hostile band of haters and liars that we must withstand But wait, I see a flag of surrender? Shall he not break me forth asunder? No fool am I, tis only a ruse To trick and betray as the **** ensues You will not win, not over me That point will come when you will see I am stronger than you....because of you My time has come to win this war For that is what life has become A battle for whom the strongest will win Not by brute strength, but by character within
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30
Did you find me, did you find me In those silver-wrapped dreams of yours? Did you hear sound of angels Knocking on your door? Or constant storms of invasion Screaming through the glass And I'll be there waiting With my widows en masse. She took your hand and went down To the crowds of crows wailing And you weeped like never before As your tender eyes froze. So beat me up and turn me down Dunk me in the river and turn around As your fate lines up your face And wraps you in lace- Black lace. You walked out of the steam And saw your reflection in the blood Did you forget that this is a stupid dream and that your new life was a dud. You devils better beat me up and turn me down Dunk me in the river and turn around As my fate lines up to my face And wraps me in... Black lace. Hell-bent widow. Black magic woman. Haunted shaman. Disturbed angel. She'll wrap you up and wreck your world with black lace. Black lace.
0
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
EleniC
Black Lace
Did you find me, did you find me In those silver-wrapped dreams of yours? Did you hear sound of angels Knocking on your door? Or constant storms of invasion Screaming through the glass And I'll be there waiting With my widows en masse. She took your hand and went down To the crowds of crows wailing And you weeped like never before As your tender eyes froze. So beat me up and turn me down Dunk me in the river and turn around As your fate lines up your face And wraps you in lace- Black lace. You walked out of the steam And saw your reflection in the blood Did you forget that this is a stupid dream and that your new life was a dud. You devils better beat me up and turn me down Dunk me in the river and turn around As my fate lines up to my face And wraps me in... Black lace. Hell-bent widow. Black magic woman. Haunted shaman. Disturbed angel. She'll wrap you up and wreck your world with black lace. Black lace.
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31
One’s-Self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse. Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing. Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form’d under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
0
4.5k
Walt Whitman
One’s Self I Sing
One’s-Self I sing, a simple separate person, Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse. Of physiology from top to toe I sing, Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say the Form complete is worthier far, The Female equally with the Male I sing. Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful, for freest action form’d under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.
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9
/                        innocent until prōven guilty, contra guilty until                              prōven innocent...   ah!          so the minority report? guilty, while innocent,     based upon a premonition? hindsight with a zodiac type of interpretation...    innocent until prōven guilty has no superiority in practice over the continental guilty until prōven innocent... no... because the principle invokes presuppositions,                   of suppositions... treating the two as propositions - or rather... "verbs" inacted... innocent until prōven guilty - then no understanding of freedom, at least guilty until prōven innocent allows understanding restraint, however unfair,    with 18 years lost...    and then the tears of relief!                      Tomasz Komenda...          an "espionage" case of staging empathy...                en masse...    an innocent man walks away from falsely imposed justice measures... a redemption...        a count de monte cristo allowance...                  but in reverse? the evil man walks free...      succumbing to old age,     and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon... there is no redemption aspect of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence... the... innocent, until prōven guilty, contra: guilty until prōven innocent    schizophrenia?                 the latter overshadows the former...                          because we're not babies... at least with the latter: there's a redemption exegesis -      but with the former?                 bitter-sweet tears within the confines, of an example akin                              to jimmy savile... guilty until prōven innocent    has much more authentic emotional content, with a redemption narrative... innocent until prōven guilty    has?    not much,                                   just a grave, and the stunted emotional expression, what ought to be flowers within the heart,    instead: fungus, growing in the dark... and thus... translating to other hearts:         let's allow this chemo-phobia chemo-philia experiment      be left intact in its the momentum... honestly... the study of law -    is probably the ********* game in the allowance of games of adulthood... one tier above gambling. p.s. because you know there's proof: and that the past-participle thrown into a future, does require an omega rather than an omicron... not an oh, but an ooh... hence? reign from above, on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
0
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
contra-evolution of saxon jurisprudence
/                        innocent until prōven guilty, contra guilty until                              prōven innocent...   ah!          so the minority report? guilty, while innocent,     based upon a premonition? hindsight with a zodiac type of interpretation...    innocent until prōven guilty has no superiority in practice over the continental guilty until prōven innocent... no... because the principle invokes presuppositions,                   of suppositions... treating the two as propositions - or rather... "verbs" inacted... innocent until prōven guilty - then no understanding of freedom, at least guilty until prōven innocent allows understanding restraint, however unfair,    with 18 years lost...    and then the tears of relief!                      Tomasz Komenda...          an "espionage" case of staging empathy...                en masse...    an innocent man walks away from falsely imposed justice measures... a redemption...        a count de monte cristo allowance...                  but in reverse? the evil man walks free...      succumbing to old age,     and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon... there is no redemption aspect of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence... the... innocent, until prōven guilty, contra: guilty until prōven innocent    schizophrenia?                 the latter overshadows the former...                          because we're not babies... at least with the latter: there's a redemption exegesis -      but with the former?                 bitter-sweet tears within the confines, of an example akin                              to jimmy savile... guilty until prōven innocent    has much more authentic emotional content, with a redemption narrative... innocent until prōven guilty    has?    not much,                                   just a grave, and the stunted emotional expression, what ought to be flowers within the heart,    instead: fungus, growing in the dark... and thus... translating to other hearts:         let's allow this chemo-phobia chemo-philia experiment      be left intact in its the momentum... honestly... the study of law -    is probably the ********* game in the allowance of games of adulthood... one tier above gambling. p.s. because you know there's proof: and that the past-participle thrown into a future, does require an omega rather than an omicron... not an oh, but an ooh... hence? reign from above, on the omicron, with a macron (ō).
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79
what meanings truth and justice had we've understood and will not pass that bill was paid at stalingrad (not the first time) and we are glad to see reflected in the glass what meanings truth and justice had in eyes that are forever sad seeing the bones beneath the grass that bill was paid at stalingrad for generations good and bad by that immense levée-en-masse (what meanings truth and justice had) so demos spoke and thus forbade the foolish claims of herrenrass that bill was paid at stalingrad so many folk might think us mad to speak of mankind as one class what meanings truth and justice had that bill was paid at stalingrad
0
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
fragano-ledgister
about democracy
what meanings truth and justice had we've understood and will not pass that bill was paid at stalingrad (not the first time) and we are glad to see reflected in the glass what meanings truth and justice had in eyes that are forever sad seeing the bones beneath the grass that bill was paid at stalingrad for generations good and bad by that immense levée-en-masse (what meanings truth and justice had) so demos spoke and thus forbade the foolish claims of herrenrass that bill was paid at stalingrad so many folk might think us mad to speak of mankind as one class what meanings truth and justice had that bill was paid at stalingrad
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19
Being attacked En masse by zubat Oh excuse me I meant Woobat Send out my Rapidash Its a pity it knows flash I leave a trail of Pokes behind This is what happens when you grind Saving up for an expert belt with a buckle So i can give it to my shuckle I run into a snorlax Its ok i relax I have 99 ultra ***** And one good Stalls Catch him in no time Ran into a female Mister Mime Freaked out i back up into little caterpie But I already have a butterfree Spray some repel Avoid the weepingbell Make it back to pallet town Gary and i ready to throw down
0
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC
patrick-mccombs-1
A Pokemon Poem.
Being attacked En masse by zubat Oh excuse me I meant Woobat Send out my Rapidash Its a pity it knows flash I leave a trail of Pokes behind This is what happens when you grind Saving up for an expert belt with a buckle So i can give it to my shuckle I run into a snorlax Its ok i relax I have 99 ultra ***** And one good Stalls Catch him in no time Ran into a female Mister Mime Freaked out i back up into little caterpie But I already have a butterfree Spray some repel Avoid the weepingbell Make it back to pallet town Gary and i ready to throw down
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20
Imagine if the nativity Took place now instead of then With technological advancement It'd be on the news at ten In fact it would make youtube A film clip at the stable Taken by a shepherd boy Underneath a table The three wisemen would go on Skype The gifts would be en route No need to travel all the way With the traffic in Beirut Phone banks would be all set up To raise funds for the birth The internet would be a buzz With the greatest news on earth No camels, inns or drummer boys There'd be no one there at all The Angel of The Lord would be Black Friday shopping at the mall In fact I do not think that it Would be a deal that we would follow Social media and the press Would make it all seem hollow I'm glad it happened when it did As time has come to pass With Jesus in a manger And wisemen there en masse I don't think it'd be Christmas If Christ was born today Without a cd or a movie deal Or a sport that he would play Christmas is...and always will Be the story we were told I'm glad it didn't happen now If I may be quite so bold Unto man a child was born And he, the son of God....
0
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
roger-turner
I'm Glad it Didn't Happen Now
Imagine if the nativity Took place now instead of then With technological advancement It'd be on the news at ten In fact it would make youtube A film clip at the stable Taken by a shepherd boy Underneath a table The three wisemen would go on Skype The gifts would be en route No need to travel all the way With the traffic in Beirut Phone banks would be all set up To raise funds for the birth The internet would be a buzz With the greatest news on earth No camels, inns or drummer boys There'd be no one there at all The Angel of The Lord would be Black Friday shopping at the mall In fact I do not think that it Would be a deal that we would follow Social media and the press Would make it all seem hollow I'm glad it happened when it did As time has come to pass With Jesus in a manger And wisemen there en masse I don't think it'd be Christmas If Christ was born today Without a cd or a movie deal Or a sport that he would play Christmas is...and always will Be the story we were told I'm glad it didn't happen now If I may be quite so bold Unto man a child was born And he, the son of God....
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38
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.* oh forget looking for scapegoats these days... full blown schizophrenia, happening, all over the anglophone world... me? i'm just looking at the lampoons... sorry... lemmings... and the English? top the table in western world... they thought they'd be bailed out by the H'americans... good luck rolling that pin-ball... not gonna happen... they have their own **** to deal with...    it could have... but now it will never work out, no anglophone alliance bail-out plan... it's a ******* farce... it's a bogus in the bogie in the ******* coalmine... forget the canary...    **** i'm seriously flipping the coin on phrases... FDR contra DJT?   magic! no... the politicians were always going to place the card... the joker... free-fall dance-loose feet...          my bet is... it'll fall flat on its face... the eastern European Achilles heel of the europhiles... that's a supposition, not a proposition...                      or thereby, pre-.... but i do love being a spectator of rare sport... en masse schizophrenia... a nation, divided...              what a load of ******** the English thought that their anglophone alliances would last, would encrust them in a new globalization mechanism... even the ******* Icelandic people think they're European... what did the English think? just east of Las Vegas?!            an island surrounded by a massive prehistorical lake "facility"?! no one is looking for scapegoats these days, there's no one to blame... mea culpa, mea culpa...     these days?! everyone is looking for the lampoon brigade! - and let me tell you... mea culpa mea culpa... no one is looking for a scapegoat worth kristallnacht; people are looking for a lampoon...      or...         karmesinrotherznacht, the night of... broken hearts; broken, crimson hearts.
0
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
FDR contra DJT times
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.* oh forget looking for scapegoats these days... full blown schizophrenia, happening, all over the anglophone world... me? i'm just looking at the lampoons... sorry... lemmings... and the English? top the table in western world... they thought they'd be bailed out by the H'americans... good luck rolling that pin-ball... not gonna happen... they have their own **** to deal with...    it could have... but now it will never work out, no anglophone alliance bail-out plan... it's a ******* farce... it's a bogus in the bogie in the ******* coalmine... forget the canary...    **** i'm seriously flipping the coin on phrases... FDR contra DJT?   magic! no... the politicians were always going to place the card... the joker... free-fall dance-loose feet...          my bet is... it'll fall flat on its face... the eastern European Achilles heel of the europhiles... that's a supposition, not a proposition...                      or thereby, pre-.... but i do love being a spectator of rare sport... en masse schizophrenia... a nation, divided...              what a load of ******** the English thought that their anglophone alliances would last, would encrust them in a new globalization mechanism... even the ******* Icelandic people think they're European... what did the English think? just east of Las Vegas?!            an island surrounded by a massive prehistorical lake "facility"?! no one is looking for scapegoats these days, there's no one to blame... mea culpa, mea culpa...     these days?! everyone is looking for the lampoon brigade! - and let me tell you... mea culpa mea culpa... no one is looking for a scapegoat worth kristallnacht; people are looking for a lampoon...      or...         karmesinrotherznacht, the night of... broken hearts; broken, crimson hearts.
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80
CRIMSON Colors explode As the sumac stands sentinel over the ebbing rays of the sun Shepherding away Niibin to make room for Dagwaagin Standing, alone, in a sea of green Sumac heralds the changing season And like an artistic wild fire Is the first in what will become a palette of chromatic vibrancy Sensing the subtle change Mother deer, her two fawns and yearling Meandering through the sumac grove Make haste of the fading green buffet Mother Bear and her cubs, now a year stronger and wiser Gorge on honey and berries as they ready for their winter's sleep Red-Winged Blackbirds, Robins and Sandhill Cranes congregate en masse Hummingbird drinks the final drops of nectar In anticipation of their journey south In advance...of the returning white Biboon blanket The clock of Mother Earth is precise And the natural world follows her timely rhythms As southerly and westerly winds shift to the north Eagle soars high above...the yet unfrozen river Vivid foliage slowly falls to the forest floor Creating an intricate insulating tapestry for those below In the meadow, swaying in the wind, stands a solitary Daisy It's single yellow petal defying the departure of longer days Harvest moon shimmers through bare branches Dancing, tapping in rhythmic fashion, upon a quiet window Stirring Misigami from her reverie Outside her window, a lone black figure, a Lobo, like her Acknowledges her presence, blurring the lines of consciousness Signifying that dreams do come true And that through the change of seasons We grow We become stronger Wiser And are given the true gift...of forever being... ...Hopeful (c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
0
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
shawn-white-eagle
Dagwaagin (Autumn)
CRIMSON Colors explode As the sumac stands sentinel over the ebbing rays of the sun Shepherding away Niibin to make room for Dagwaagin Standing, alone, in a sea of green Sumac heralds the changing season And like an artistic wild fire Is the first in what will become a palette of chromatic vibrancy Sensing the subtle change Mother deer, her two fawns and yearling Meandering through the sumac grove Make haste of the fading green buffet Mother Bear and her cubs, now a year stronger and wiser Gorge on honey and berries as they ready for their winter's sleep Red-Winged Blackbirds, Robins and Sandhill Cranes congregate en masse Hummingbird drinks the final drops of nectar In anticipation of their journey south In advance...of the returning white Biboon blanket The clock of Mother Earth is precise And the natural world follows her timely rhythms As southerly and westerly winds shift to the north Eagle soars high above...the yet unfrozen river Vivid foliage slowly falls to the forest floor Creating an intricate insulating tapestry for those below In the meadow, swaying in the wind, stands a solitary Daisy It's single yellow petal defying the departure of longer days Harvest moon shimmers through bare branches Dancing, tapping in rhythmic fashion, upon a quiet window Stirring Misigami from her reverie Outside her window, a lone black figure, a Lobo, like her Acknowledges her presence, blurring the lines of consciousness Signifying that dreams do come true And that through the change of seasons We grow We become stronger Wiser And are given the true gift...of forever being... ...Hopeful (c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
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39
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you? My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know. There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism. It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse. What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors. Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism. And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism. So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
0
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
brad-lambert
Isms
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you? My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know. There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism. It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse. What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors. Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism. And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism. So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
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8
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was... list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch, dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston, fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield, haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson, jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey, lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand, neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel - i'll be an albino in Gujarat if your play the sitar in a sari; but your name sounds a bit migrant revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus' you seem to stand on - you want the Mongolians resurrected? i swear we were being ousted in line of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon: 'olive skinned throughout the geography and the unwelcome green men on sponged-knickers creaming for an ****** a french dessert...' yes pretty prior, you found home on a continent when half of the european nations didn't practice colonial antics - i guess it's easier to pick on them. but with a Patel surname you sound british already, the great experiment worked the anaesthetic of former colonialism numbed via recreational Ketamine use really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles - i hate, i hate being conscripted into post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed" what a waste of the urban hubs of Manchester or Liverpool - where once artistic expression thrived - i hate these post-colonial societies, it's as if they were castrated en masse, and they're wondering why no one has a permanent suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet - cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick but then the cough that blinds you sweetly - i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to listen to non-colonial nationalism - a former migrant like pretty plated smell olive skinned exploited inversion of angers but dunked a footstep into a trip-up with non-colonial nations - a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel is a name least likely associated with migration; you teasing the beast out?
0
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
hey pretty plated smell!
Priti Patel's quote on EU migration - whatever it was... list of common surnames: cropper, cross, crouch, dabney, dalton, daniels, eads, easton, eccleston, fairclough, farnham, fay, gardner, garey, garfield, haight, hanes, hailey, ibbott, irvin, isaacson, jack, jackson, jacobs, kay, keen, kelsey, lacey, lacy, lamar, macey, mann, marchand, neal, nelson, neville... sure pati japati patel - i'll be an albino in Gujarat if your play the sitar in a sari; but your name sounds a bit migrant revealing, what a weird 'back of the bus' you seem to stand on - you want the Mongolians resurrected? i swear we were being ousted in line of what Queen Sheba said to Solomon: 'olive skinned throughout the geography and the unwelcome green men on sponged-knickers creaming for an ****** a french dessert...' yes pretty prior, you found home on a continent when half of the european nations didn't practice colonial antics - i guess it's easier to pick on them. but with a Patel surname you sound british already, the great experiment worked the anaesthetic of former colonialism numbed via recreational Ketamine use really numbed the skull and jaw mandibles - i hate, i hate being conscripted into post-colonial affairs of "why it all failed" what a waste of the urban hubs of Manchester or Liverpool - where once artistic expression thrived - i hate these post-colonial societies, it's as if they were castrated en masse, and they're wondering why no one has a permanent suntan in scandinavia - maybe the raw herring diet - cinnamon up your *** magician's trick with space between fudge of digestion, disappearing trick but then the cough that blinds you sweetly - i guess post-colonial nationalism wanted to listen to non-colonial nationalism - a former migrant like pretty plated smell olive skinned exploited inversion of angers but dunked a footstep into a trip-up with non-colonial nations - a bit like the greek bail-out - pretty patel is a name least likely associated with migration; you teasing the beast out?
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50
The club is small and dark and hazy like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers. Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere— dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke. This hole is filled with the classy of day and the sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd. Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five, booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before “places!” —The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards. Two acts down followed by some soot-covered clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what. Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry— Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act! The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers are off the billing, stage left at some other club!) The manager thinks fast like a quick change act— Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook— In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane. He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called The Vaudeville Hook.
0
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
meadowbridgham
The Vaudeville Hook
The club is small and dark and hazy like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers. Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere— dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke. This hole is filled with the classy of day and the sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd. Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five, booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before “places!” —The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards. Two acts down followed by some soot-covered clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what. Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry— Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act! The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers are off the billing, stage left at some other club!) The manager thinks fast like a quick change act— Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook— In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane. He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called The Vaudeville Hook.
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26
For Susan on her birthday At a distance they appear so unexpectedly red, a vivid vermillion strip in a growing green field. We walked up the farm track to view a few stragglers lost on their way to their Red-Together meeting. They were intensely red with liquorice-black centres, free from that dustiness of poppies in swathes. Alone, and too red to be real, their stalks too tall ungainly, anorexic even. En masse, nodding variously, a thousand-strong Red Army choir chorusing their hearts out.
0
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
nigel-morgan
Poppies
For Susan on her birthday At a distance they appear so unexpectedly red, a vivid vermillion strip in a growing green field. We walked up the farm track to view a few stragglers lost on their way to their Red-Together meeting. They were intensely red with liquorice-black centres, free from that dustiness of poppies in swathes. Alone, and too red to be real, their stalks too tall ungainly, anorexic even. En masse, nodding variously, a thousand-strong Red Army choir chorusing their hearts out.
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21
The young boy wrote his Christmas Cards Wrote his name as neatly as he knew He put the ones aside to take to school And in his bedroom he hid two These cards were special for the boy One was for his Uncle, one was for his dad The cards just had to reach them And here's the plan he had.. He knew that mail to Santa Claus Made it up to the North Pole But, he wasn't sure just how his card Would reach his fathers soul You see, the boys dad and his Uncle were taken by an IED They'd both been gone two years now Since the boy was only three He visited the cenotaph In the park, most every day He'd stop and he'd salute it And then he'd go and play It was a gentle hi to both of them For he knew that at this place He could feel them staring down on him Though he'd forgotten his dad's face He took the cards down to the park And he left them by a wreath Left over from November He laid his two cards underneath A man was walking past the boy And he saw the boy salute But, he also saw the Christmas cards And he thought the whole thing cute He waited for the boy to leave And he opened one to read It said  "Merry Christmas" , "Thank You" "I miss you, yes indeed" The man went to the nearest school to ask about the lad To find out if this one young boy Was a student that they had A teacher overheard his tale And called the man in for a talk At the end she sat there crying She had to go out for a walk She went to find his teacher Told the tale of this young man Then between them they sat down and They both devised a plan The next day when the class began Christmas Cards they would write Each one was for a soldier And to them this just seemed right They would set up a class field trip To see the vets up on the hill In the special Veterans Hospital to the kids, this was a thrill The hospital was telephoned And the vets were set to meet Miss Johnson and Miss Watson's class To get their Christmas treat The kids were dressed in sunday best Like they were a month ago But, this time it was different This time there would be snow Each card said "Merry Christmas" All said thank you, some were sad To think this project started with A card left for a dad After all was done and dusted The kids continued on They went down to the cenotaph To give more cards to those now gone The story made it through the school And each day another class Wrote Christmas cards to soldiers And they delivered them en-masse By the action of a little boy who wasn't locked to a computer He started a tradition this young boy, the saluter.
0
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
roger-turner
The Saluter and the Christmas Cards
The young boy wrote his Christmas Cards Wrote his name as neatly as he knew He put the ones aside to take to school And in his bedroom he hid two These cards were special for the boy One was for his Uncle, one was for his dad The cards just had to reach them And here's the plan he had.. He knew that mail to Santa Claus Made it up to the North Pole But, he wasn't sure just how his card Would reach his fathers soul You see, the boys dad and his Uncle were taken by an IED They'd both been gone two years now Since the boy was only three He visited the cenotaph In the park, most every day He'd stop and he'd salute it And then he'd go and play It was a gentle hi to both of them For he knew that at this place He could feel them staring down on him Though he'd forgotten his dad's face He took the cards down to the park And he left them by a wreath Left over from November He laid his two cards underneath A man was walking past the boy And he saw the boy salute But, he also saw the Christmas cards And he thought the whole thing cute He waited for the boy to leave And he opened one to read It said  "Merry Christmas" , "Thank You" "I miss you, yes indeed" The man went to the nearest school to ask about the lad To find out if this one young boy Was a student that they had A teacher overheard his tale And called the man in for a talk At the end she sat there crying She had to go out for a walk She went to find his teacher Told the tale of this young man Then between them they sat down and They both devised a plan The next day when the class began Christmas Cards they would write Each one was for a soldier And to them this just seemed right They would set up a class field trip To see the vets up on the hill In the special Veterans Hospital to the kids, this was a thrill The hospital was telephoned And the vets were set to meet Miss Johnson and Miss Watson's class To get their Christmas treat The kids were dressed in sunday best Like they were a month ago But, this time it was different This time there would be snow Each card said "Merry Christmas" All said thank you, some were sad To think this project started with A card left for a dad After all was done and dusted The kids continued on They went down to the cenotaph To give more cards to those now gone The story made it through the school And each day another class Wrote Christmas cards to soldiers And they delivered them en-masse By the action of a little boy who wasn't locked to a computer He started a tradition this young boy, the saluter.
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80
You are fragile, yet guile. & even though you say you dont feel the same way, through senescence you'll notice the truth. You'll piece the puzzle together as to why you came every night to see me. Why you stayed when my words were shards of glass. Why you enjoyed my pink and purple love letters on your toufee skin. Why you always found yourself leaving those places to stare off into space with me. Yet, you say there is nothing. Nothing. The absence of something. If that is the truth I have to live with, then so be it. But you'll count how many of those pretty empty ladies stay in orbit between your planets, stranded on your asteroid belt. You look closely, I'm this giant elliptical galaxy within the other galaxies that you'll never seem to escape. I'll dip your thumb In between my lips, glide your hand across the side of neck, through your lips I'll pour a burst of stars right through your cuspid & new stars will form en masse. Then you'll notice that these stars shine brighter, millions of times brighter than a sun like star, and maybe then you'll notice that you did feel something, even if I was only actively forming stars within you. the absence of feelings, let me touch down twice. & if you really not feeling the kid, let me figure it out minus the lies. Cause ima still navigate through your vicinities, im still breaking down your complexities. I still have galaxies I need to finish building, just let me finish them
0
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
SimbasNala
Galaxies
You are fragile, yet guile. & even though you say you dont feel the same way, through senescence you'll notice the truth. You'll piece the puzzle together as to why you came every night to see me. Why you stayed when my words were shards of glass. Why you enjoyed my pink and purple love letters on your toufee skin. Why you always found yourself leaving those places to stare off into space with me. Yet, you say there is nothing. Nothing. The absence of something. If that is the truth I have to live with, then so be it. But you'll count how many of those pretty empty ladies stay in orbit between your planets, stranded on your asteroid belt. You look closely, I'm this giant elliptical galaxy within the other galaxies that you'll never seem to escape. I'll dip your thumb In between my lips, glide your hand across the side of neck, through your lips I'll pour a burst of stars right through your cuspid & new stars will form en masse. Then you'll notice that these stars shine brighter, millions of times brighter than a sun like star, and maybe then you'll notice that you did feel something, even if I was only actively forming stars within you. the absence of feelings, let me touch down twice. & if you really not feeling the kid, let me figure it out minus the lies. Cause ima still navigate through your vicinities, im still breaking down your complexities. I still have galaxies I need to finish building, just let me finish them
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2
i'm just bored of having to feel what other people feel, limiting the realism of things, a woman with a child's  severed head in moscow is sensationalism to them, but when they get a mild reality, Kashmir chilly  on the palette, they make cheap Monty Python jokes to scare the facts away... the so-called satire that requires canned laughter; was given a library of 25 philosophy books, not one of them by an englishman, went as far back as the greeks, i guess the version of english egalitarian was not worth a communism, somehow the two synonyms became antonyms... 25 volumes of philosophy, not one english philosopher... the english intellectualise: i.e.: regurgitate facts.... the english do not philosophise, i.e. instead they cite facts... they're intellectuals by rite of citation, the citation of facts, they can't philosophise i.e. not cite (facts)... they intellectualise, they cite and recite facts with a dogmatism that fears a demolition and no rekindling of interest... to philosophise is to avoid citation: to work from nothing, the english cannot philosophise because they intellectualise and by intellectualism they cite and recite facts like an ave maria pi = 3.14... Galileo's spectacles... etc. the english cannot philosophise, they're just intellectuals, they cite and recite facts, they cannot engage from non-citation or non-recitation of a fact, like a greek might ignore a stone and fool himself claiming it's nothing, the english cannot allow a confiscation of a subject and treat it as nothing, it would not make sense as to why charles i was the precursor of the french aristocratic en masse meeting with the guillotine if darwinism wasn't discovered on the islands of Galapagos... although i beg to differ with a thought on Gauguin and the islands of Tahiti: make a turtle yawn and you'll jinx yourself a blessing to live to be one hundred years old.
0
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Darwin Galapagos / Gauguin Tahiti
i'm just bored of having to feel what other people feel, limiting the realism of things, a woman with a child's  severed head in moscow is sensationalism to them, but when they get a mild reality, Kashmir chilly  on the palette, they make cheap Monty Python jokes to scare the facts away... the so-called satire that requires canned laughter; was given a library of 25 philosophy books, not one of them by an englishman, went as far back as the greeks, i guess the version of english egalitarian was not worth a communism, somehow the two synonyms became antonyms... 25 volumes of philosophy, not one english philosopher... the english intellectualise: i.e.: regurgitate facts.... the english do not philosophise, i.e. instead they cite facts... they're intellectuals by rite of citation, the citation of facts, they can't philosophise i.e. not cite (facts)... they intellectualise, they cite and recite facts with a dogmatism that fears a demolition and no rekindling of interest... to philosophise is to avoid citation: to work from nothing, the english cannot philosophise because they intellectualise and by intellectualism they cite and recite facts like an ave maria pi = 3.14... Galileo's spectacles... etc. the english cannot philosophise, they're just intellectuals, they cite and recite facts, they cannot engage from non-citation or non-recitation of a fact, like a greek might ignore a stone and fool himself claiming it's nothing, the english cannot allow a confiscation of a subject and treat it as nothing, it would not make sense as to why charles i was the precursor of the french aristocratic en masse meeting with the guillotine if darwinism wasn't discovered on the islands of Galapagos... although i beg to differ with a thought on Gauguin and the islands of Tahiti: make a turtle yawn and you'll jinx yourself a blessing to live to be one hundred years old.
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44
AN OVI/VICTORIA'S POEM                COLLABORATION What brings an undaunted Warrior down on his knees?" **It is a Woman, A woman's tears can pierce into the most rigid of souls. It is her charms and calls that falls like splendors on morning leaves. Her sway and bounce, that sends shivers into the hearts.** *Such are the nights she envelopes him in a tailwind, both of them buoyed in his regard of her every thing. Quenched and drunk on the essence of love in action happen the mornings when he is the rising sun itself that draws her like a mist from the ocean.* **And as the moon transverses the lone sky, searching for a mystery to peruse the earth with brooding glow, So she glows her man into a brighter him. She encloses within her, moments of illumination, that even the darkest of souls cannot quench. Such are the days of her unending rainfalls, where she wets up the shallowest of earth's depths.... Intertwining between seasons and spheres. Her heart is like the endlessness of the ocean, Constantly drawing him with her hips into a wave of boundless journey.** *And so it is as it always was through the ages of transience, their enigma constant, unending prevailed against the steely, storming skies of angst en masse   that would test loves mettle, where true warriors, undaunted rise above, arced in kaleidoscopic triumph.* **Ovi Odiete and Victoria© All right reserved. 10/9/2016**
0
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
Poetrytimes
What brings an undaunted Warrior down on his knees? (Collaboration with- Victoria)
AN OVI/VICTORIA'S POEM                COLLABORATION What brings an undaunted Warrior down on his knees?" **It is a Woman, A woman's tears can pierce into the most rigid of souls. It is her charms and calls that falls like splendors on morning leaves. Her sway and bounce, that sends shivers into the hearts.** *Such are the nights she envelopes him in a tailwind, both of them buoyed in his regard of her every thing. Quenched and drunk on the essence of love in action happen the mornings when he is the rising sun itself that draws her like a mist from the ocean.* **And as the moon transverses the lone sky, searching for a mystery to peruse the earth with brooding glow, So she glows her man into a brighter him. She encloses within her, moments of illumination, that even the darkest of souls cannot quench. Such are the days of her unending rainfalls, where she wets up the shallowest of earth's depths.... Intertwining between seasons and spheres. Her heart is like the endlessness of the ocean, Constantly drawing him with her hips into a wave of boundless journey.** *And so it is as it always was through the ages of transience, their enigma constant, unending prevailed against the steely, storming skies of angst en masse   that would test loves mettle, where true warriors, undaunted rise above, arced in kaleidoscopic triumph.* **Ovi Odiete and Victoria© All right reserved. 10/9/2016**
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40
If you know why salmon swim upstream in a suicidal attempt to get back to their beginnings and why lemmings head en masse for the sea and why drones who service the queen bee inevitably die, then tell me why I who should follow their lead hold back? Am I afraid to find that the pain of leaving might be less than the pain of staying behind? Is this what salmon, lemmings and drones all know? And so they willingly go?
0
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
eileen-benavente-blas
A Rhetorical Question
If you know why salmon swim upstream in a suicidal attempt to get back to their beginnings and why lemmings head en masse for the sea and why drones who service the queen bee inevitably die, then tell me why I who should follow their lead hold back? Am I afraid to find that the pain of leaving might be less than the pain of staying behind? Is this what salmon, lemmings and drones all know? And so they willingly go?
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mIt VÆrelSe                          roDEr s0M aLdRIg fØr DeT fLydEr mEd brEve oM FreMtidsTrUsler frA p0Litiet                             eN maSSe tøj PenGe jeG ik ke vEd hvOrdAn Jeg hAr sKafFet [eLLer ikkE vIL vIde] AfLeveringEr fra mIt ANdet FænGsel MiN   moR SigER  AT jEg skAl rydDe 0p      MeN hVad FanD en nyTter deT nÅr jEg aLliGevel Rod3r det Til   IgeN Im0rn
0
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
FrederikBartho
R0deHovEd
mIt VÆrelSe                          roDEr s0M aLdRIg fØr DeT fLydEr mEd brEve oM FreMtidsTrUsler frA p0Litiet                             eN maSSe tøj PenGe jeG ik ke vEd hvOrdAn Jeg hAr sKafFet [eLLer ikkE vIL vIde] AfLeveringEr fra mIt ANdet FænGsel MiN   moR SigER  AT jEg skAl rydDe 0p      MeN hVad FanD en nyTter deT nÅr jEg aLliGevel Rod3r det Til   IgeN Im0rn
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Americans ... Is it just Americans you're talking about here Trump? ... those chosen, those special people, those singular red-blooded people, because I'm a little confused here as you didn't seem to consider Syrian refugees as bleeding the same red blood even when it flowed so freely for them over there in their pitiless homeland, & Hispanic immigrants, they bled red too, or being rapists & murderers was it a tainted red? & black folks? was their blood red? from reading your White Supremacist re-tweets I figured darker skinned Americans had some innate handicaps or un-American tendencies & thus their blood was a might different to us white folks, & Muslims? do they bleed red too? or is it a special breed of red, an Islamic red? a special sort of red that favors deportation as says Brietbart news or that forbids them entry as per your unforgivable attempt at en-masse criminalization. There was no bleeding of the same red blood as you appealed to the lowest denominator in white folk bigotry during your successful rise to top of the heap in Republican vengefulness, bitterness & just plain Supremacist American red blooded horror was there? No, there wasn't.
0
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
martin-bailes
"We all bleed the same red blood"
Americans ... Is it just Americans you're talking about here Trump? ... those chosen, those special people, those singular red-blooded people, because I'm a little confused here as you didn't seem to consider Syrian refugees as bleeding the same red blood even when it flowed so freely for them over there in their pitiless homeland, & Hispanic immigrants, they bled red too, or being rapists & murderers was it a tainted red? & black folks? was their blood red? from reading your White Supremacist re-tweets I figured darker skinned Americans had some innate handicaps or un-American tendencies & thus their blood was a might different to us white folks, & Muslims? do they bleed red too? or is it a special breed of red, an Islamic red? a special sort of red that favors deportation as says Brietbart news or that forbids them entry as per your unforgivable attempt at en-masse criminalization. There was no bleeding of the same red blood as you appealed to the lowest denominator in white folk bigotry during your successful rise to top of the heap in Republican vengefulness, bitterness & just plain Supremacist American red blooded horror was there? No, there wasn't.
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En tæt klæbende masse af dukker med tomme øjne og deres hjerteløse dukkeførere. Samfundets opdræt af hjernevaskede personligheder. De strømmer forbi mig, som rotter der løber febrilsk i kloakken. Jeg er en i blandt. Oprettet som en profil på ligegyldige styresystemer. Du, jeg, vi, os er et label, et produkt, en opskrift. Vi er ligegyldige brikker der omrokeres konstant efter tåbelige tendenser. Uden personlighed. Fortabte dukker uden deres dukkeførere.
0
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
maja-klit
En i blandt
En tæt klæbende masse af dukker med tomme øjne og deres hjerteløse dukkeførere. Samfundets opdræt af hjernevaskede personligheder. De strømmer forbi mig, som rotter der løber febrilsk i kloakken. Jeg er en i blandt. Oprettet som en profil på ligegyldige styresystemer. Du, jeg, vi, os er et label, et produkt, en opskrift. Vi er ligegyldige brikker der omrokeres konstant efter tåbelige tendenser. Uden personlighed. Fortabte dukker uden deres dukkeførere.
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