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Working parts and mechanisms,
charts and graphs and mannerisms,
a table, pencil, square and mitre...
eraser marks, sweat drops, -go lighter!

A thought or two and ponderance...

Decimal here and decimal there,
-micron adjustment now we're square...
Up all night until daylight dawn
and finally I've fixed the Krong!

A thought or two and ponderance...

To the factory arrive before eight
and finished, furnished, a model late...
A handheld one and something larger,
humanity saved by my charger!

A thought or two and ponderance...

10 years long after planet saved,
They'll be parades and accolades...
Statues, tributes, my name in text-books,
but no one, never, a second look!
Never to worry on life again...

..I did it,
I reset the world; begin.

And did it all with Earth's mighty spin.
Kinetic resonance oscillating natural power (GE) (GAIA)
howard brace Oct 2012
Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859
C A Nov 2012
We blanket our fears with silly defense mechanisms to shelter any shame we carry
From every angle we stand we are judged at first sight
We pretend we aren't critics but we are hypocrites everyday
As we seek the forgiveness we can't give in return
We make promises and sugar coat little white lies
As we defensively reassure the world we are mistunderstoond and unique
The truth is our narcissim reeks like bad perfume suffocating everyone around us
As we stand tall for whatever it is we believe in
It's just denial
Because inside we are tormented with insecurities and charachter defects
Inside our stomachs are fluttering with anxiety and secrets too painful to remember
Inside we are incarcerated with a plethora of misguided ghosts screaming for an escape
Inside bombs are bursting out gunshots and out hearts have bullet wounds to prove it
Our viles of happiness are never satisfied
We are always seeking more
But we are never sure what we are looking for
Some sort of accomplishment or recognition
Maybe validation
A sign that we are still breathing with a euphoria seeping out our pores into the air
A sign of greatness
Maybe we want that picture perfect dream that we fantasize about until we reassure ourselves we are lunatics for wishing
We feel debased because our choices keep the odds against us
We are incapable of managing our own lives
And maybe nothing will restore our piece of mind
It's insanity--our thoughts
I think its called delusional
Because in reality nothing goes as expected
We had learned to cope with self medication
Because all the doctors were wrong
Something had to fill our voids in our hearts
Something had to stop the brain from processing emotions
We chased after something invisible
A force that spiriled our lives down into the ground
We ran away like little children afraid of the dark
Because we thought the pain would be like daggers through our hearts
Stabbing us over and over again until we died from sufferance
The pain was too frightening to look directly in the eye
If it were easy or if there was a simplier way of figuring it out we wouldn't have wasted so many years battling the addiction that wears a shield of armor
If it were easy the grass would be green and we'd never have to water it
If it were easy we wouldn't be so sensitive to triggers and flashbacks
It's not easy
It is World War 3 every single day
There is a chip on our shoulder and a devil on the other jumping up and down eager to break us
He is whispering temptations;
Seducing us with our vices, pushing us to collapse like an avolance until we overdose
He is waiting patiently and constantly because he knows us so well
We were weak for so long and he is hungry for our failures
He wants us to throw our hands up and call it quits
And the worst part is just when we think we've won it gets worse
And we are forced to stand in the mirror and detect every flaw of imperfection we wish to erase
And then it comes back all our defense mechanisms
The way we present ourselves to the big whole wide world
Biting our lip in sufference
Haunted by a past of turmoil and depression
It is hard to communicate to those who don't understand our demons
We are looked down upon and there is another stupid burden to carry
Because everything adds up and we get tired of all the negative
We get stomped on and spit on and drug through hell
But then something clicks
And we look around the room and we realize we are not alone
We are brave, strong and somehow still alive
And there is a person to your left an another to your right starring right through you
But all you can do is hand over the keys to your self destructive behavior and pray that help is on the way
Because we are addicts batteling the same devils in different levels of the game
Because we were dealt with a bad hand
But we played with what we had
And suddenly everything was ok when we walked into the doors to our recovery
and said
Hello, I am an addict
Marco Carlos Jul 2018
Hair, looping about, intersecting through one another, locks, like a sea of being.
Smell, scent from an unseen utopia, lingering, waiting to be consumed by my gasping lungs.
In and out, it controls, to the point of complete isolation, eyes become obsolete, lids contract, breathing in slowly the calming breeze.
Like a sea shell, the ear witnesses the origins, beat after beat, separated by intermissions of quiet, her inner mechanisms at work. I feel her soul coming alive.
Renee Danielle Dec 2015
my roommate likes to play dress up.
sometimes, she will look just like me;
other times, she looks like fragmented bits
of my worst weeks thrown together
in old calendars I've tried to lose.

you tell me this is a cry for help,
but "help" is a foreign word
that will always sound funny
coming from my lips.
keeping myself together
is a language I never learned to speak.

a merry-go-round of feeling bad
about feeling bad
about feeling bad.
I can't remember the opposite of sick.
my stomach is hurting
and my head is spinning
from all of these circles.

I've been avoiding my reflection
because I'm afraid she'll be disappointed
to see what I've made out of her.
I don't want to keep running from people
who once loved me.
Umi May 2018
Beyond the boundaries of our restricted life,
Lies a world of pure fantasy, majestic and venurable in size,
You don't have to die in a dream, were the words pushed into me,
Because I was weak, such was a limited set of mind, bound to earth,
"Oh heavens, oh earth" I said, " take me in, let me enjoy the beauty and joy of what's beyond my fragile body once more, just for this moment, I would like to lose myself in the melody of life and death"
The boundary of day and night, determined by the worlds spin gifts us fascinating sunrises, and a starlit nightsky filled with great glory,
Seen and unseen, fantasy and reality all kept from interfering with one another by complex mechanisms and borders, orderly stuctured!
The boundary to another's heart however is crossed by emotions,
Emotions which are to be kind, pure and sweet, ah, phantoms!
Phantoms of the past conveyed by memories long gone corrupt judgement; when I knew the meaning of eternity you were no longer there, such the serenity of silence rules over this deserted border.
The border of conciousness.

~ Umi
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
consciousness conceived as complex matrices
patterns contained within patterns.
magnetic anomaly brainwave synchronization
unrecognized vortex activity locations.
correlation amplification phenomena resonance.
measurable parameter brain wave activity
highly sensitive field fluctuations.
transducer low frequency geomagnetic pulsations
electromagnetic patterns: their associated chemical changes.
Weak intensity complex magnetic fields
generated earth hum technology affect
flux-gate sample collapsing fields
amplifier filter stages couples into analog digital converter.
experiments correlating local geophysical anomalies
earth's magnetic field changes consciousness.
single electromagnetic coupling mechanism
including spin-mediated neurons.
upsurge solar activity alters brain rhythms, hormonal levels
healing nature mystic experiences
anomalous cognition ******-physical phenomena.
internal model reality - subjective consciousness
addition computational capacity
existential status may need exotic physics
quantum entanglement and new forms of physical interaction
magnetic sensory cells induced meditative states
direct correlation shifts magnetic flux.
No active effort required.
Magnetic mineral aligned crystal chains
embedded biological membranes.
atomic sublattices of ferrimagnetic material
plausible theoretical mechanisms
mechanosensitive membrane ion gates
specific synergetic properties for transduction.
cuboctahedral morphology properties
jitterbugging vector equilibrium matrix basis tensegrity.
basic geometrical biological building blocks.
mystical red rock temples
Tracing disjunctive dislocations
Mother Earth speaks
Questions remain.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://jcer.com/index.php/jcj/article/viewFile/318/343 - The Sedona Effect
Kelley A Vinal Nov 2014
Through the wandering spectrum
Of cerulean dragonfly eyes
You fly without hesitation
Observing the vast and marvelous world
As if it were your own
As if it were your cut-out template,
With an admirable sense of wonder
And the fervent desire
Not only to know
But to contemplate
The luminescence of a fluttering firefly
How the brittle mechanisms of life
Apply
Through crystal-clear dragonfly wings
You carry your mind
Jayme M Yaroch Jun 2015
Mechanisms
cogs, wheels, clocks
large turning gears
a clatter and a clang
such industrious workings
springs, locks, pins
together acting as a whole
replacing a human element
that was unreliable before
making things better
allowing life to go on
which is all well and good
until it's a coping              
mechanism
that you need
because yours
has broken down
and the store sign
only says
PARTS OUT OF STOCK.
Ray T Mar 2018
I try so hard to scrub him off me.
It has been over four years and I still scream in the night.
The feeling is so suffocating that when I open my lungs, dust puffs out.
All I have left from him is layers over layers over layers of insecurity and fear.
When you ask me if I liked that, I smile and nod and yes yes of course,
But I can’t even feel it anymore.
Sometimes I am so numb by what has happened to me and my protective mechanisms resurface
Blocking every sense of touch and emotion that I have,
Giving you the show that I was taught to give.
The only feeling that remains after we have *** is the feeling of another man’s teeth sinking into my neck,
Clamping down on the blood flow to my brain,
Knocking me out in a much more pleasant way than when he would with his fists.
No matter how raw I scrub myself, his fingerprints and bruises linger.

I love you.
I am trying to forget him.
I am shaking in your arms and it is for all the wrong reasons and it has been a year,
A year into this beautiful life with you and I still don’t think I have told you.
It is not your fault, I know that.
What I don’t know, is if it was mine.
D Dec 2014
think about a dog that gets beaten with a stick
everyday, for quite some time.
think about the way it feels,
to have someone who cared
show how much they don't.  
think about the way dog changes in time (cause it does)
think about the fear brewing in it
and the trust that will no longer exist.
it's been a while now, dog is in a new home, cared for and loved.
think about dog seeing a stick again
think about it's reaction
the pain, the fear -it's all comimg back now
think about it
how do you think it'll react?
you ruined me
Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
Left Foot Poet Mar 2019
The Fidelity of Transmissions

”Cells, the units of life that compose our bodies, are able to make copies of themselves to help us grow, fight disease and recover from injuries. Cells have built-in mechanisms that maintain
  the fidelity of transmission  
of genetic information from one generation to the next, and to control cell division in a timely manner, allowing our bodies to build or rebuild various tissues.”

~~~
when the poetry cri de cœur grows unbearable ,
sound mystery-science calms his tumbling transcendency

alas, here too, his ears sit up straight when stumbling on a invitation to
“come write,” for hid within the science jargon, oft rests a snipers shot

redirecting the didactic mind back to the
everyman’s land where-poetry cells split,,
commanding him to delve into, visit new brain wrenching vistas
“the fidelity of transmission”
at its macro level, for science is micro-poetry,^
n’est-ce pas

~~~
when you love another
the transmission is a slow pour,
or a radical jarring,
the fidelity extremely extraordinarily variable

the loveliest unpredictable

the sip sip of eyelid kissing adoration,
the irrational irrigation of the no-space-between,
when the television remote disappears in the couch crack,
the screen, complete static, perfect complement, to a rigorous experiment of

the loveliest unpredictable

we manually conjoin fluids in her mouth’s petri dish,
stain the slide for observation,
in full Imax color observe the cells busting and doesy-do’ing over to
a new partner, where bonds of fidelity attach a partnership clause to

the loveliest unpredictable

when a child emerges, the first words are
find that remote, just kidding, first comes a comestible demand,
mother’s milk 98 degree heated,
feed me a white solution to any unanswered cell’s questions, what a

loving predictive predicate

scribble this, ****** that, change a diaper,
while debating whose baby’s assemblage resembles,
overjoyed at the experimental outcome,
proofs of the fidelity of transmission,
the outcome notated, but science demands no bias confirmation,
another test required of tissue rebuilding

the loveliest unpredictable

~~~

^postscript
for is He not laureate greatest poet of all,
developer of the scientific architecture,
inventor of varietal sunsets, moonscapes,
individualized singularity of snowflakes,
love making, gravity and the preprogrammed death
of your own cells,
etcetera etcetera etcetera
all just poetry in motion in fluidity,
ah, fidelity fidelity
fidelity
Sat., March 9, 2019
Jeff Gaines Feb 2019
I'm so sorry for not being here much, dear Readers. I make no excuses other than I have been having surgeries, getting my books edited, formatted, copy-written and published on Amazon and dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Michael, which decimated our humble tree farm. The eyewall passed a mere 18 miles south of us and I am STILL cutting up fallen trees and either dragging their remnants up to the road to be hauled away by the county or down to the burn pile to be burned by me. As I said, I am recovering from Stent surgeries, so it is a slow pace, at best. When that is all finished, I'll need to address either burning or cutting out the stumps of all these fallen pine trees and then finally fixing our washed out driveway. (Long sigh)

  As many of you read, I published a piece titled "Message To A Friend". It is an homage to a life-long friend that had passed away. Your responses and comments absolutely warmed my heart ... THANK ALL OF YOU! It was even chosen as my very first Daily here at HePo and I was truly humbled.

  But as most know, whenever you achieve something or are given accolades, you draw the ire of people who have little or no self-esteem and have a psychological and pathological NEED to either show themselves as better than you (an attempt to jump in your spotlight by pushing you out) or to just undermine you out of jealousy by bullying and name calling. Often the line between the two is greatly blurred.

  My being given this Daily was no exception. There is a person here on HePo who can nearly ALWAYS be found leaving derogatory, self-serving, condescending comments on peoples HePo Dailies. He did it to a friend of mine, not too long ago. Not being one to take such drivel at idle, I responded and this began a volley that was not only funny but truly enlightening on the behaviors and the motives of a bully ... or a troll ... or even a hater. The difference between them all is nearly non-existent. Their lack of confidence, their self-doubt, and personal inadequacies/inabilities drive them to form an ego that on the outward eminence front, makes them appear very confident and quite often overbearing and extremely judgmental as though they were so much better than everyone else, they are then entitled to do so.

  These judgments are spewed in an effort to not only make it appear as if they are high and mighty enough to be entitled to do this but to make the person they are attacking fear them as well. In essence, they are frightened cowards that are desperately hiding this fact behind false bravado and holier-than-thou entitlement.

  I have removed this person's name here, as that is irrelevant to the thing I am trying to achieve here. I would like you to witness their initial attack, then my responses, and the volleys that follow. You will be able to witness, first hand, the way that these types of people operate. You will be able to witness them spiral downward in their actions and tactics, desperately trying to maintain control of the situation. Even to the point of becoming child-like in their name-calling and spewing "facts" that they can not POSSIBLY know a single thing about.

  They even, predictably, call foul when you do the exact same thing to them, that THEY have done to you. This juvenile response is actually funny, but in reality, all of this is actually very sad.

  They do these things in an attempt to keep the appearance of having the upper hand. But their ego blinds them so badly, they have no idea that they are exposing themselves, and their sickness, to everyone. Most, if not all, of these types, have a need to appear to the world as someone who is better than everyone else. Someone who has it "all under control" ... even you. They want you to believe that you should revere them. This person, in particular, has this part of the affliction chronically. It is a form of narcissistic megalomania.

As you stand up to them, they have "stages" that they go through while dealing with the person that has stood up to their superego. The more you stand up to them, the further downward their spiral goes. You will see them here, in order. I cut and pasted them, then removed his name. Other than that, they are unedited. It even ends (for now) with them offering a truce. (They will undoubtedly come back, as predictably, they can not help themselves.)

BUT ... the truce is yet another poorly veiled attempt to regain control and come out appearing as the dominant one. It is laughable in many ways, but again, it is also very sad. These people have many, many deep-seated issues and may have experienced traumas in their life that have molded them into this behavior.

Admittedly, I probably took this a bit too far. Mea culpa. Remember, when you are dealing with these people, they have one goal, and one goal only ... to PROVE to you and the rest of the world that they are superior and you are inferior. NOTHING else is acceptable. Some are passive-aggressive and some are straight aggro. I shouldn't have used little teasing names and put-downs, but I couldn't resist, as he was just SO textbook in his actions and it kept them coming back.

  I baited him from the very start by presenting him with perfect logic and critical thinking. I removed his predictable arguments BEFORE he could use them. This sped up the panic and the downward spiral.  I needed to keep him coming back by denying his need to dominate me because I wanted to post it all here, in order, so that you might learn about what drives these people and thus, take them with a grain of salt and brush them off more easily while feeling less hurt by their hateful, condescension.

  They really can't help it. And, as you will see ... they can not be helped either. No matter how many times that I pointed out to them how they were exposing themselves to the world, they just kept coming back for more. It really is a sad state of affairs.

  Keep in mind, as you read this very first post in the comments from them, that they are commenting on a piece that I had written, as a letter of sorts, to a lifelong friend who had just passed away. There is a link to that and the second piece they trolled in the notes. This is how they opened their assault and I set the hook:


(Name deleted)  Utter bathos from an unreconstructed Alcoholic.
No sense of personal shame.

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2 replies

4d
(Jeff Gaines)

(Jeff Gaines)   Huh?

So sorry, (Name Deleted), that this took so long to respond to ... It has taken me this long to stop laughing. As they say in NYC, "Haters gonna hate" and "If you got haters, then you are doing something right!"

You have just made both idioms ring so very true. Especially considering that:

A: We have never met.

B: You write such a childish attempt at an attack just when the piece has received a daily. (Bad timing there, pal.)

Firstly, I am not now, nor have I ever been an "Alcoholic". I'm not really sure where you got that impression. But using my references to drinking, as teens often do, was a very apparent (and desperate) grasp at trying to bring some sort of defamation to my character. This is made further pathetic by the fact that you know neither me OR my deceased friend, and therefore have no right to make such an assumption. (Another thing you've done to make yourself look pathetic is to write such a comment about a piece written about a deceased friend).

"unreconstructed"?

THAT was a two-handed grasp, so desperate it brought me hysterical laughter. Definitely my favorite part of your nonsense. Please, stop by my website, read up on me and my accomplishments and have a look at SOME of the stars that I have worked with in my nearly 40 years in the "Biz":

>>> www.jeffgaines.world <<<

As you do, ponder the fact that you DO NOT get into the position of doing these things by being an "alcoholic in need of reconstruction". In my business, the first time someone found you with ***** on your breath, you be blackballed. It is UNACCEPTABLE. Besides, being a Master Production Electrician, working around services of 1200 AMPS or more, requires complete focus, lest you **** yourself or others. But I digress ...

This way, you can attack me with something other than untruths, like me being an alcoholic or being in need of "Reconstruction". (I was hoping you would be so kind as to explain EXACTLY what you mean by that? Or was it the "wittiest" thing you could make up at the moment?)

(So ... let's see ... you could poke fun at my being a "Big Guy" perhaps? Or maybe you will disapprove of my long hair? Oh, I know, my ****** hair ... you can crack on that for certain! And let's not forget the fact that I'm 55. Maybe you could come up with some great defamation about my age! You could even use a clever (and predictable) British slur, like "Geezer"! Oh, that would hurt SO much! LOL)

I'm looking forward to more of your hating nonsense. How sad, empty, meaningless (and pathetic) you and your life must be, that you feel the need to be a hater. I'd say that I feel sorry for you, but I simply don't. People like you strengthen and encourage me because they let me know that others are jealous of my life and my abilities. I especially love it when they would expend their own precious energies to attack me or my writings when they could expend that energy to better themselves or THEIR writings! It is your choice, not mine.

I saw in your profile that you have "NO use for Tobacco or Alcoh" (Sic) ... and I would fight to the DEATH for your right to have no use for such things. By the same token, YOU have NO right to IMPOSE your beliefs (or childish judgments) on others. But please, carry on! I invite your further attempts at schoolyard bullying, posturing, judging, and holier-than-thou posing.

It will be fun!

Namaste

4d

----------------------------------------

N­ext, they try to act like they were just being satirical and that they meant no harm. They have now realized that I can, and will, stand up to them. I also startled them with such an educated and seemingly well-thought-out response that they were definitely not ready for. Like a good debater, I had also took away all of their predictable responses with logic and critical thinking. So, this is their attempt to back out of it and still feel "on top":


(Name deleted)  So you caught my 'Alcohol abuse is not a way to salute the memory of anyone' satire?.

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1 reply

3d
(Jeff Gaines)

(Jeff Gaines)   No, (name deleted) ...

What I've caught is you cowardly taking down the response I made to your earlier jealousy-driven, impish attempt at slighting my piece after it had been chosen for the daily.

In it, you called me an "unreconstructed alcoholic with no sense of shame". (A person you do not know, nor have EVER met). After explaining to you that you had no right or reason to make such an accusation, you retract (read: take down) your foolish commentary (and my response) out of embarrassment, and replace it with this poorly attempted sidestep of a claim that it was some sort of "satire".

It is well known here at Hello Poetry that you like to bash on pieces picked for the daily. I have read your pathetic, childish drivel. It is because of those, that I have never gone by your page and actually read your work as I felt it unlikely you would write anything worthy of reading. Especially considering the imaginary high pedestal that you picture yourself spewing it from.

I guess I hit home with my observations about you attempting to be holier-than-thou and a bully. "Spot on" as you Brits say. Or was it the comment about your Karma? Did that ring home with you? I mean, you being a big Yoga person and all ... Karma is VERY important in your beliefs ... is it not? In your TEACHINGS ... is it not?

Did I make you suddenly stop to ponder your Karma after attacking others precious works with your unsolicited words of judgment and Holier-than-thou condescension? (Yet another teaching of the Hindu-Yoga beliefs, not being prideful, right?) Well, I should hope so. That is why I reminded you.

IMHO, being a person that claims to believe in Karma ... a person that TEACHES it ... who would reach out with harmful, spiteful, cruel and critical words ... words that are founded in nothing ... perhaps in his own opinion, at best ... is akin to a "Religious" person that carries a Bible, self-righteously belittles "sinners" as HE sees them ... and then wanders down to the ******* for some whiskey and "relief". Wouldn't you agree? Not much difference, now is there?

How funny is it that THAT person, who would break SO many teachings of his OWN beliefs ... Would also claim to not only be a practitioner but a TEACHER of these beliefs as well?

Oh ... very funny indeed.

Tell me ... Do you CHARGE your students? How do you think THEY would feel about giving you their hard-earned money if they knew that you practiced such things here on Hello Poetry? Do you think they would want to attend your classes after that?

It is people like you, that keep people like me ... laughing. Laughing with a bit of pity and, more importantly, a whole lot of wisdom. You are a very wavy pane of cheap glass ... and still, I can see right through you.

Good luck with all your endeavors... AND your Karma.


Namaskaram

3d

----------------------------------

N­ext, they take a posturing/yelling position in an attempt to frighten me (textbook) and then cry foul that I am doing the same thing to them that they have done to me. But, as I point out, I am only reiterating and asking questions. They follow up (on the offensive) by attacking my politics, my race, and even my religion. Then they finish by trying to call out their fellow yoga enthusiasts against me, by claiming that I am a hater of yoga. Again, comical. They also attempt to re-establish dominance by offering me advice (instructions?) on how to "fix" myself. Behold:



(Name deleted)  I have not ever taken ONE PENNY in payment for explaining how to commit the actions that are guaranteed to turn Knowledge into Experiential Knowingness.
You try to insult me and blacken my character with your foul insinuations!.
You must be an enemy of Yoga.
You are a sick bourgeous no-nothing intellectual white liberal born again Christian POET!!!.
Carry on exposing your obsequiousness and twee character.
DEEP NASAL BREATHING will get you out of your obvious dilemma!.

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1 reply

3d
(Jeff Gaines)

(Jeff Gaines)   BINGO!

Button pressed!

Glad that I waited until after breakfast ... or I would have been laughing too hard to eat!

Well now ... that was quite the outburst, huh?

Predictable from a common bully. Now, knowing what I know about bullies, you are slipping into panic mode here. Bullies always get startled when the person whom they are picking on turns and gives them the same medicine. So, first they act like its nothing, then they lash out in fear ... as ALL bullies ARE cowards. Their bullying is a behavior pattern hiding a defense mechanism that hides their true cowardly nature.

So ... let's look back on what's transpired so far and save those just joining our little exchange the toil of reading the other posts ... shall we?

Besides, it is MUCH easier for your type to have it all spelled out one point at a time, rather than to give an actual all-in-one lecture.

1. I received a "Daily" from Hello Poetry for my piece titled "Message For A Friend". It is a heartfelt letter to a friend that had been important in my life and had .now passed away.

2. You (a person I have never met or even chatted with online) decided to leave a crass, condescending, holier-than-thou, bullying comment (as you are well known here to do to other peoples Dailies). To be clear, we are all here to post our beloved works and others are given the chance to comment or even review them as fellow writers. That being said:

Your exact comment was: " Utter bathos from an unreconstructed Alcoholic.
No sense of personal shame"

Here is the definition of Bathos according to the English Dictionary, 4th edition:

bathos (bāˈthŏsˌ, -thôsˌ)►
n. An abrupt, unintended transition in style from the exalted to the commonplace, producing a ludicrous effect.
n. An anticlimax.

3. I am going to make the assumption you were referring to the second ... "An anticlimax". If you felt that my piece was anticlimactic, that is your opinion and you are humanly entitled to it. Point taken. Its validity rests with you and your opinion. But I accept it like a man, nonetheless.

4. (And here is where you began your childish posturing and holier-than-thou condescension.) You then DECLARED me, the author, as an "Unreconstructed Alcoholic". Seeing as how you have never met me, this can ONLY be speculation or conjecture at best on your part. You CERTAINLY had NO right to DECLARE this as fact to the public at large. But bullies don't do either of those things (speculation or conjecture). Their cowardice and jealousy drive them to spew judgments and put-downs such as these in order for them to not only be the Judge but to exalt themselves somehow OVER their intended victim. It somehow makes them feel superior. Something they desperately need, especially in the public eye. It helps to hide their faults and inabilities.

5. You finished with yet more conjecture and condescension by stating that I had "No sense of personal shame". Once again, a very pretentious declaration about someone you have never met. This one, in particular, shows your true colors and position as a bully in that you wrote this after reading what ALL of the other comments said was a warm, heartfelt piece ... as I had intended, about a friend that had DIED. This, as near as I can tell, would make it appear that YOU have "No sense of personal shame". But I'll not address that. We have BETTER fish to fry.

6. After my response, where I call you out on making judgments and spewing condescension from your imaginary ivory tower, you then back peddle and try to side-step your actions by now calling them "satire". Again, typical bully behavior... They posture, get punched in the nose and decide to say "oh, hey, I was only kidding" so as to save face and keep the same face from any further shaming by their intended victim.

7. I, a person who personally has a disdain for bullies because of being bullied as a child, would not allow this attempt by you to regain control and, in your mind, come out on top by saving face. I did so by pointing out FACTS, not assumptions nor conjecture. To wit: you claim to be all Existential and a believer in the teachings of yoga, so I thought it poignant to point out how in those teachings you are not allowed to display your ego/superego, nor are supposed to impose hurtful things, verbal or otherwise, or judgments of any kind on others. These things are not conducive to good Karma.

I finished my point by comparing it to a Bible-thumping preacher who, one moment is slandering "Sinners" and the next moment enters a house of ill-repute for whiskey and "relief". I also QUESTIONED, I did NOT state, whether you charged for your teachings. I also conjectured that if you did ... then how would your patrons feel about your actions here on Hello Poetry? It was conjecture, nothing more.

8. You then respond with yet another HYSTERICAL attempt to posture me and slander me in order to draw attention away from the fact that it is YOU who have been exposed for your OWN actions ... NOT BY ME ... but by YOURSELF ... I was simply shedding light on them here in the forum where YOU shot the first volley! And you do it SEVERAL ways ... to wit:

9. You make the accusation that I " ...try to insult me and blacken my character with your foul insinuations!." (Love the period AFTER the exclamation point. Nicely done) I insinuated NOTHING. Read it all again. I stated facts. Facts garnered by YOUR comments right here on these pages. The ONLY person who insulted or attempted to "blacken someone's character" here in this forum has been YOU by calling me an "Unreconstructed alcoholic that has no personal shame and writes utter bathos".

That was not only unfounded, but it also calls for an apology as you had NO right whatsoever to publicly call me these things or "blacken my character" in such a manner. All of my responses were directly to your words. I stated facts about your actions and facts about Karma and its beliefs. The only conjecture I committed was done in the form of a question, in that I asked if you charged for your teachings. I never said that you did. Read it all again.

10. You state that I " ... must be an enemy of Yoga". More laughter-inducing reaches by a bully in panic mode by trying to make me look bad to a group of people who love yoga. I'm assuming that you think this will call them to arms against me? Again, if you read ALL I have written here ... I have said NOTHING bad about yoga at all. I also show it not only in a knowledgable light but with respect, in that, I am questioning your actions while claiming to practice it. Honestly, not even a "nice try" here (Name Deleted). Simply pathetic.

11. Next, and here is where we can see the utter desperation in your cowardly panic, you escalate your attack on me with even MORE unfounded "insinuations and attempts to blacken my character" as you call them. All in the name of taking the light of exposure off of yourself. To wit:

You state:

"You are a sick bourgeous (actually spelled "Bourgeois") no-nothing (I'm assuming you meant "Know-nothing") intellectual white liberal born again Christian POET!!!." (Again with the period AFTER the exclamation points. Well, you're nothing, if not consistent)

12. So now you first assume that I am a middle-class "no-nothing" (sic). Again, knowing NOTHING whatsoever about my financial status OR my intellectual abilities OR education. And you make these claims as though they are facts, which to any person reading this is readily and obviously untrue and/or unproven. More typical "bully" behavior.

13. You now cross yet another line of "Karma" and assault/slander my race by making it sound, in the context of your sentence that is some "lesser" thing. My race? Really (Name Deleted)? I didn't expect that, even from you. I mean, what does my race have to do with ANY of this? But that last one ... oh, that takes the cake ... it exposes your true persona. It lets the entire WORLD see, as I do, through your cloudy cheap glass and right through your empty, pathetic soul ...

14. You assume that I am a "Liberal, born again Christian" (as usual, you do this without knowing ANYTHING about my stance as a liberal OR a conservative OR what religion I practice) But that is neither here, not there because whatever you assume I am, you have spewed it out in the context that it is "lesser" than whatever it is that you consider yourself. Wow, (Name Deleted) ... just "Wow". If there was a Karmic Hell, I would think that last bit would send your pathetic soul STRAIGHT to it. Of this, I am CERTAIN. Karma/Yoga/Hinduism frowns on judging or speaking ill about other religions ... Am I correct?

The only correct parts of that ill-uttered proclamation are that I am indeed white and am indeed a poet. I am not a liberal (OR a conservative) nor am I a born-again Christian. My stance/position/beliefs are not only not for discussing here, but they are also, quite frankly none of your business. Nor do they have any bearing here whatsoever, so why attack them? A feeble attempt at misdirection while in panic mode.

It should be pointed out, that even as you have descended into all this petty name-calling and condescension about beliefs and religion, I have NEVER engaged in these practices in our volleys here. Again, showing your panic-driven behavior as an exposed, and stood-up-to, bully.

15. You finish this puerile rant with:

"Carry on exposing your obsequiousness and twee character.
DEEP NASAL BREATHING will get you out of your obvious dilemma!."

(AGAIN, you consistent devil, you ... with the period AFTER the exclamation point. Priceless for such a critic of other's writing.)

The first line is truly confusing. I am guessing you needed to toss out some "big words", but their use in this context makes little sense (to me) as they are not slanderous or even pertaining to the subject here. To wit:

From the English Dictionary, 4th edition:

ob·se·qui·ous (ŏb-sē′kwē-əs, əb-)
adj.
Full of or exhibiting servile compliance; fawning.
[Middle English, from Latin obsequiōsus, from obsequium, compliance, from obsequī, to comply: ob-, to; see ob- + sequī, to follow; see skew- in Indo-European roots.]

I am neither "serving" or exhibiting "servitude" or "fawning" in ANY of this. So, I'm VERY unclear what you meant by that.

AND, again from the English Dictionary 4th Edition:

twee (twē)
adj. Chiefly British
Overly precious or nice.
[Alteration of tweet, baby-talk alteration of sweet.]:

Again, totally confused by what you meant by this. It is almost laughable. I've definitely NOT been "Overly precious" NOR "Nice" in our volleys here. I have been concise, exacting, stern and occasionally I have even let a wee bit of my anger show through. I'm sorry about that. But bullying and people who think they are somehow better than all others just make my blood boil. I have done my best to handle this as a calm and focused adult.

As for the "DEEP NASAL BREATHING" suggestion ...

I would like to offer the EXACT same advice to you. It may help you come to grips with this rather embarrassing exposure of your true nature that you have wrought upon yourself here in this little volley. I know that it certainly helped me to stop laughing and catch my breath.

I EAGERLY await your next outburst. Please, make it a good one this time, won't you? Putting you in your place has been made so easy by your ridiculously transparent, predictable and childish actions and words, that it is quickly becoming boring.

Mujhe pooree ummeed hai ki aapako shaanti milegee.

3d


-----------------------------------------

In this following post/response, they simply call me a name. As you can see by this juvenile choice of just two words, they are not only panicking ... they are spiraling into a regressive state that they have held inside themselves all of their adult life. Inside, they are still that terrified child. That child called me this:


(Name deleted)  Electronic Arsewipe

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1 reply

2d
(Jeff Gaines)

(Jeff Gaines)   Ta Daaa!

Reduced to using schoolyard name-calling (and not very imaginative name-calling, at that. I'd rate that one at around grade 5 ... maybe 6, at best).

(( Yawn ))



--------------------------------------------


Admittedl­y ... and ashamedly, I do egg them on a bit with that response and am sinking to their level. I was bullied as a child and my defense mechanisms can be subject to regression as well.

Still, not knowing how to deal with me ... seeing that they are not being successful at either dominating me or discrediting me, they return with yet another posturing, condescending retort. Here, they actually threaten to "punch me in the nose" if I: " ... continue
hurling gratuitous insults at strangers the way you do." I don't have to point out the irony here, that THEY are the one guilty of this. And now somehow, they are SO offended that I would do the same. This, as I point out, is typical, textbook bully behavior.

The first part is random, panicked statements that really don't make sense (again) about how "easy" and "demeaning" it is to write of a "dead friend". Remember, they NEED to establish and maintain some type of dominance and control. So, they use these types of accusations and insults ... but call "no fair!' when you do it.

"Easy"?

"Demeaning"?

Hmmm, I didn't find it easy or demeaning to write that letter. I can't explain his angle. He also tries to offer me help by sending me his CD (of his music) which will supposedly save my soul and lead me to a higher plain of some sort. This offering is more of his posturing and desperate attempt at establishing dominance by both claiming that I am in need of help AND that HE can GIVE ME that help. But I'll let you, dear Reader, take it all in here
:



(Name Deleted)  It's so easy and so demeaning to praise a dead 'friend' in PUBLIC especially (for **** sake) that you haven't seen for 10 years.
Sounds like a strong case of GUILT over something there!!.
You will get that punch in the nose you are so obviously looking for(and do not deserve) if you carry on hurling gratuitous insults at strangers the way you do.
Tek several deep breaths and listen to my CD.
If you send me a Poste Restante address I will send you(free of charge)a copy.



.

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1 reply

2d
Jeff Gaines

Jeff Gaines   Oh, (Name Deleted) boy!

You are TOO fun!

And so predictable!

Again, you come, in typical wanna-be bully fashion, spewing condescending judgments and even physical threats to my person now as well? I guess it was a matter of time. Especially with me so deep in your head ... kicking your marble-sized brain around like a deflated football.

You honestly don't get how foolish this little expose of your true nature makes you look here, do you? I love it. But, I guess most bully-types are narcissistic and blindly foolish anyways.

I really do love the periods AFTER the exclamation points! And your spell checker has definitely gone fishin'. Hysterical.

Apparently, you do not read too well either. I had not seen him, true. But as I said in the piece, I spoke with him on the phone all the time; we were always close. And I'd love to know two things ... How is it demeaning to write about, or to, a dead friend? I would also like to know why ONLY you have found this "demeaning"? All the other comments were praiseful or even thankful for sharing such precious memories.

And, in case you've not heard of these terms, this piece could be called both a "Eulogy" and/or an "Homage". BOTH are typical and have been done by millions of people (friends/family/colleagues) about recently deceased friends for centuries. There are DOCUMENTED Hindu Eulogies for ENTIRE families dating back to 10000 BCE. Look them up online. Nothing new here. Nothing demeaning here. No guilt here. In fact, I praised my time with him and stated that I wish that we had more time together. But if you see that as guilt of some sort, you are, once again, foolishly mistaken.

But that isn't it at all, is it?

What you are really doing here is more of your panicking-bully behavior by once again trying to turn the light of exposure away from yourself and on to me with (more) silly, unfounded accusations and even ****** threats. Not even a good try little man. and so, so predictable! You are like a broken record!

Your ability to induce laughter is amazing. It truly makes one ponder what kind of person you really are ... and you do it publicly!

I LOVE IT!

And tell me ... WHO first hurled "gratuitous insults" at WHOM? SO hysterically funny and, again, predictable, that the bully can dish it out, but can not take it. It is ok for you to do it to me, but not visa-versa? I guess calling someone an "unreconstructed alcoholic" is ok because it comes from the imaginary ivory tower of the high and mighty, all-powerful YOU!

(Peeing me pants laughing)

Your crying about this is so sadly pathetic. It leads me to yet another teaching of Hinduism and the laws of Karma ... "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". Man, I am beginning to think it is YOU that hates Yoga and Karma and all the other beliefs you pretend to practice at your ego-driven web page. They sure do not show through here on Hello Poetry, now do they?

It is obvious that you fancy yourself as some kind of spiritual leader/Guru/Swami, when in fact, you are a common coward with a narcissistic megalomaniac complex. You NEED people to think you are a BIG man. You attempt to further this ridiculous image by speaking ill of peoples posts in order to make it seem like you are better than everyone and are somehow entitled to make these childish condescensions.

"Pathetic" does not begin to cover it ... OR you.

And YOU are going to punch ME in the nose? You may want to look at my website again and ponder my size. I promise several things should you ever attempt this, little boy ...

1. It will be the single most unpleasant experience of your pathetic life.

2. Win, lose or draw, you WILL NEVER wish to fight me again.

Tell me ... Do I seem like someone that would cower to the likes of you?

Your ego has become so blinded, I predict that it will get you in WAY over your head someday. If not with me, then some other man that will also put you in your place while you attempt to be dominant and holier-than-thou.

How funny (and pathetic) is it, that the guy who STARTED this whole volley with his own unsolicited, "unfounded gratuitous insults", now whines and cries and carries on when the same is done to him?

Awwww, poor, poor little baby. Your threats make me laugh even harder as they further expose your desperate panic-driven agenda AND persona! I am absolutely LOVING this!

As for listening to your CD?

Why on EARTH would I listen to a wee little man, that claims he is helping my life and soul when I have already seen him for the posturing, holier-than-thou, bullying, narcissistic egotist that he really is?

That ... would be an utter waste of my time.

Since you are so keen on giving advice, I'd like to offer some to you ... and then end today's volley with a question.

"It is far and away better to keep one's mouth closed and be thought of as a fool than to open it and remove all doubt."

I'm not sure exactly where this old bit of advice came from ... but if anyone should heed it, I would think it to be you. Through all of this, it has been YOU showing what and who you really are. I have only reiterated or commented on it. Unbelievably, you keep PROVING my points with EACH new response.

And now the question ...

I know in your ego-driven mind, you feel like you HAVE to have the last word to be the "winner". But, considering that you took the first shot at me, and by the rules of engagement, I am to take my turn ... do you really think I will just "give up" after one of your silly attempts at asserting your dominance?

Keep them coming wee man ... it is your undoing ... NOT mine.

2d


-----------------------------------------------

N­ow here, they claim to have deleted something, but they don't say what, exactly. Again, I am guilty here of cajoling them a bit. I do apologize. More to you, than to them. As we have come this far, have you noticed that they NEVER address what I am saying and only throw unfounded accusations and childish ridicule? They can NOT engage in your part of the conversation as, in their mind, only their part is worthy of dealing with.

Besides, it might actually let you make your point and they simply can NOT have this. They also call me a "troll". Something they have very clearly established that they are since the START of all this. But now, in one of their panicked efforts to retain dominance, they accuse me of being that. Futile misdirection for certain. But a predictable tactic, nonetheless So, here we go
:


(Name deleted)  Deleted Unread you sick TROLL.

0



1 reply

23h
Jeff Gaines

Jeff Gaines   "Deleted"?

I'm very proud of you ... Did you select it all and hit backspace ... or the actual delete key? Or ... did you actually take the time to place the cursor and hit backspace through it all? It doesn't really matter; either way, I'm still very proud of you. (And you didn't misspell anything here either!) Bra-VO, (Name Deleted), Bra-VO!

Now ... what, exactly, did you delete?

Please, be more clear. (unsurprisingly) It's as though you are speaking nonsense. Nothing in this string has been deleted.

"Unread"?

Well, now ... if you are claiming to have "not read" something written about you, wee man, we BOTH know that your ego wouldn't allow that, would it? Simply impossible. JUST like you are reading this! So, for all that's holy, don't expose yourself as a liar too! Your credibility here has already thinned to near nothingness, as it is.

As for "Sick Troll" ...

*** - Kettle, moorkh chota ladka, *** - Kettle.

(For goodness sake, if you don't understand the reference, then Google: "The *** calling the Kettle Black")

Now, if you STILL don't get it ... then I'll offer up this one in its place:

What's good for the Gander is good for the Goose!

SURELY you get my meaning here, don't you (Name Deleted)- ol' boy?

Thanks, once again, for the hysterical laughter. Experiencing you being you has been a real barrel of laughs so far. And nice try at having the last word. Actually, if that's what this was, it was pretty pathetic. But at this point, I feel you may be in need of a nice "'Attaboy!"



Please see part II ~ Link in notes below.
ottaross Aug 2013
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.

Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.

Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.

Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.

Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.

The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.

Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their  M  ea  N inG
G  r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
There is beneath us the progenitor and we call it “Mother”. Above us is the progenitor and we call it “Net” for it takes us and tosses us into the known and the unknown.

Our home star is not as bright as yours. We prefer your temperate lands when we visit, where the vegetation is lush and green. Those of us who remain inhabit your deserts and open spaces.

We are your brothers and sisters. Our development has been to grow in awareness and the development of our power. You have the potential to develop as we have, but your instincts are of a social group who need dominant members. You develop your material reality and your physical world. Your anchor is fixed and you grip the familiar and reject the unknown. There is a comfortable point where you feel the fullness, that is the anchor. In order to maintain this as a static point you develop belief systems to support it. This is your weakness, you are innocent children.

We grew and developed along another pathway, our anchor is not  rigid. We use Net for our anchor and so are able to change our perceptual reality. We move in ways that you do not understand and in any direction. We draw the fibers of Net around us and jump and fly. You see us only from your anchor point so that you see us change shape, appear and disappear.

Our voices and languages are barely accessible to you. You hear deep sounds and high pitched chirruping and whistling. Very few among you have remnants of language incorporating any of these. Those remaining are as clicks and whistles. We prefer direct communication.

We are masters of illusion. Our survival has depended on it and it is our instinct.
Our power developed so that when we pull around us the fibers of Net we create a shield and throw an illusion before those who depend on vision. It is one of our protections and also our hunting technique. We are hidden from your material probes and instruments of increased sight in this way.

Although we have been close neighbours for aeons, you have hardly seen us, except for the Few. Your interpretations have created problems for you. Your reliance on the anchor is so great that some among you do go to great lengths to maintain it. There are those among you who will silence the Few rather than lose the fixed anchor.

You are infants only, a seeding coming to fruition, and you play with dangerous toys. Your anchor is geocentric. You are in danger as is any youngster who plays with fire. If we showed you ourselves openly your rulers would not be gentle in their curiosity. We have technology and use material tools but we have had less to restrict us. We held back your development as much as we were able to enable you to develop power of the mind and independent thought.

Your grasp of Net is strong but you are rigid and anchored. You have learned to stand up and hold on. Now is the time to let go and walk, let go and run, let go and fly.

Around what you name “body” and believe to be “All” is more that you do not perceive with your restricted vision sense. You are aware of this. If you will learn acceptance and filter less from your senses, you will find the beauty of the universe of energy around you and available. A small perceptual shift would show you how you appear to those of us outside your narrow sphere.

Your body has filaments, which when translated to sight, appear as small moving threads which shine with rainbows. They move and ripple inside an energy body of light. This is your true body. It has abilities and senses that are dormant as you do not access them. They are accessible but as your anchor renders you blind to this you do not use them without intense effort or instinctively in extremity. The filaments are drawn together and pass through the anchor. Depending upon your ability to select filaments of the Net, your habitual plane and reality is selected and determined.
Those among you with abilities in your energy senses you ostracise and even ******. You succumb to misinformation to treat them as fools or freaks. This may be instinctive but it is a control mechanism to perpetuate the anchor and maintain the hive of your artificial society. So due to this, you have even less sense of true reality as it could be to you, by breeding out and suppressing your gifts. We have attempted to rectify this with limited effect in successive seedings.

You may notice that our words to you have reference to sight. Your terminology is geared to vision. You rely on visual information  so much that you have neglected physical senses of taste and smell, hearing, touch and proximity. Compared with our perceptions you are as blind as a mole is compared to to your visual abilities.

Your construction of reality is so anchored that your dangerous inclination to gather around you artifacts gives to you a sense of permanence. You are anchoring yourselves in time, yet to you it is dead because your senses are dead. There is an opportunity for your predators to use this to enforce your perception of, and control you within, your anchor's limitations. In this way, producing written or pictorial and symbolic records in permanent form is beneficial only so far as understanding continues to exist of the conditions under which these records were left. By changing current understanding and language to suit their purposes, your enforcers are able to manipulate your branch of humanity on a large scale.

You seal yourselves into the rejuvenation plane of the Mother progenitor where you feed and breed. It is so pleasurable to you to stay within this cocoon of reality that you fail to open your cast and therefore fail to fly into the spaces of Net outside where your true inheritance lies. The end result of this is greed and unrest. Your greed is paramount to you as you seek ever more pleasurable gratification. You enslave one another, buy and sell time and forget what you are. You are allowing the destruction of your home world. Without the home world you will have no place of rejuvenation, and worse neither will the myriads of others who share this progenitor.

There is a song from each mother progenitor within Net. It is a combined song and made up of the host progenitor together with silent voices of each and every life form. Together from each home world, the inhabitants send out a pulse. This is not a song from one species of a world but rather it is a song from all species, in fact every particle of every organism that lives.

To our developed senses the song of a world is brighter than the star it orbits. They are filaments of Net. The varied forms of life all send out their unique song. Many of us interact, harmonise, visit, commune and combine. You feel isolation only because you fail to harmonise and join your own song.

In your past and present we have felt the song of your world. Those of us belonging are part of that song. It is the song of being from the many. It does not end at the perimeters which you imagine. You have a problem in that, for the majority, you do not join your voices to the song. Mainly it is in dreaming, in childhood and in old age that we hear you.

We attempted to observe and commune and found many of you receptive to us. We have taught to you methods of development and given you gifts and tools. You have kept and preserved some of this knowledge only for a select few. Fears and distrust among others has caused destruction of a great proportion of the gifts that we have given to you. We found many lines of breeding where potential for development was possible. Your greed and your predator class destroyed many of them due to the competitive desire to have power over others.

In past seedings upon your progenitor and in the oldest times of your present incarnation, we have been known well and respected. Acknowledged for our seniority and loved as cousins. You did call us gods to distinguish our abilities. Then what did you do? Your control mechanisms changed the meanings of your language, whole languages were lost in wars over territory. You developed power structures and religions. Powerful rulers accumulated and isolated your shared knowledge.

You reduced your development by selective education in the Way. Territorial disputes and greed over resources divided you. You ceased to listen to the Mother. Instead of harmonious living which you had managed in agreement with each other already, you were divided by hormonal impulses, insecurity, violence and greed. The natural openness of the female within it's central domain became enclosed, imprisoned and the natural desire of the male to outwardly discover and interact was turned inwards until it became a sedentary desire for dominance within the female domain. You lost the harmonics of the song. Your religions underestimate the power of borrowed tools. Your ruling classes made deals that they didn't understand, with predators they didn't recognise, in order to save themselves.

We stood on ground over ground and were called Immortals. We gave you wisdom and were called Kings. We moved and played among you and were called Jinn. We moved among the small folk and were called Faerie. We appeared in light and were called Angels. We wandered in places where you too did once wander and were called Ghosts and Demons. Those who spoke to us and attempted to impart to your hive our knowledge, you raised as prophets or slandered and ridiculed. You stole their words to make them your own words of power, changing them to your own ends or you murdered the messengers because you feared the changes that increased understanding brings.

You incorporated the experiences of your murdered victims into a celebration of your own power structures, twisted and out of synchronisation with the song. There are some among you who are in communion with the Great Spirit of life. We seek to heal your song, your complete home world song for the benefit of the myriad sentient beings who rejuvenate here, including yourselves. We seek to set you free to wander the threads of Net. It is within your reach but not in the ways that you  are taught.

Your world is about to change and you must change with it as you are a small part of it. Holding the threads into your own anchor point will break them. You have reached inertia, entropy. The movement has to come, it is inevitable. Imagine one of your large machines of cogs and wheels and bars. Your insistence upon a rigid anchor is like a bar within the machine that doesn't move. A point of inertia in a moving system will be removed. This has happened over and over among your kind and our kind in many places and worlds. You do not remember when worlds underwent cataclysm, forgetful of trauma you have followed a similar path.

We travel along pathways of energy, both upon worlds and in the Net. Moving bodies follow these paths. We follow comets and small bodies able to move freely within Net. Net permeates your mother progenitor.

Survivors mapped the movements of Net after the slate was wiped clean and you were reseeded. There is a secret that your rulers are aware of and you are not. The secret is that there are no rulers within Net. You all have the freedom and capability to access true harmony of the song. You allow a faction, to call themselves an elite class. You fear this as a hidden power, a predator. It's aim is to amass Time: a power based on material wealth. They take this power easily as they have taken and twisted truth and history. The gifts are shared among you equally and these few know this. Resources are plentiful and yet you succumb to their restrictions. A predator cannot survive without it's prey. We are not your predators although we move among you. Your predator is within and feeds upon your fear.

You are not in the tribes now, you have no shaman, no guide to take you in and out of the gate and this role cannot be allocated to parasitic Blind Time Hoarders. These whip up your passions and lead you into war and destruction to further their material wealth. It leads you away from the song, as these think to enhance their own survival which it may do but never can as they understand it. They seek to steal your dreams and make them their own, they are helpless without you. They care nothing for the song because they are aware of successive seedings.

Net is a dream reality, changing, immeasurable, boundless, filled with infinite possibilities and you are creators. Blind time hoarders drive you by combining the minds and dreams and belief systems of many to focus onto what they themselves desire, in order to bring it to fruition. They employ dream stealers to prevent your development. They believe that their own song can exist independently and they guide you only to anchor yourselves into your own prison.

All is a dream, all is ephemeral, changing, dynamic. There is no death after death, no damnation on any particular plane. Reality is how you construct your song. Your rulers create inertia for you the many and profit for themselves using you as the tools of your own entrapment. There is no death and no damnation, they are constructs of your reality made by material anchor points and you are controlled by fear of the inevitable. It is a statecraft to use belief systems to control perceptions of reality in order to fix the anchor point to a rigid point of convenience. In this way you are farmed, you are a crop in each seeding. Who seeds you? You seed yourselves. Sentient beings are all naturally regenerated by the mechanisms of Net when conditions exist that are compatible, world after world, in each growth cycle of every celestial body. In the regeneration, holding to your rigid anchor point, you seed into your prison after each cataclysm, each breaking of the inertia.

If you would be open to the mechanisms of the place you inhabit with it's creative forces, it's sentience and it's dynamics you will learn to fly the progenitor Net's pathways and return home for rejuvenation to your progenitor Mother of the tribes.
I wrote this a few years ago. It's a bit long
Emanuel Martinez Jun 2011
There's a void for the intellectual when poor
Awareness only makes it worse

Knowing the socio-political mechanism
Controlling us and keeping our physical bodies bound
Only begs our mind to give up its emancipationist stronghold

The Spirit is only torn between
A socio-politically created reality
And the dis-associated self-edification of blind opportunity and hope

Becoming politically and sociologically aware
Of our "selves" within the context
Of our society is dangerous
Crippling, knowing the power behind the scenes

Submission corners an individual into indoctrination
Amorality seems to be the make-up of the seemingly strong
When every fiber of morality is subtly stolen
To assimilate into or right the wrong
Of the ******* up socio-political mechanism of our world
Either way, there's no way out
You're always tainted with the plague of amorality

The spirit is bought and sold
For the commercialization of it is dehumanizing to all

Any which way it can be analyzed
The rationality of the mind
Is dismantled piece by piece
Until it is absent from coherent thought

Knowledge is a weapon dangerous to the enemy
As well as the self
For truth is a burden deadly to the bound
By Disenfranchisement
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?


one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
Ariana Sweeney Jun 2014
It scares me
That this empty,
disturbingly vacant feeling
seemingly rooted in
my gut
can only be temporarily
sated.

What more is it going to take?
What more can I do?
Because my ulterior forms of escape
are encapsulated within
*****
drugs
people
hate
love
wispy smoke
clouded dreams
warm cups of coffee that burns the throat if sipped too quickly

And those silly,
frivolous
mechanisms of coping
do less
than water slipping through open fingers.

My apathetic attitude
Has been finely tuned.
My dreams whisper sweet things
And surreptitiously speak to me
My waking words are rote and empty
-spilling with hypocrisy
Yet their comforting embrace
Simply bring smiles to my face
Filling my mind while I'm asleep

They send messages lined with silver That vanish when I wake
To bring about a dull and listless form Who is shaping my last mistake
You see I wake in a storm
Simultaneously feeling constrained
To my bed
I can't get up while there's no filter
For the rush of noises in my head

If there's a difference between
What you know and what you believe Then why is it not as easy
To imagine my reprieve
Why can I only experience a vivid life
While I sleep
Then once again wake up
To this Fear Doubt and Anger
Choking me

Invoking me by pushing buttons
Of their endless promises
To for certain be found in youth
While my vision is livid sinning
Contemplating and pinpointing
Who too close is uncouth
You sit there and feed my veins
An explanation to your lies
With all the compromised
Washed up water
Memorized methods
Coping mechanisms
While it's your heart that remains
Aloof

Then sit there in desperation
Reiterating as if you know
The deep introspective answer
When any fool can see your wisdom
Is wrought in the vanity
Of a talented dancer

If you lost the truth of sanity
Would you retrieve it for ten cents
Or would you search inside
Before hiding from the confines
Of a necessary moment
I'd rather die or sacrifice my life
Before cowering from what's hidden
The message so raw
That counts your flaws
Like there was some proof
In what is missing

But ultimately I guess
It comes down to the small decision
The chip on my shoulder
That became a boulder
When I reached out
For my inner vision.

So while I feel so disparate and alone
In the trenches losing my senses
Will I be the hero or be the villain
Will I let the poison make me it's toy
Or take the penicillin

*Some days my life feels as heavy
As that last breath left over
From how loudly I shout
But I guess a general synopsis to you
Of how I sometimes feel inside
Is a decent first step to waking up
While I'm down and out
I realize that a lot of lines were taken from other poems of mine. It's supposed to be written like that
he stands paces searches out windows feeling headache considers no matter who you are where you live we all come from same place a ****** he scribbles all i hear is *****, ***** ***** ***** new york ***** california ***** nordic ***** parisian italian spanish british irish japanese polynesian ***** ***** from all over the world ***** next door new ***** at work all the foxy ******* running around town ***** whipped pussyfooting ***** juice ***** lips colors flavors aromas squirters gushers hairy ***** ******* pierced ***** droopy swollen wet dry irritated itchy incontinent stinky ***** we are a nation of ***** obsessives he imagines Federal Bureau of ***** as an FBP agent he can show badge civilly detain any female especially those with thick dark eyebrows or difficult to decipher yet trained eye can discern fat lips within his authority to direct her to expose ***** excuse me ma’am but your eyebrows warrant examination of your bush please assume position this won’t take any longer than is necessary sometimes certain detainee’s inspections require unrestricted scrutinyhe thinks why don’t governments militaries realize power of *****? instead of inventing employing weapons of mass destruction why not use ******* to distract ****** young male soldiers? imagine furry rabbit rockets with pink twitchy noses floppy wet lips darting through air shooting everywhere distinctly resembling smell taste warm ***** yet fatal mechanisms that could attach **** **** consume who could resist? probably someone would come up with ***** defense system (PDS) which would intercept scudding ******* before they reached intended targetshe wakes up early disorientated turns on tv commercial TUMS blares in groggy dyslexic state by mistake he reads backwards sees **** on tv questions what is this place i lived in? america fat turkey on map with brains in new york city *** in d.c. paw in miami stomach in midwest ******* in california nested on egg over mexico he writes i envision statue of liberty alive real beautiful woman little children tumble run around her giggling laughing innocently playing hide and seek with her gown then some bigger older men approach offer her gifts to pull up her dress do other things she appears startled at them refusing to accept their crass proposals men continue to bring more gifts promise her things despite her cold-shoulder suddenly she appears worried perhaps she is thinking about someone special maybe her family men’s offers keep piling higher eventually she breaks down accepts their proposals men gather around her very close i cannot see what they are doing but can hear whispering conspiring heavy breathing then i see her hand reach out all at once she spills burning torch catching fire to gown
patty m May 2014
Two Moons
through an onion skin,
gulls ride out approaching storm;
I embrace the corner of my bedroom.
A brief inward look tumbles from the bed,
my heart rises.
                Ice and sun, reversible stars, the driving pistons

behind this bleeding vision

My thoughts a scarf tail whipping wind
descend into darkness

I search for landmarks in unfamiliar territory
clinging to the floor until a cold draft finds me.

Voiceless, hunched, in the corner,
I'm shaken by seismic tremors.
'
Dark as a crow, I wait in despair for something to enter,
a pattern of deeply etched lines, stars that won't burn out,
a shadowy presence of something fearful.

Flames crack like small bones,
springs fly from clockwork mechanisms,
all the disparate forces spin in ghostly dance.

Eerie symmetry conspires to do me in,

Hope and Reason stretch out  their hands

                                                  too late.

Darkness swallows me.
Emanuel Martinez Mar 2014
The revolution will not take place in McDonald’s
Born out of lethargic, flaky or fickle bodies

Words and actions, powerful ammunitions
But vessels, our bodies, control those manifestations
An armament, the body
Matter without which revolution cannot happen

Us who struggle, while we waste away
Those invested in maintaining power and privilege
Don’t only safeguard their money
They protect their bodies too
And only that of the offspring
Invested in perpetuating power and privilege

They not only monopolize learning and leadership
As mechanisms of dominance and control
They run and eat to fuel that constant fight

Man, wealthy or poor
May give into the vise of fast food and intoxication
But those invested in control
Conscious of power and privilege are no fools
Fortified not only by lawyers and henchmen
But by doctors, fitness trainers, fresh harvests
Having the choice and access to fresh produce

Us colored children from the hoods, the barrios
Our moms, or dads, or single parents
Working month to month
Frustrated because we don't eat fruit and vegetables
Instead eating frozen, canned, chemically enhanced
Microwaveable dinners and junk foods

Skinny, chubby, or obese
Eating our twinkies, doritos, and coke
Can’t even run a block without running out of breath
Diabetes, heart disease, cholesterol, asthma, obesity
Not even looming in the back of our minds

We need youth to represent our communities
We need youth to fight for our communities
We need youth whose minds and stomachs are filled
Not with fodder and capitalist waste
But with food, ideas that fill them, fuel them
Not out of a temporary desire for satisfaction
Rather a prolonged political exercise to fortify themselves
As agents of a transformative process in the world

Frozen, canned, chemically enhanced lunches at school
Soda fountains, fried food, fast food, junk food
May always be subsidized, marketed, made affordable
To be part of your breakfast, lunch and or dinner

Still never reject an apple, orange or pear
Those with power and privilege
May not even have to think about
Their regimented diets
With endless fruits available to them

But for us, a single fruit made available to us
Has to be a daily reminder
An act of defiance
To chose to strengthen our bodies with it

A slippage of those invested in our chains
When the owners of industry
Have socialized us to think
Coca cola, pizza, and burgers
Are parts of our cultural identity
A modern industrialized upgrade
Our diet decisions driven by capitalist consumerism

There may be no specialized fitness trainers
Expensive equipment
Lush parks, jogging tracks, bicycle lanes, or bicycles
In our neighborhoods
But there is a space right next to your bed
Or a piece of floor where you live
And you have your body
Just do a few jumping jacks, push ups, sit ups

You need to have the patience and love
To protect and fortify not only your mind
But your body
To know that the more you fortify yourself
The more you are going to be able to fight exploitation
The more you are going to protect and fight
The ones you love, and even the ones
You won’t even realize you have saved as a result

We may not always have the access to healthy food
But we have the choice to request it collectively
In educational spaces and to take the initiative to exercise
March 25, 2014
kenny Feb 2013
She's tapped into another realm
Sitting on top of the world
Resonating the astral plane
At least in my mind
She's above me
So divine

A crown wrapped in flowers and gold
Diamonds in the sky
Cut through the noise
and crack down to shatter the Earth
Looking pretty amongst the chaos

She catches my eyes to bring the temptation of the Goddess
Always within reach
but afraid to touch
to release
Let go of everything

This is where our souls intertwined
The tango of our 9-5
Looking forward to breaks in reality
Our survival mechanisms
From the bottom to top
Where her crown connects realms of telepathic foreplay
A mindfuck of sorts
Black and blue balled by the true cowardliness of reality.
SE Reimer Jul 2016
~

each intersection, a crossroad made,
every answer, a question began;
each wrong, a right opposing,
every song, a note composing,
after darkness, the light again!

angry words won’t heal the pain,
apologies like ointment’s rain;
flood-washed roads a crossing need,
no line in sand, a bridge instead,
points me north, your heart to claim!

i am no island, though often seems,
my pained retreat, a blood trail leaves;
i find my greatest strength of all,
within your heart’s loving embrace,
held firmly in your grip of grace!

there is no strength in platitudes,
cliches are weak, like worn out shoes;
the darkened bank cannot hold sway,
o’er lighted bridge that leads the way,
points me north, and back to you!

~

*post script.

learning something of
defense mechanisms,
mine in particular;  
sadly, when brokenness
is too acute to hide,
the retreat is not bloodless.
bridges built of simple
three-word sentences
greatly needed ...  not a
crafted flood of well-worded,
defensive responses.

“i am sorry!” and “i love you!”...
two, eight-letter, three-cord ropes,
requiring no word-smithing,
yet are sound-ly engineered
for mending souls and
building hearts-bridges
not easily broken...
each capable of bearing
(baring) great weights.

and yes, there are notes composing here,
for it is said, “a song solidifies
the heart’s passionate decisions!”
Karijinbba Nov 2018
My old true love rdd=PC
wrote this poem to me on HP.
~~~~~
"I fall in love."
"Death would be liberating
but I wouldn't suggest jumping off a cliff"
                                               NO
"And for the life of me I hold on
to shaddy realities,
and an odd feeling of never being enough."

"I don't know what will happen"

IT IS ALL OUT OF MY HANDS

IT'S ALL OUT OF TIME"
~~~~
( my spontaniety of first thought)
my response 2018 is:

I fall in love.
and dearest true love of yore
from your holy hands
all your love for me
right into mine has fallen
precious twin flame
and here with me  love won't die
nor can unconditional love
in my hands ever perish

true love needs not be liberated
as no TREASON ever existed
you just got me ALL WRONG!

And since when orphanes in protective custudy hiding for their life after Feds and murderers buchered her family and loved ones in childhood throughout sdolecence years is  a criminal instead of a victim?
On a faulty witness protection program forcing victim to live as an exiled fugitive??
due to a horrendous liss of life

You simply didn't know me
for the task you and your brother assigned to me
and isn't it treason on your part to abandon an amnesic loved one
only because it wasn't written in an old script?
some lovers being in love
feeling betrayed and hurting
do jump off a cliff
like you did.
Still others jump into amnesic shocks becoming like I did
DEATH CALM!
I don't recomment either one!
both are equally distructive
forms of living in denial.
foolish ways to end a heartbreaking tragedy.

We were so identical twin flames from the inside thinking modes
both feeling so small
and never enough for each other!

And both so brightly colored in the outside with Gs light
very rare occurance
a triumph for the finding
worth the fame intended
worth the pain of defeat endured
for the best can only be bought at the cost of great pain and sacrifice!!
my pain went to sleep in an amnesic transformative shock
I have always loved you
and as you see I did jump!
Right into 'death' and 'knife'

Read my birth chart both Death and Knife remain a blessing and a curse to me such mystery
but both protecting me just the same!
two protective mechanisms
per the Mayan calendar

Death saving me from 'death'
and knife'cutting' through my pain a cold ice blade
there transforming me
Death Calm and silent!
I am not insensitive I feel love
death needs not be liberating
my soul knowing true love
will rest in peace with some regrets
I promised our unborn childten that no love fame nor great fortune would be greater then the love I feel for them all
and I kept my painful promise
but it was the end of me

In your eyes
I must have shrank smallest yet
misunderstood I go unless you read me here on HP the final fronteer unless you read
my memoir but we are both running out of time
lovers die in more ways than jumping off cliffs

precious love thank you for loving me
it hurt me very deeply to let you go so long ago
I am the woman who loves you the most in this whole wide world
I could have given my life for just one day though to have understood you
to have known what to do
what not to do,
where to go, where not to go,
what to say, what not to say.
what to think and what not to!
i didn't understand you!
so I feared you
I couldn't fight every greedy jealous woman for your love as the left behind
forgive me please beloved
I felt too small and worthless

I had no idea anyone on earth would love me
much less enough as to jump of a cliff to hurt that much for my life to benefit as new Eve
even changing earth with you
a worlds new adam Back then

I sincerely did not understand what you had planed to do after our loss
Life had only taught me
to feel insignificantly tini especially when being taunted
mistreated and challenged
abandonement syndrome
was my demise
your mind games and head riddles smothered my dreams
of you me for us

loving you more than
I loved myself was understood
very well that's what life
had taught me to do
to let go of everything I ever loved the most
when all life did was take chunks of my family and my life.
You were life's reward to me
without you by my side
I became speechless Dead Calm
stump like on Mothers day.

'sorry' can't depict the black hole
that has swallowed you
and me apart
nor pain depict the bottomless pit that living without you is

I too fell into my death
heartbroken as you announced
a JaneHilton freeway driving
in oposite directions was agony when in your letter
you wrote you had a wife!

I fell into the abyss and I died
I was only nineteen then

Then came hell getting me stranded at the fork road
all the way to hell Greece

smily kind penpal demons helped me up a plane ticket

two in all even married me not to avert authorities of my impending death with their treacherous agendas
IT WAS ALL STAGED
as was much of my life on earth.

I am glad we met
glad we loved each other
near or far
in G
s hands we both are.
excerpt from my Memoar written throughout my life.
James Wisp Aug 2011
A retroactive reconstruction of
whats forgotten forms what’s real.
We rob and steal
past transgressions,
but what happens
when the  mechanisms making memories
twist elegantly toward
the ego?
blushing prince Apr 2015
I never meant to be wet cement
because you gotta understand that sometimes my hands are
earthquakes and there's no reason behind it and you just have to understand
I tell you baby, I miss you
and you say learn how to zip up your dresses for your own good
See, we grow up
we become atheists and we wish on stars that are dead
we do illegal things but we apologize to our mothers
and this is being okay
Evelyn Smith Sep 2018
Sleep deprived hallucinations,
the walls are expanding and closing.
There's flashing lights bursting in the air.
There's spiders crawling over my skin.

4am teleshopping trying to desperately sell me a good night's sleep.
Maybe I should spend 199.99 just to fix my insomnia,
the commercial man said it would.

I hate being awake, it gives me too much time to think.
About all the mistakes I make for myself and all the people I miss.
Sit dry eyed until the sun rises and rejuvenate them with my tears.

Buy two 80p pencil sharpeners and a litre of *****.
Hide it under your bed so you can attempt to make things better.

Wait it out,
Take a breath,
They're only there for if you really need it.
But god you really do need it.
I just desperately want to feel something.

I've pushed everyone away from me,
And hate them for not trying to come back.
I'm alone and it's all my fault.
But I'll try blame everyone else so I don't have to address that.

Repeat last years mistakes because at least you knew how to feel.
Sit alone when the party's over and think of the year you put to waste

Burn every positive emotion with the lighter from your back pocket,
Watch all your hard work turn to ash.
Let it disappear like it was never real.

I keep telling people I'm temporary but they don't like to listen.
And when I run away without an explanation they act like they weren't ready?

I'm not real, how many times can I say that.
It's not that i fear commitment its that I fear ever becoming human.
And too much personal contact slowly brings me back to reality.
I don't want that, I pride my unhealthy coping mechanisms too much.
I'll trade ever having a stable relationship so I can dissociate for months.

It's all I've ever know and It's all I'll ever be.
And though like anyone I do crave affection.
I'd rather hide and leave it be.
I'm a burden and a drain on everyone's life.
Now I'm older and self aware I no longer have to think twice,
I'm no good at forming human connections,
I'm incapable to speak how I really feel.

So I'll stay awake until 4am like I always have and probably always will.
I'm sorry if you ever got the chance to meet me and I ran away before you could see how you really feel.

People say I haunt them, I'm always their 'could have been'.

But the importance in that sentence is I am no ones 'should have been'
a complimentary memory foam pillow doesn't sound half bad
Ziggy Zibrowski May 2010
Like the infertile young debonair of the American Dream,
whiskey dicked, and moaning
over the sweaty heap of calloused flesh,
my "relationships" are brimful of
disappointment. The throngs of love drunk
junkies eager to play, dressed for the
Concert of Apollo and the Muses.
Naked grudges,
threshing and gushing
the way the chicken did;
grandmother with head in hand.
Rhythmic and off beat,
instinctual. Begging; more, more,
more. They're beginning
to wear the same face,
a carnal imprint of
satisfaction.
But I know they don't see me,
how could they, lying, eyes
rolling in the back of their
heads?
My eyes
still.
I can picture your face here but it'd never do,
subdued
issues of a fallacy state.
Irate.
How could you leave this impression?
Emotional digression.
I've promised myself time
and time again not to fall for the same old ****,
that kiss, that ******
blood-inked kiss.
But the insulin fused memories scream. I
detest the wretchedness I've exposed
myself
to. A period of forgetting
you, but the passage of time
pulling grain from grain, uplifts my disdain.
I finally feel comfortable unveiled,
awaken, lying next to
the humming lips of a
foreign swain.
Copyrighted May 2010.
Mitchell Duran Nov 2011
Not in the way I
Look through these eyes
which water but instead
Of sadness entranced upset
Near to death love
making where though and
Design laugh at their own
Gluttony and ill usage and
away from me i say no not here and
away from itself i hear nothing for you
are here within me but away
Comet and the see to hear blues with
Everything to give but nothing to lose
And the far off sights are much too bright
And inside you hear yourself crying
Not to mtters or mold your soul
With what your parents said to you
Ordered you to be bold and
The aftermath of your own tightened slack
Makes you wonder if growing up was an actual
Choice in the matter of the batter which is
The family foundation were games are played
For keeps and children weep as they keep
Toiling on as adults just for bigger and better things
Come into the waves of a brain malfunctioning
No face for ye' faith meand nodding to the higher
Ones whose noses are broken and the lips cracked
The spinning brain of hurts doughnuts and Americana
Rip offs selling the flag by the millions to turn a profit
For the moronic billionaires who think no one is watching.
Watching with their hats turned sideways and trying to
Escape old age and grey hair and sagging ball sacks and
Poor english and worser bread, stale with their mother's
Ghost hovering on the shoulder of their pouting diamond
Drenched wife as if madness grew a larger pair **** within the
Hilarity of connection of concoction of happiness and
Satisfaction and a longing to burn the entire ******* down
Just to rebuild it the way you see and you do see it and the way
You feel it used to be and perhaps, maybe, could be and where
Experimentation is now a center fold for the dock workers and the
Laborers of the world to spit and ******* and cry over in their
Twisted and rusty beds for inside their pea brains and melted
Mouths filled with colgate and beer, they slobber over the excess
And humiliation and celluoid dreams of **** and *** and spreads
That would make any grandmother of 37 weep and Mozart meander
On the veranda, contemplating smooth jazz and the way he would like
Not to be buried with the hat trick hockey nick who swore he saw
You fall in love before and that sobriety was the touch of the Christian
Way of life and ye' far out and tormented young ones meant nothing
By what they said at the rally and they do believe in the good of the
White government and we are headed toward a technological maelstrom
Of the golden age of the HUMAN RACE but alas I hope I decipher I pray to
No God but whoever has the ears and eyes and arm fat to listen with their
Splintered consciousness and their painted red toenails and girlfriends who
Whisper they have always loved another and how TRUE UNTRUTH IS and
How vindictive we rant on and read on and hope and believe that the end
Is the end but it is only the end for you and their will be new blood and new eyes
And new minds and we will grow old but the rivers water will be recycled, as we
Will be recycled into the dust and the mud and the rubble to further build the streets
As the street makers and the bread winners will smile as they think they are the
First ones to think up such a crafty, inventive invention but hierarchies are on the horizon
And I remember I was born with a name that I never grew to know or fall in love with
Or defend or keep close to my heart for the heart is weary hunter and it ventures on
With or without the body.
Note to self.
Recall the last rite before you begin on to the next one.
History has spilt its blood and its fair share of orange juice, try not to remember the numbers but remember the amount of burned chairs.
Note to self, returned.
The heaters on and the soul is not dancing but jiving like icing on a three year olds birthday cake.
Submission time to the chief, submission time
To those other guys, whose faces I've never smelt, but who are there waiting and whining that the times are no longer a changing.
Keep up the smiles, keep out the frowns.
Negativity is the attribute of the terrorist. Don't be a terrorist.
All fine men and women have once in their life been truly scared.
One ten till the train leaves.


Good night major split hairs.

On the second of the fort
Nights beckoned a call dim
Lit by ill fated mechanisms that
Were men and women and
Children and the forgotten dream of
What was meant long ago and was is
Meant now but not followed through.

With heaven comes hell and hell fire and
Clouds of white with shelling from
Wars not of this world or the next or
The one's thereafter and lingering history,
With its bells and trinkets and tombstones,
That have been weathered but are still not gone.

Memory not mourning, pictures in a frame lit
From the inside out and drinks were there
When we were not meant to be there like a
Kiss on a flower you picked at an age where
Life was not known and death was even
Farther away for it existed not in the eyes of yours
But in everyone else around you, except for the
Other children of course but oh' of course.

If your trying to get the part of the stuff
That makes you recall the upstairs of the
Idiocies of the room romance that restricts but
Contains life and halters life and stifles life with
That one must recall a past life where tears
Mean nothing when you produce them too often.

Can of the hypocritical malice of mis-informed family
Foundations and we break into the minds of the way
It should be and the way it shouldn't be and yet here
When we gaze out across the wide spread of the world
And its many ways it spells out with a God's own language
The morning of the ear who listens and speaks when not spoken
To breaking every single rule of the word and smiling
Throughout the whole ****** thing.

Canons of repetition where life winces and the wife begins to wheeze
And fall, her dress is now clear and her eyes just don't seem to be
Where we are now I believe that money is the root of this soon to be dead
Tree and streets are now empty as the moon casts its silver glaze and
The breeze is now naked with her bra on the floor cast in straw while
The wizards write their spells and comb their hair and draw out plans
For the next great fall but watch the fireworks and the way they hail and
Crawl throughout the entire bawl and Ol' Ezra P. mass amounts of rage
To bring to the stage but here ye' O great one this place is for us all.

Here in the house of the not that is shared but all is seen here
Where the wind blows to no east and no west and no south and
No other way that you believe to get headed to the world of
The no names and experience makes you wise and yet old
And remembered for the drinks you paid for but especially for
The ones you forgot to pay for but that is what friends are for.

Omnivores in latitudes that matter not to the public eye but
To the ear of the Lord that is not everyone's savior but
Chosen just for the right eye so within that decree of mastery
We entrance the light and shovel up the leaves leaving the last
Way of things to be the first way of things when the lights
Are quickly turned off and on and off and on again and again;
Stars are naked until the sun rises in your hometown and the radio
Turns on.

And the background music chimes with a willingness of a cockroach but
Holds the beauty of a **** statue found in the under toe of a lost
Beach in a lost land forgotten in time but embraced by eternity and
Though does not dwindle its numerous names or its many ways
Of being for the hour does shackle us all but here in high array of
None other then eight times the way through the cobbled up in the
Attic of the fiercest neanderthal dictator with ideas holding truths upon
Truths that in the end mean nothing  for advancement is not determined
But continued upon as long as we forget the past and look to the future hymn
Of the childless winged' beasts that were once forgotten but now embraced
Angels.

Not of this world but of the entirety of the reality of banality
Breathing back and forth inhaling and exhaling releasing the
Mind of the mares of the wandering rewinds of infinite space
And inside the eyes of the highest levee which has broken but
Has not yet spilt holding back its power for the remainder of the
Year and catacombs upon catacombs of forgotten text of never
Forgotten men recalling their former lives and their former passions
And the hastiness of their possession of the word and the avoidance
Of the death touch the death mark the black spot upon us all.

Dog on a hill cloud high in the sky nut on the ground no not a sound
Frost on your fingertips toe of the boot covered a steel dull mud
Suds from a water rushing miles away nodding branches of a dead tree
Wind through the high grass birds in the sky that fly but not chirp
Sun in the sky rice fields burn brown crickets rub their thighs together
Not here but in the corn stocks and pig stocks brown in the reverse order
Platters of pinch salt and pepper underneath the floor boards creek for
Creak and dollar for dollar we make the rounds and we do not frown.

And the meet of the neat make their rapid conversations in dual order
Where they tell themselves this but I hear that and you make what you want
Unless you ain't got the stuff but if your lucky and if your smart you'll
Grab the oven and bake that **** but in case you don't see the sunset and
Your buried without your toes look for your voice because that's the only
Way you'll get to know the stars in the sky or the dirt on the ground for
The fun is growing but the lurkers are smirking for they got the pennies and
They got the nickels and these streets are breaking so you gotta' start thinking
Of a way to get outta' this place and FAST or else you'll be staring down the
Barrel of a 33 to ONE typing and writing and peeping around the corner of
Your dear old ***** that hasn't found in a home in years but don't look too
Down because one day that ONE will come around either by taxi or by train
Or by some kind of war and if you've got the gut and the money and the honey to
Keep her tight and alright and flying that lovers kite then your bound to keep
Yourself from the giggles and nearer to the harmony of the way things ought to
Be but may not really be but perhaps can be if you will it around and swill it with
Your will making sure your lies and that white or ain't that black or ain't that real
Or you ain't lying at all but stay truer to the truth with the water resolution of the
Insipid insecurity of the first love you thought you knew but now see that it was
The one three or four later and how right I am in knowing nothing and knowing
Everything and letting the mind skip and play and register new friends in the new
Cities and the new alleys and the smiles that break across the ice like a crack of of a
Whip and counting the days ones gone blowing through the high valley and the low
Trenches of war I do not wish to go to but may be forced too because this man believes
Just what he says.
ipoet Nov 2014
And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,

They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,

Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere,

Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,

Moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,

Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons,

Opulent mechanisms,
Fabulous manoeuvres,

In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their stylish Sari's, airborne.
kristine marie Aug 2014
you blackout when you're eight years old and lose five minutes of your life, your memory. you open your eyes in a room with a faint blue hue, and a figure standing over you; bulbous head and large eyes, small mouth, a sickly frame. you think about the news and all of the ufo sightings your mother told you were just conspiracies, but you reach out and an alien takes your hand and pulls you up.

"you're okay, buddy," he says in a foreign tongue that you somehow understand. "it'll be our little secret."

our little secret, you remember, and you keep it to yourself for fifteen years, but try your hardest to reveal the truth behind closed doors.

you lose five minutes of your life and spend the rest of it wondering just what happened.

they say trauma takes a toll on the mind and various coping mechanisms include blocking and burying. you rack your brain and search and dig, but nothing makes sense. you remember the blue room and the alien that saved you, and before that, a childish dinner of lucky charms, but nothing in between.

it's not until you're 24, grown and providing for yourself and suffering from a fear of intimacy that you realize what you've buried. you foolishly believed in aliens and spent your teenage years researching their existence, hoping to find answers to your lifelong questions. you go back to that house, that house with the blue room, only to find that no one lives there anymore.

so you break a window and climb right in, sit on a couch that's all too familiar, but you don't remember being here. you blacked out for five minutes when you were eight years old and you think this house is the answer to your memory.

you step through the kitchen and this is the room, the room with the blue hue. lay down on the hardwood floor and look up; there are the cabinets and the golden handles that you remember. there, at the top of the refrigerator, is the dog shaped jar of cookies.

you close your eyes and try to remember, and suddenly you're eight years old again, laying on the ground with your clothes off. it's cold and there's blood drying around your nose and your glasses are crooked. the alien you thought you saw was never an alien, after all.

"you're okay, buddy," he says with a devious grin. he's shirtless and walking on cloud 9, bending down to lend you a hand. "it'll be our little secret."

you wake up screaming because everything you thought you knew was a lie. the aliens, the ufo's, they're just conspiracies. distractions from the truth, from the earth shattering revelation of what really happened.

they say trauma takes a toll on the mind and various coping mechanisms include blocking and burying. you searched, you dug, and nothing made sense because you got it all wrong; aliens don't exist but monsters do.

and he, the one who's secret you've kept, he's scarred you. he's stolen you from you. he reached for your hand as a peace offering. he stole your innocence, your virtue, and you never even knew. but it makes sense now, doesn't it?

you blacked out for five minutes when you were eight years old to try to forget, and you spent the rest of your life trying to remember. you shuddered at anyone's touch, never let anyone near you and you never knew why.

life was better when aliens existed but monsters, they feed on your ignorance, your innocence, your virtue. but those are gone now, and he can't hurt you anymore.
inspired by the 2004 movie mysterious skin and fueled by personal experience. this is more prose than poetry.
Julie Grenness Jan 2017
When there ain't no mutual respect,
Must stop thinking about the ex......
How much can a koala bear?
Coping mechanisms abound here,
There is no turning back,
*******--cut women some slack!
When there ain't no mutual respect,
Gotta stop thinking about the ex......
Feedback welcome.
Deb Jones Oct 2017
You would think that new pain takes precedent over old pain

But the truth is that when new pain follows old pain, the weight of the whole tends to be a lot heavier than any individual wound.

A whole lifetime of accumulated pain.

If we have no coping mechanisms we just bear the weight.

The ever heavier weight.

Because let's be realistic, life is full of pain. And there is no one to turn to that doesn't have their own pain.

We can't say "Hey, do you mind holding this for a few hours? Or for a day? I'll pay you for babysitting it."

The truth is we don't want to give up the pain, to give it up means that we give up the immeasurable love we carry for the people we are mourning.

To give it up means that we never loved them enough. And we did. We do.

We love them so much we are willing to carry the pain for the rest of our lives. That is part of their legacy to us. The love, the memories.

After a while the pain is not so heart clenchingly hurtful.

We start to remember the laughter, the happy times. The loving times.

And we take those memories out and examine them. Smile and feel the lightness in our very soul.

We put the memories back and the heavy hurt doesn't seem so dark.

One of my my favorite quotes is  by Lewis Carroll
"I try to believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast"

That always seemed like a good attitude to me.

The way the world is these days, it’s almost incomprehensible how anyone could have a closed mind.

It seems like most every day there’s a story in the news about one of our certainties being turned on its ear.

Maybe that’s what it means to be human, forever questioning our certainties.

One of my certainties is I will someday smile and outright laugh at the memory of my mom.

She was a funny, outrageous woman that made me laugh daily.

One day she said something so shockingly funny I threw myself across her bed laughing and banged my head on her wall.

Even that made me laugh harder.

She was a treat to talk to. A great artist, pianist and writer.

When my niece Ashley died, her granddaughter, I came home and went straight to her room.

We didn't say a word. I cried with my head on her lap for more than 2 hours. While she made soothing noises and cried with me.

The night she died I looked into her eyes for hours. The fear. The panic. I talked her home through it all.

I smiled while I cried and I made sure she knew she was safe. She was going home to be with loved ones.

I asked my siblings to come around to my side of the bed so she could see them and they couldn't. They just couldn't.

So I talked her home alone while they listened and cried.

I made sure every time she focused on my face I had a smile for her.

I told her to go. I reassured her and at the end gave her massive doses of medicine so she wouldn't hurt.

And I smiled until my cheeks hurt. While I kept talking her home.

I didn't want strangers touching her so out of 7 sisters only my youngest helped me bath and dress her in her favorite clothes.

I washed her waist long hair myself and did it in the long side braid she favored. I put the light makeup she liked on her face. She looked beautiful.

She was wonderful. She was my anchor, my soulmate, my best friend. She was my mother.
I can't believe she is not upstairs in her room waiting for me right now. I will miss her everyday for the rest of my life.
This was written at the same time I wrote the poem "Dying" my 22 year old niece died just a handful of months before my mom did. Last April. I am still working my way through the grieving process. Writing about it makes me feel better. I can pour the pain into my words

— The End —