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AW Nov 2021
How?
If even there were
A force in this universe
Sustaining life beyond just breath
Beyond this web of neurons
Firing in predictable patterns
Prescribing every inclination and desire
A flame in which is fully forged
The consciousness that
Dreams and dares all things
Beyond our mere survival

If even there were such a force
How would it be made known?
How does a foundation work
When the fundamental building blocks
Are massless, pointlike?
As much wave as particle
Basking in the sunlight of uncertainty
Existing in duality

How, when everything else is
Nothingness
A void a million billion times more extensive
Than anything substantial
That surrounds it
A vacuum that renders
The remaining matter pointless
How could force be hollow
Yet encompass all
What does it all mean
When all of matter falls in between

This unseen field
Rippling, wriggling, rigging
Everything it fills with the seedlings of decay
Each day
Moving along the breakdown towards
Entropy
Splendid chaos,
Almost too perfect to be called such

How could we not see
The force
Still elusive, but unchanged
Striking a balance
Between fate and volatility
The neverending battle
That morphs each how into a why
The demon and the butterfly
The Science Sessions
Brian Oarr Mar 2012
At the going down of the sun
will the world be less complete,
the cinched robe of night less intolerable,
as she ebbs away on cosmic string,
emulating a massless, dazed neutrino
blinking in and out of existence,
unobserved and uneffected,
liquored and unloved?

In the wake of a June flowering,
when foxglove lures the honeybee
in six day flash, bud to corolla,
blossom to blossom, parade of stigmas,
digitalis stamen braved, anther at his back,
the bee comes gathering where none else dare.
Mike Essig Aug 2015
by John M. Ford*


The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days
Perhaps you will not miss them. That's the joke.
The universe winds down. That's how it's made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you'll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.
Arbela falls into the hands of the castes of the Etréstles of Kalavrita, plummeting like lightning and surpassing the scorched farmhouses of extraterrestrial Mosul, into its intrinsic compartments. On the other hand, there was the power of Maceo, his Syrian, Mesopotamian, Medean, Parthian, *****, Tibarian, Hyrcanian, Albanian, and Sacesanian troops were immediately found, they were scattered like Leviathans disturbed by themselves and their debased Titans, in all execrations not specified of this avalanche, so that they are carried by their leading dean, and donated to their physiognomy as limpid preys of misfortune to be foretold for them in the exile of their bravery. Later, once embedded in the crevices of its stenches, they would search in the foolish emanations of the Phosphorus (Morning Star of Venus), showering it with the glories of the morning and its distractions, exchanging the decomposed inert matter towards the Achaemenides, incontinent to be bordered with all the fascinating dawn. Those commanded by Maceo; the commander of Darío, brought a heart to be transplanted from a wise Dervish who had set out to install it after conquering the epic feat, and its conjecture. They believed they were seducing their attached lords who supported their disconsolate ones, but they brought through the substratum of character that moves the incessant squeaks in the bitterness of the hemlock sheathed in the Xiphos, toasting towards the twilight to mark the retreat between lights.

Etréstles saw a lost proscription on the battlefield, expelling it from the divine heaven of Arbela. By the conferred Vernarth is adhered to in this round by caressing Alikanto by the right gibbous of his steed Kanti, this would cause them to cross in the same line, and give a split oppressive kinetic curve for the hyper spearmen to vibrate with the spin of twist their contracted masses, adding field at the tips of the sky to the despondencies and the static Persians. Thus they fought together close to the infantry, in a famous order, plagiarizing the movement and linking the ribs of the Syntagma's ranks from left to right, to fluctuate in the forces of their graceful Falangists with anxiety. By observing this Alexander Magnus, he redoubled his heavy cavalry and also challenged such a concert in the maneuvers executed by Etréstles, calling it "Diabolical Office", since they traveled inseparably in the Runes of circulatory movement and in the cardiac system or Kardiá, reimplanting it in the spin of turn back of the infantry and the cavalry, but with the entire mass of their blue lapis lazuli horses…, wheezing from their nostrils!

Auriga says: "Your venereal milestones come to disturb the new beings, they come to occupy your organisms with arrows on their bodies deterred by the magical quiver of Artemis, with new incarnations and manly gallantries"

Etréstles jumps from Kanti, and represses some militias that were surrounded, and manages to see Vernarth, to the sound of the noise of his transmission reloaded on the intimidated enemy. At times, he would hold on to one of his executioners to resist the pain in his ribs. As he clenched his sword vigorously and resisted the suffering that paled in his face but increasing the size of his arms and legs, to unleash the great booming voice of Sheol, which led him into the great stupor of the resigned Persians, then a whole is clarified in the miscellany it was of the fervor and pain of the expelled souls, to witness the amount of their independence consumed.

The lightened atmosphere of emptiness in the tunnel of the Profitis Ilias was felt at the top of the surface, where the entrance acroteria of the Hexagonal Progeny stood and trembled. Majestic gravitational waves struggled here inverted, seeping from the volcanic base of Patmos in vertices of physical fields and elementary particles, very similar to the caves of Gethsemane, in the suggested stop of phylogenetic mechanics and the establishment of phonetics, all embedded and propelled by the particles impacting on them, causing mass opposition in the internal void of the duct covered by the Iaspis saddles, propelling unions in progressive waves and in viscous fields, very dense when generated by the Christi Arms and the Souls of Trouvere. These elementary particles of God were submerged in excited basilisks of composite particles in the dynamics of energeia, preexisting already cited and adopted by Vernarth in his last parapsychological regression where he collided in the Higgs Ipso facto field. In the areas W and Z, rather in the W of Wonthelimar and Z of Zefian as patterns of lights without mass in their vectors that were attracted by the tidal wave of their matter, where the viscosity is perhaps, the confusing darkness of the fossil material, mutating by atomic energy from the starvation of the Febo Shemesh, or false Sun of Leviathan in its collapsed asthenia. It was captive of a viscous moraine that collided with each other, exciting occupations of the empty field, already typecast in the Higgs boson, and in the Wonthelimar photons that it had to spare, to be prone to the binomial W and Z, in the energized tangent of the shallow elementary bodies transformed into particles with mass. The interaction of the particles resembled the quantum field of the Garden of Gethsemane, with asymmetric and rocky spellings, which supremely became immanent in the trinitarian energy that absorbed them in their arrest, concatenating the converted tendency of the Higgs field into a physical structure. quantum symmetric, therefore in a perfect trinitarian triangulation of elementary particles, activating equidistant from their uniformity to each other, in all the spinning spins, and in the three ataxic angles of Zefian instability on the way to its fourth Bolt. The static yearned for the tendency that propagated in a fourth Angle, but this time in the Hexagonal Progeny, on its six sides receiving the two equilateral triangles, subtended by non-massive forces, that is; weak in the charge of a photon, but if it had to cross the field junctions that were suitable for listening to the physics of God. We have to understand that all dogma gathers interactions with the Diaisthisi or foreshadowing field, that it recovers the mass of all this, or that ventures the idleness of some silent particles that make up its weight, and it's mass globality related to its material existence, sponsored by the proton in a cubic meter if it is accelerated. The underlying field here on Patmos will be one of superior physics from the Higgs or God Boson, for the granting of mass and weight in the empty wind tunnel at Profitis Ilias, resisting the necessary ineffective light from the apocryphal Phoebus Shemesh of Sheol (Hades and Erebo), to constrain the symmetrical balance of magmatic basality of intraterrestrial energy, providing the supernumerary of it, converted into Light for the reborn world of the Apocalypse. The carrier elementality of the Patmos particle, in its context of quantum physics, will be listed as the Apud Secundus Finale theory, to generate interactions in space-time, which reduce physicality and delay when attending to its credibility, in the face of supra-abnormal events and carriers of their hyperactive dogmatic apathy, under the understanding that the graph of their brain activity is a genius of quantum physics, provided with massless energy, which vertiginously adheres to the protons of their consolidated physical force, turning it into an inert atomic kinetic element, and in a dynamic one of physical solidity. For all the solidities of the wasteland of the Apud of Gethsemane, this will not be consecrated as a mystery, rather it will aspire the just act of immense mercy of the body compacted in the emotion of feeling gravitated, and accelerated, transfiguring itself into an atomic elemental impulse, which crystallizes Creative Faith, that is, the Vernarthian Duoverse! The Boson is massive, all the matter that is conducive to it will be poured by the verticality standard in creation, theoretically predicting in the tree of physics, whose conduit hyper live between the root and its foliage, and will consulate the effect of its origin. , for greater challenges of your divine experience.

Song of the Libyan Sibyl (bis): “the candles will ignite, the Iridescent eyes of the Mashiach will sparkle in the probable mortuary settlement of Vernarth in the oasis of Siwa:“ Oh my warm breath of Libya that flatters my cheeks, and my shoulders that they rustle in the light of Zeus's callused cerebral coexistence. I sing for you my Didaskein; treating or teaching the bewildered flock that confuses the messages that were born B.C., not having a reminiscence of Irradiation in the mastery of the continuous shift, as it does not contravene latent ignorance, but does find it satisfied and effulgent ...!
Codex XV - Apud Secundus finale
mj Jun 2016
i can feel my soul rotting out
you’re sitting there, i can taste your
smoke
the bitterness of words on your
breath,
massless
meaningless
i breathe them in anyway.
i know you can’t take anything seriously;
maybe it’s just that you can’t take the
right
things seriously.
you look at me like i’m a
child
(why won’t you meet my eyes)
and you talk like the world is yours
to explain to me,
a little too loud and
a little too long and
a little too much like
you think you’re telling me things i don’t know
(could you even--?)
you think i speak when i’m spoken to,
i think i speak when i’m listened to;
because if you were
right
maybe fewer of these conversations
would be about you
and i wouldn’t be left to wonder if you like me
for the things i do say,
or just for the things i
don’t,
while i’m silently absorbed in
sitting here
listening
nodding
smiling
a word for every thirty of yours,
oh, wow
and
how nice
like clockwork until I’m just
crazy
with
listening,
counting down the seconds until your
impromptu sermon
(beacon of self-righteousness)
ends,
and finally
i can remember the sound of my own
voice,
snatched away in the wind
stirred up by your beating
wings,
but maybe carried off to someplace
where i can actually be
heard.
wrote this at 1AM after getting home from a party where I endured a little too much cigar-breath mansplaining.
Gourav R Dwivedi Nov 2017
She is the mother
Who has raised a
Son ,
Whose moral values
Touches the sky,
Whose confidence is
like an Aquila
Who  fly,
So high...
Mother is happy,
She has raised a son
Who is busy serving
The mother nation,
Bharat maa,

She is thin
Old, her vitals
Don't function well
But she is living
Just to see her son
Once in a year.

With her old shrunken,
Eyes she waits ,
Her dry massless wrinkled
Hand waits ,
To touch his son
Once in a year.

She is the mother
Who fed her son
With so much love &
Care ..

now that love and care
Is enjoyed by
By a billion and more .



As once Napoleon said,

Great nation need nothing
Much as Good Mothers.
A tribute for Shree Narendra Modis Mother
They come to haunt on an evening as this
when thunders roar fall endless rains
windowpanes moan in frosted kiss
awaken within long lost pains!

They don’t bear me a name or a face
the massless aches ***** like thorn
oozing out from what hidden place
on an evening as this they’re born!

In the blowing gust rain’s beelike drones
shatter my heart’s all gathered peace
mess the mind feed upon bones
leave me broken on an evening as this!

The pains don’t bear me a name or a face
don’t tell what hurts for what I miss
but ***** out all gathered happiness
rain my eyes on an evening as this!
It comes like clockwork
Fixated rock body
Down face in
That empty warm
Cold ditch
Bottomless pit

Stitching quilt less
Flip the pillow
Cold side up
Empty spot

Usual thinking
Of massless
Mornings
No lumps left

In between

Bent hangers
Lemon peels
Quite the company

Chains rattling
The empty beckoning  

Throbbing of
Rare skin

The place
Where your body
Should collect
My errors

In between
Twirling,
Trickling

Destroying every
Cloudy  fist

Sweeping over
Nothing

But broken
Dreams



Of you.
Had/have hopes that seem hopeless.
Ayesha Jun 2021
Here I lurk
Clutching my shadow
In my fists
It shivers, shrivels, sighs
A flame shushed to silence
On its ashen throne
Here I grasp
Grasp the oozing, burning night
That drips down my fingers
A palm beneath a palm I place
A palm beneath another
It the creamy tiles kisses
And will come to me no more

A rumble wobbles
around the room
Of laughs and talks
And talks
However do I mingle
In these faceless folks?
However do I fathom
All these massless worlds
Orbiting around ecstatic tongues
That birth them
Birth them on and on
Birth them meaningless, and birth them blind

I think,
Maybe when the flood dies out
I think,
Maybe then I will see
Pick up the shells this land could not drink
And read the tales preserved
In their wounds
Maybe the drunken ghosts
Serving all these brightly dressed drinks
Will approach me too—

Not yet though
Not yet

I pull little hymns out of my throat
Roll them around in my mouth
It is there they sway,
There they wilt

A gaze chained to my eyes
Wanders about
Like an injured fly
On one face it rests
On one chuckle stumbles,
A crack skipping down the wall
A high-pitched laugh blooming
In the corner
There is a bleakness, believe me
In this world

A bleakness so pitiless and rotten
Its stench covers all that is born
All that is not
All—
There is a bleakness
And I often mistake it for my own
But I do not now
It is there in every eye
In every corpse hanging between the ribs
It grows up like a sturdy ****
On arms and legs and
Bones
Up and down the aisle it flows
In this classroom twinkling
with childish mirth

Up and down
It pats heads and laughing cheeks
It is there
It is there
And will not still
Will not stir either

I think,
I must warn them
These energetic faces trying
to resurrect joy
From the flesh of stories all skinned alive
Warn them
I must, I must
But the words pile up
And floods pile up
One upon the other thousands
And I lose myself somewhere

The chatter blends in with the chortle
And I cannot tell
The shadows imagined
From cloaked figures swaying around
I would warn them, believe me
Warn them I would
If only
If only I could grasp hold
Of this darkness
That mimics me everywhere I go
Ghost of a black lamb
I once sacrificed for
A purity I loved to violence

And longing never became
A shackle so well

I think,
maybe when the flood dies down
I will breathe,
I will breathe maybe
Here we lurk
A slave upon a slave rests
A slave beneath still
Two ghosts I birthed,
Two lambs opened up,
One will not love me
And one will not not—
17/06/2021

Panicking in the academy, but at least I got a poem out of it
Hooflip Jul 2014
We're all crying while we slave away,
Smiling when we're free.
If only we could see the freedom
in that flash of teeth.
But only if we mean it,
Yes only of it's meant
Tell me whats the worth of worrying
You'll drown inside cement?
Now the others rest upon the middle
they get no relief
They don't wish to see the sun
Until they go to sleep
And the lookers down sit perched upon
The place that is implied
They only care to swoop if they can peck
and pick apart our lives.
All these observations made
Behind a pair of glasses
From these marblesque devices
Run by lightning seeming massless
Thinking "if only we were classless,
Careless, living off of instinct
at least we'd be so unaware
that we are reaching a brink
Where those who work away
for birds of prey
are sick of slaving days
and rise with those who wish to see the sun.
How they'll rattle the cage.
Taken from the scrap paper scribbles I produced during the downtime of my first job.
Rooted Whispers Jan 2015
Your muse was broken bone and cracked spirit but that never quite fit right, did it? Like a smoldering flame that only existed in the corner of your eye- ceasing existence when you turn posed with a bucket of water. Then one day the word atom stuck and you could feel the particles on your skin turn towards the word like the energy it resonated was a kiss from mother's familiar lips. You molded the word into cracked spirit, lonely body, lone mind, liberated soul, and finally whole woman and eventually your eyes stopped seeing gold lining and began fading and now your pen posed over paper reaches anticlimatic endings like whole bodies running towards each other in ecstacy but failing to touch. Words fall from your fingertips but without a muse they don't carry any weight. You're violating laws of physics with your massless words, dear. Loneliness, depression, loneliness, independence, loneliness, self-love, loneliness, self-doubt- how many times can you repeat words before they begin to escape the laws of meaning. A language of gibberish born from your lonely ramblings. When the universe sends you a placeholder next to your body, he will drown in your words and will have to leave to save his soul. That's the only outcome, darling.
Melvin Jan 2019
I loved you beyond the moon and sun
    Till I burned in unknown stars

And every lie ~ that I stopped,
   Burned in colours of black and white

     Stars do die but love is for
                                               Eternity

  So when skin and bone burned
     Love in its purest form remained

                    Floating
                                  On
                           ­          Massless
                                             Spaces
                                        Inside
           ­                           A
                         Charred
                    Heart
Love is beautiful, but much of it is often one sided.  I wish everyone  the best in their love life.
Alex Salazar Feb 2016
What if we could see each other's souls instead of each other's faces.
Maybe we'd find that our minds are all in the wrong places.
Our eyes are rigid, and usually unkind.  
While our hearts are vivid, and can produce love until the  end of time.
Supreme human,
I Awake this light.
Massless entity
Let us intertwine.
JD Atkins Apr 2015
I.

When we tell ourselves:
Be patient,
good things happen
in time…
do we know
what that implies?

Do we realize
we are weighing hearts
on the parabolic curve
of a watch’s slow unwind?

For me,
it is a comfort
inversely proportionate
to the size of the parameters we set.
Science would suggest
a sentiment stretched over infinity
cannot possibly have weight:
a massless belief,
a quantum state.

Week in and week out
we find an empty promise of change
in the unending planes of doubt.

Oddly,
physics would suggest
such a transparent theory
is filled instead with a boundless energy.

We invest every ounce of our E
into this hollow idea,
this paper prophecy.

Like father Franklin,
we drag our hearts with thin strings
through loud noises and bright lights.
Like father Frankenstein,
we sew our minds
to a patchwork body of strife.
We trust that,
in good time,  
all things come to life.

II.

Impatience is scientific,
it’s true.
Our wildest imaginations grew
in the span
of a century or two.
Part of a grand tradition,
sometimes
I catch myself
counting down
unnumbered minutes until
at last
I meet you.

Love,
I’m a stitch in the
fabric of things;
you’re the needle that’s
pulling me through.
Brujo Alligatore Dec 2015
A massless squig
He existed before he thought
"I am"
He drives the mobile around.
The shapes of his thoughts and dreams
Form the initial conditions
And everything
Is an echo
Ayesha Sep 2021
outside, the cosmos swirls on,
in here, the daisies scream
and ask the walls of who they cage
they silenced stand

one prayer was broken,
and one hushed;
one was hazy,
and one too late.
one then, never offered

in the age-slicked thread
of that shapeless rosary
sun on moon falls
with naught a sound
but a sigh.
and moon on sun still

within, a finger, a finger flays—
one nail was chipped
one’s skin too dry
one, imperfect a temptation,
and aching for ache one.
one then,
left alone with a clot

ask the walls
of their unwavering serenity
as hollow, massless bones
they stand

laced with cracks,
with clatter, with
thousands an uncounted
blemished prayer,
and skins as
paints scrapped off—

waiting, waiting;
to smother the daisies
to a quiet marrow
13/09/2021
Duality etched in cosmos...
A speckle...or a ripple?
Refracted you interfere per se,
uncertainty inscribed in psyche...
Theorized by the mastermind himself,
stable like none other...
Massless and chargeless,
two state restrictions...
Gliding; no,
attained a velocity maximum,
moving at light speed..
A gauge Boson,
Member of The Standard Model...
Shawn Mehaffey Mar 2017
You see, light has no mass.
Therefore it has no gravity.
It cannot push you;
In any direction.

A shadow is the absence of light;
But it has the same properties.
Massless.
It's just a little different.

I'm the shadow.
I can't pull you.
Towards me.
The only direction I want.
Light, shadows, and some physics for the mildly fearful
Third Eye Candy Jan 2019
those hamstrings have seen enough arias
to spring at any moment -
that jumping for a reason.
could be made futile
with a lingering scent of
try again’...

that’s when you sleep.outside
without a torch on your tongue
to scorch the hubris of talking.
nothing to verify by fire
only the ashes in your
mouth.

with nothing to speak of you drone into virtual kismet,
pandering for Mandalas
on the east side of a red herring cannery, but docile -
like a red fern-wolf’s bane clawing at black holes
in broad daylight.
velocity unknown… but by all accounts, a frenzy.
with nothing to clarify by desire
only massless, heavy -
things.
Celso Moskowitz May 2017
Almost the light of a dawn
after the Sunday,
I try to fill the time
with words
that have no
volume.

The easiest of tasks,
the hardest of tasks:
there's so much that can be said,
there's just so much that can be said.

The walls turn to grey
an there's this oily thickness in the air,
drifting in search
of a window,
of opportunity.

The words are still
massless
and I still have time
left:
for now
this will have
to do.
Dan Hess Dec 2019
Low density
slow entropy
expansive ethereal
immaterial inclusive
conducive conclusive
collective perspective

Interjected perplexing
Vexed intensive directive

Perspicacious intonations
repulsed over nullified
Emulsified dry mindless intrinsic duplicitous insistances
redacted and reacted upon retroactively,
in posthumous alacrity,
as backed and packed to me
are primitive tenacities
by classless massless animalistic catastrophes
in baseless traceless
uniformly adjacent replacements

Tasteless abasement
in braced,
placed erasure of nature
Replace her with infrastructure
Good old abundant mother, **** her

I'd love to plug her with rubber
unsung troubles debug her
rewind and entice
and drown and rend blind with devices incisively derisively winding
her planar engagements
to ownership taken
forsaken by god
but we're shaken by odds
of new values in clods
of endowments toward rods of power each hour we glower
and how her entreatment
might trap and devour
if we weren't so clever
we'd sever our heads as we shower
in the ichor of the dead
and instead we're just thicker than blood
with our money and crud
replace water with crude
and a bad attitude

I'd be true to the money
but wouldn't it be funny
if deigned be the dummy
as warless and lost
in the loathesome defrosting
of planetary exhaustion?

Now tell me the cost
of the death and the offing
of all we've been coughing
to the air we've been drawing from
gnawing the earth to her bones
always want some more worth from our home
but it's worthless if we end up alone
We used to be spiritual
Now it's all about that empirical material imperial
Evan Stephens May 2019
A silver lake of fog
rests by the ten oaks.

Smoke shivers too,
thin as a wafer.

Against the clouds
is a mirage of small birds.

Massless morning,
scalloped rain,

long as Sunday,
old as poison.
KG Apr 2020
I am not my own worst enemy
As we work in dithering silence
To destroy the hope we crafted as a
Centerpiece.
Like the toddler, we are never growing up.
Tearing apart sandstone towers
so the rain can't take the credit.
We may be, the doddering fool,
Never owning up to the stains made
by blood wept for the sake of our own
We take in the decay of the aether
Searching and starving to become
Bigger monsters than we are.
We love the effortlessness it takes to isolate
A quartet of half formed thoughts
Have the power of a bullet.
We hate the helplessness of it all
Acting alone to prevent disaster while
Massless masters mask what matters
As if we really know.
All I know is I want what I can't have.
We make that possible.

— The End —