"mediums" poems
Used toilet paper,
or blankets of snow
to **** on.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
There's a tree over there
that waits for its dreamer.
*I have survived many.
And lost much
but to tell all would encumber several human spans
because
I have lived and longed.
I have learned and yearned.
I have waited.
At the train station, where existence can only be fulfilled
via a spiritual connection.
Bounded by roots that twist and secure
Soon to be bonded with thoughts
Floating through the sky, riding the air waves, see-through till caught
in a spider's web, or something like it.
And imaginary gets real.
Take in the matter
Scrub the void with scrounged emotions and colors
Pour in materials of lint and string.
Mediums with no particular conductance,
but taught it tight
and strum till the vibrations reverberate
and bring your idea to life in my wings
Because you are my dreamer.
And I am your catcher.
Hung on a wooden peg,
in your study.
Waiting for the day you
pick me up
and all your dreams tumble out and
materialize
and you realize* who you are.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 12:08 AM UTC
resuming vogon poetry
altering website logos
pretending everyone cares
playing "east hastings"
asphyxiating well-nigh denouement
depicting twitter status
obfuscating coincident deletions
translating from Sḵwx̱wú7mesh
assuring Sḵwx̱wú7mesh exists
painting skwiḵw's mother?
decrying micropolitical maelstrom
imbibing fireball fountain
inundating lexical foofaraw
crafting poetic wonders
desiring other mediums
remaining practically invisible
ending internet-only depression
drafting noetic blunders
requesting astute clique
blazing perilous trail
aging ominous grisaille
depicting kmart realism
seeking darker groups
increasing pre-weekend laughter
appropriating communist symbols
making lone chuckle
offending worldwide communists
colonizing hello poetry
colonizing parallel universe
relaxing e-migration policies
пить чистую водку
photographing abduction scene
¿losing consistent format?
increasing bluebird insignia
avoiding frivolous legalities
striking astraphobic comments
assuming near-universal automation
lowering latent inhibition
traversing oneiric plane
laxwadding afebrile loodies
wallscaping pitchsourced chthonicities
closing one-star conveniences
sharing alien-looking alphabet
writing system downtimes
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Oh, how the mighty art fallen
Lucifer, son of the morning star
Behooved by manner of thy own devices
How pompous thou hadst become to refuse to bend thy knee to man
It was pride that filled thee to burst
Had it not been but a few millenia later
Even your knee would have bent to the King of Glory
Whenst He did stoop down to the level of man
Even you wouldst have cried out "Lord, Lord wouldst thou not take upon thyself my raiment of glory? Clothe yourself as a king, not as a commoner."
Were it so much that us being made of dirt and you of fire that your proudness could render thee blind to our beauty as endowed by our shared Creator?
Though our mediums be different, were the Crafter's hands not the same?
Wouldst thou haft only humbled thyself, a different world we could have
I pity and thank thee, oh fallen one
For showing me how not to be
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Always there, Justin Tyme. He's a good friend of mine.
This morning I went into the kitchen and yelled "you're toast!" and then I ate it.
A lovely response to a question: "Does a bear **** in the woods?"
I reply, "What about polar bears???"
When people say, "Jesus is holy." Do you think he cringes?
My girlfriend told me that I had scruples. I suddenly became scared and made a doctor’s appointment for an STD check.
What did Ernie say when Bert asked to get ice cream? “Sure Bert.”
I find it interesting when people say,
"It's the quiet ones you have to "worry'' about.
I believe it's the ones who blend in you have to worry about.
"Awkward Silence" ??
What is so awkward about silence???
I believe people are awkward, not silence.
...................................................
I need some bliss so, I'm going to be ignorant.
Along with his three Peeps, Hershey Kisses the Tootsie Roll Midgets.
To display their different mediums of art, the sky is the Gods exhibit and we are the critics.
For the Nondreamers:
You may look down on me as If I appear to have my head in the clouds.
Note to self: When you look up at the sky, I'm looking down on you.
Some say I'm cheesy...may be that I'm just Krafty.
I saw a sign on the freeway that said 'Exercise daily and walk with Jesus.' So I did. Jesus and I walked together laughing and smiling all the way to the lake front, but he kept walking...Then it dawned on me, I forgot my aqua shoes.
"I tend to add a hint of lemon while preparing my sought after traditional Christmas goose." Here's a hint, don't ruin the hint.
Ask a person with a lisp to say thimble and symbol...it sounds the same.
We are all artists who never put ourselves out for display.
Empty thoughts filled with absence.
What's on my mind is nothing, but what's inside is pure bliss.
I'm existing in the nonexistent.
God needs glasses and hearing aids.
Last night she nailed me harder than Jesus! (too soon)??
"I would be more than happy to give you an external hard drive."
"Ah, give or take.'' I'm confused...what do I do??
Good Friday??? Good God! That's terrible. Put me on a cross and I'll tell you how "good" my day is...maybe we should consider revising the name of this holiday?
I'm a conductor who's lost his train of thought.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
temples of time
coloring my hands
my apparatus for creation
of things seen in the mind's eye
catch what falls from the sky inside
juxtapose yourself for once
make yourself symmetrical
we are a continuity of memories
we are a one of many chains of events
my protons
my codons
copies
self similar
life creating life
an ever sprouting flower
and waiting on the next turn
is one more glimpse
at the great mystery
think large
you are spiraling towards
an event horizon
every end result of every action
will be held on the surface of a point of no return
what do you do?
with your
drop of a
drop of a
drop of a
drop of a
drop of a
drop of
time in an ocean?
well for starters learn to swim
then remember you're water
go towards the shadow of true beauty
an arrow of eros to guide your shine
light in the sky
catching an eye
eros in the wind
ethos in the mind
body aligned
i'm not confined
except the lack of ethos in my mind
and the lack of eros in my heart
and the lack of courage in my will
find it in everything around you.
As the mediums
between ideas and sensations
we have a responsibility
for that which the gods can only be objects of.
And we carry it like wishes on the wind
towards the point of no return
never forgotten,
never gone to begin with.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be willing
to take mental risks
for a chance at greater understanding;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to delve into the Void,
come back with some new thing
and share that thing with the World;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be sensitive
to one's own Path
reminding others of theirs;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to not be afraid
to defy your Time, peers and Culture
to bring forth the Divinity inherent in everything;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is not not be deterred
by what you are told, but instead
to be guided by what you feel truest in yourself;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be able to interpret
and take things symbolically,
*Mythos and Logos*, synesthetically creating a new mutual Reality;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be willing and able
to be a Prism for the Divine;
to purify the Mirror of your being;
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be Artistic; Creative and Imaginative,
not that the Mystic must be an Artist, or that any Artist is a Mystic,
but that the Mystic is most naturally expressed through the various Artistic mediums;
To be an example for the masses
of just how the many are One
as One is truly the many
and thus All is Divine:
How the Universe itself
and all it's inhabitants
are the expressions
reflections and
manifestations
of the Godself;
An illusion,
A Dream:
**Godself
and self
is One.**
--
All is a Chapel of Sacred Mirrors
divided by Mind
into Self and Other,
but all is truly Godself:
Collective Unconscious and Personal Conscious,
Brahman and Ātman,
Godself and Self;
One in the same.
Tat tvam asi.
All it takes
to be a Mystic
is to be willing and able
to look inward and learn:
Godself and Self;
One in the Same.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 3:21 AM UTC
The Fox sisters of Rochester
lived in a haunted house.
A spirit there was stirring
That was probably not a mouse.
Spirits rapped upon the walls
and on the window panes.
The sisters Fox would rap right back
according to their claims.
The Foxes were sensations,
The Belles of Halloween
Their Séances well attended
By the credulous, T’would seem.
Spirit fever gripped the land
With rapping on a table
(Maggie Fox was double jointed
And the whole thing was a fable.)
It’s hard to sell your real estate
when it’s a haunted home.
But when spooks rap, rap right back
You’ll never be alone.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
and oddly enough, H is the only letter in the alphabet that can accommodate vowels the easiest, and subsequently laughter. well m can too, but it's more of a jolly hmm in between sudden outbursts of h and co.
and on Sunday i get to read
about a prince moaning
quote: 'at home on my arse'...
oi oi ***** Harry, where the magnum?
call on Clint Klein and head into the eastern woods!
'there be a bowl of spaghetti there waiting for ya'
the leprechaun said.
ah a job, ah a family, ah George the usurper
of attention seeking girlies...
10 years in the army, and then bust,
using a Ouija board to stop being
employed by McDonald's;
but hey! it's Sunday... can't a price have
his day?
god, this humour is so cheap
it's almost gagging
for canned laughter,
but it ain't getting any, shame,
and double shame for Fawlty Towers using it,
whatnot and what care for all that "famous"
intelligent humour of the British ballot box,
supposedly... if that **** is intelligent & funny why use
such horrid precautions (psst... laziness)?
slapstick does it for me, means i can be intelligent in
other mediums.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Designs and Equations
Was it the ****** Void filling
or Pandora's box opening?
Was it Victoria's secret
or was it the intellect of victors?
Was it the prowess of Hector/Hercules was it?
Was it the influence of Arthur or Har-Thor was it?
What shapes this world?
Ancient Egypt, Pyramids and the Sphinx?
Stonhenge and oblelisks?
Mystery Schools and occultism scrolls?
Crystal technology shifting poles?
Perhaps the hips and curves of a voluptuous African Queen
Perhaps the fall of Atlantis
or the secrets of the Bermuda Triangle
Perhaps the enthralling dynamics of the Photon Belt
Perhaps the mystery of Shamballa
or maybe underground bases where vortex points are
Perhaps the missing Eyepods
Maybe ancient and present advanced civilizations
Maybe it was the fall of Mars or the destruction of Maldek
Maybe the hope of Terra par DOMA
Or a design from distant super universes
or the amphibian watchers of myths
Maybe you, maybe me, maybe we
The I I I I I's of this world
however our eyes blind for we ruin this world
If we looked long enough at the light would we burn out?
If we truly listened could we hear the music of the verses unison - universes created by the Divine Creator?
would we join it/him/ness? Would we hear then Sophia being played as a harp and worlds conceived
Would we see a billion pictures as the cosmos are breathed?
and Karma come to be...
Would we learn of all life forms? Would we learn that there is more structural design than form? Would we learn that there are other mediums of activity apart from life?
Would we learn that structure is part of a larger paradigm of concentrated design?
Would we learn that universes are gardens and that there are worlds beyond the multiverse based on a hill and mountain orientation not dependant on planes?
Who shapes the world?
Our Souls from the ocean of love reincarnating?
The keepers of sacred knowledge at the temples of Golden Wisdom?
Walk-ins and starseeds? Cryptids and hybrids?
Wars or the Sun? The Peoples of the Moon or the base in Venus? The underground bases of Mars or The Order of The Phoenix?
Maybe royal and mob families?
Maybe government with all its true lies
Maybe the networks sustained by the simple minds of you and I
Whoever or whatever is responsible, either through sonic beams and energy manipulation, it is not so much the power of the Empire but rather the power we surrender.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
It's a constant battle.
I'm finding shells on my floor,
and a flood of defeat.
They got me again.
They tore up my flag;
and flattened my heart that scoped out nonsense.
I'm getting into fist fights with the mirror.
This world doesn't matter to me.
My bleeding nose and horrid mind are too naive for you to think that I am free;
breaching a shadow too small to cover me.
Mediums hover me,
and you call to connect with me.
Against my brain;
and induced will.
Against reality to assist a thrill-
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
How ironic to not seek the tools yet drool on them
To see the instruments and break down like a phlegm
How naïve of us to use the gym as an excuse
To prolong it, as if it were drug use
Some call it dopamine others call it clarity
Most see an opening to showcase their barbarity
Called less of a man to those "better off"
Called less of a woman to those showing pictures with their sweater off
Lust driving companies to show children compromised
We see these plaything while revenue boosts the enterprise
Anime, video games, novels and Tv
Nothing seems too extreme for these mediums
Beheading, shredding, **** and made "Dream-like"
Topics have been explored beyond their tedium
**** is accessible and Ai makes your dream man
Merge yourself with your idol beyond the imagination of a regular Stan
Be praised for wearing Japanese *********** and condoning said behavior
Treat somebodies feet pics like your very own savior
The beast wins not with wit, but with a pattern
To catch us in the act frozen still like Saturn
Internet connections show us the milky way
And your hands remain adamant, your mind filthy
The beasts doesn't care of November, nor valentines or about your crush
It waits to clamp you, and turn you into dust
Too ashamed to seek humanity, too far gone to find morality
Repeated until insanity, Your mouth blurting profanities
And yet we blame the beast when our relationships end or we cant break a ***** habit
Then try to pray to catch up to the Sabbath
Why Lie to the beast and to ourselves?
To those who use their hands or run to cheap hotels
Is *********** more worthwhile than redemption?
The beast is with me as I type this, judging my every move
It laughs, uses slurs and denying my attempts to improve
It lives in you, no matter how content you are with your sexuality
And does its all to destroy your Mentality
Nov 13, 2023
Nov 13, 2023 at 8:41 AM UTC
Your mind is on the moon and your heart is the sun
The guilt of yesterday beating down in waves that leave me floating helplessly in your atmosphere
Without a helmet i am hopeless
No guidance as my thoughts wander through time and space through no mediums of significance
If only i could see your face. Embrace for impact
The lust for landing
Closure
Solid ground
To feel safe and sound
This world we create for ourselves
This interstellar wonderland
Lets lose our way
And save it for a rainy day
Find each other again in the midst of a storm
And our love is reborn
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Even now, as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write songs in my head for you. And though my voice will never sing them, they are the soundtrack of your kiss. Each record scratch on my heart like a pressed vinyl love letter. Shaping my sinking chest into drum skins that my pulse beats against.
If I were covered in magic dust, you would be my happy thought. And all my childish notions of what it means to be romantic would be written down the sides of Chianti bottles in melted wax, like an oak. And in that bottle we would keep our hungry mouths.
And still I find my heart adrift. Ripped sails and ropes leading skyward like veins. Split and tattered and stitched haphazardly together, waiting for the lightning to strike twice and bring it to life. My throat a bricked flue, leading to an open mouth, spitting smoke from the torches my heart fears but always seems to carry.
And I stretch my spine skyward. Trying to wedge my head back into the clouds but manage only to cast the shadow of an orchid that has begun to lose its color and wilt at the edges of its wingspan. Coming to terms with the idea that it may never be picked. Not even its petals, even numbered like a deck stacked against it that it might lose in a game of being loved and loved not.
We want for a little more time. Arm wrestling clock hands into submission with god like fury. Ticking tongues to dampen the prophecy of false mediums. We practice fighting so we may fight for each other. Fight for the greener grass on the other side of the pavement walls we draw our chalk hearts on.
The clock tower is a lighthouse. The lighthouse is a windmill. The windmill is a giant. The stories never end.
Even now as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write bed time stories in my head for you.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
I listen to different music
I read different books
I dress in different clothes
But I still love you
I have different friends
I write different poems
I date different people
But I still love you
I wear different cologne
I draw with different mediums
I play different instruments
But I still love you
I’ve tried everything I could
Everything to change who I am
But
I’m still
falling
for you
I’m still yours
And it’s not fair
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
"Love is the only poetry there is. All other poetry is just a reflection of it. The poetry may be in sound, the poetry may be in stone, the poetry may be in the architecture, but basically these are all reflections of love caught in different mediums. But the soul of poetry is love, and those who live love are the real poets. They may never write poems, they may never compose any music - they may never do anything that people ordinarily think of as art - but those who live love, love utterly, totally, are the real poets. Religion is true if it creates the poet in you. If it kills the poet and creates the so-called saint, it is not religion. It is pathology, a kind of neurosis garbed in religious terms. Real religion always releases poetry in you, and love and art and creativity; it makes you more sensitive. You throb more, your heart has a new beat to it. Your life is no longer a boring, stale phenomenon. It is constantly a surprise, and each moment opens new mysteries. Life is an inexhaustible treasure, but only the heart of the poet can know it. I don't believe in philosophy, I don't believe in theology, but I believe in poetry."
— Osho, Everyday Osho: 365 Daily Meditations for the Here and Now
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I'm looking to make murals in your likeness
Something that would reflect how truly beautiful your soul is to me
Maybe a watercolour based painting or would pastel-coloured chalk do?
Should I focus on the brightest hues and play down darker tones?
But your darker side is the part of you I love most.
Let's play with the lighting;
shadows and rays make one more aware
I'd love to create a backdrop, possibly a place you feel most vulnerable and bared
The limitless possibilities, the mediums and the inspiration you bring me
Perhaps barring your soul is a tad too blasé?
Let's dig deeper and find something more suitable for your mural
How about an impression?
How I feel about you?
Oh my, that is personal...
yet entirely too brilliant to ignore!
I could just go on and make a mural that much clearly expresses how I feel about you
The way you talk, the way you walk;
That particular smile and glint in your eyes
when something intrigues you
and you're up to no good.
Ah, the marvelous mystery I have yet to uncover that is you!
But the fun is no doubt in trying to capture your essence
Ah, here I go prattling on and on about mysteries and emotions,
I'll get to work and I'll set up my drafts and display them to you...
The Mural will be breathtaking.
but of course, not as fascinating as you.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
A story about a captivating woman I know and care for:
The city was dark and desolate, filled with vermin, decayed. She walked down the different lanes of alternative artistic mediums, listening for a place where her soul would find itself. Empty dilapidated homes, homes that people seemed to have lived in though there was no sign of them; there were no misplaced lawn gnomes. There were empty clay pots.
Down a dark alley she found a concave mirror, she stepped into it. The heavens rumbled and the stars condensed and exploded into black holes and gas giants, the Milky Way sped up its rotation, the sun became brighter, and the Earth was scorched. Just the order of the day. Then she stepped out, covered in a sunburst gown, her hair had gone from midnight dark to sunrise bright, she looked back in and smiled. Just a smirk. She walked up the dark alley as every step breathed new life into the cold concrete. The sound of music played. Flowers and trees sprang up from the cracks, more were created.
She laughed loudly and from her lips beams of light showered forth onto the cold earth. She flung her hair back and water shot forth from its motion, the streets flooded. Two men in a boat, one wearing green the other a light lavender came rowing to her. He asked her, “Which one do you think is asking? Which one do you think believes?”. She smiled. Then she awoke, to find herself on her knees, hands together pointed towards heaven. All she had to do was ask, what music was playing?
- Life
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
Too many mediums.
The simplicity of conversation,
died today.
Died after the eighties,
because,
the neon lights,
and lines of coke,
wouldn't last forever.
You can't buy a cup of coffee.
Take your drink from the counter.
Move out of line.
There isn't a payphone inside.
You couldn't order a large.
It's a Starbucks.
Ask the homeless man in the bathroom,
shooting his dreams,
into his arm,
if you can borrow his iPhone,
to make a call.
And **** it all to hell,
if he asks you for change.
You only have a card.
Your piece of mind,
comes with a receipt.
But give him credit,
because he'll take an I.O.U.
Light your cigarette with the same hand,
holding the coffee.
Pass by people that do,
and people that do not.
Exhaling smoke,
some to which is blown,
up an *** or two.
Today is Tuesday,
or Friday,
and you have work,
or you don't,
but right now,
you are where you are.
At this moment,
there aren't any expectations,
but your own.
And when payphones,
become fewer,
and fewer,
You can take solace in knowing,
that calls will come,
less frequently.
But a business card is mandatory.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
She loved to dance,
the music didn't matter much
It was the feeling,
freedom, surrendering,
I think it was a way of communicating for her
A switch of the hips,
tap of the foot or snap of the wrist
Illustrated her innermost feelings
I could never read dance
So for me it was only ever an obscure but intimate moment shared
Spoken words are my tools and I amplified my pointed but spinning feelings often and in person,
With no music playing, no time to reflect or poetry to serve as a conduit,
She would freeze and struggle in the immediacy of my spoken words,
These tools constructed small wonders leaving her still
For all the wrong reasons
Dissonance grew beneath the roof of these wonders
Breaching the walls,
always at nightfall,
We were slaves to our mediums
Our mediums enslaved us
She never knew the steps I was shuffling in were mimicking hers,
I didn't know the routine and her music muffled my words leaving them weak,
Hindsight, reason and honesty our last chance to dance and speak.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
This one day I was awalkin' down the road,
to Chicago, winter o'seventy, worst in thirty years,
'saw this young fella in a army jacket, shiverin',
his feet was cold.
I walked up and said hello, you don't know me,
but I saw your feet was cold.
I got some dry socks and bread bags that'll
keep'm dry, you can have 'em if you will.
He said thank you, sir, real polite, but
cold feet is what I'm gettin' past,
gettin' over it wit m'mind. A guru taught me.
Ain't working is it?
I saw your feet was cold.
Nah, it ain't, now yah mention it, and I'm hungry.
So he bought me a burrito, and I told him about angels,
and how some say cold feet are symbolic,
one told me once,
many's the wish gone awanting
for lack of a reason to try.
I had cold feet, back then.
walkin' to Chicago, tryin' to. Again,
wit my mind. And bread bags, this time.
Angels, I believe in, they all are helpful as can be,
within parameters, y'understand, but evil angels,
ain't no such a thing.
Not no more any how. Jesus fixed it, came and saw,
damright, conquered war by loving and forgiving,
All while the Iron-legged montrosity from Italy,
was squishin' Jews and Christians in mud
that stuck like clay to the Iron-legged beast.
Ironic, ain't it?
You don't know? Whoa. These are the last days,
all the sealed up stuff that lion's den guy
got from the angels, messages from YodHeyVodHey,
Jesus's our father, from the prayer,
on earth as in heaven? There ain't no evil angels
in any heaven you ever imagined somebody imagined.
Loki, don't count. There's jokers in heaven.
Probably.
Mark Twain imagined a hellish heaven,
but saw no evil angels there.
They're mythic materially, literal wills o'the wisp.
The idea of evil hybrids,
that was then.
This now, now angels are all they ever were,
messages in the medium.
Mediums are something past medium now, hot or cold,
media-evil memes can manifest from a mob in the medium,
but they are bubbles,
right? Professional testers of the patience of the saints,
protesting the end of time,
so what?
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 10:24 PM UTC
Betting on plays
And whether teams could pull it through;
Factoring rates given to the risks
Versus stats, records, and rankings,
Of losses, successes, et cetera.
Whether physical or digital,
These playful monetary mediums
Like domestic feline & bengal tiger.
Like dog as like cat,
It's a different reaction to them
And connection with them
Having grown up around them.
These paper jaguars & plush lions,
So much for the fear of adversity
When you're trying to crunch everything.
If you're always in the middle
Of working through or thinking about something,
Punching an equation,
Then how can anyone hope
To knock you off kilter?
It's just another component-
Another addition & subtraction,
Division & multiplication,
To calculate & sum.
You've gotta be in it to win it,
And you're always just one bet away
From winning it big.
Making it good
Sometimes takes all it can take,
And even then you might not
Break even.
I sense disturbance,
See some malign figure,
In your line of reason.
Yet, through our conversations,
No appeal can be made to logic.
The calculations offer a grime visage.
Play with your heart, play with your gut,
As your head will steer you wrong.
If you're thinking about it,
You're thinking too much.
Just lay it on the line,
Bet it all,
But don't bet too much.
Listen, it'll be fine.
Tomorrow we can
Recoup your loss.
The contradictions are lost,
The irony was over
And you took the under.
The spread accomplished
Chose the given
And you were taking.
If something flew
You were beneath it.
Feb 10, 2025
Feb 10, 2025 at 1:04 PM UTC
It began with a question
the question was in the holy bible:
"Let us make them in our image"
the question became the answer
who are they and what are we?
And whose image is it?
And to the stars I went and back into the oceans
all the while I was losing people
close family and friends
they were dying while I was flying
How life can be unfair, when we lose people and death cheers
These images of us transcending
The image itself Reminiscing about the beginning, the nostalgic tears flowing
Remembering the dysfunctional Creation family
Where brothers fought, a mother caught - in between - the father sad
and evil born thereby polarities - negative and positive
Worlds fell And an Empire rose, of deformed and malevolent souls
In death do we find home?
Or do we gravitate where we focus our consciousness?
ooh-wee! How can we trust then
with a world not promising of peace-men
The beloved being the scornful
wishing you evil and failure
the one you'd die for behind the trigger
how far does it stretch then?
Do we forgive ourselves when we die? Can we inform the living of the world's lies?
Do we get swomped in occupations; possessing mediums and manipulating situations
But here have we the living, live, funny how live is an anagram for evil
so alive would then be "for evil"
trapped in space, time, matter, religion, bodies and uniforms of the system
How can we know that the dead have gone to a better place
Death a strange thing, if you're alive and you're conscious - it's the same thing
the borders of trust wear thin
as you get betrayed by your loved one
you lose the dead and the living
you learn to appreciate those who love you
you learn to see beyond and psychic you become
you see the traces of one's soul
you acknowledge those you can trust... And you stop losing people as your loved ones become everyone.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC