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My technology nightmare
Leaves me euphoric this morning.
Addicted, like drug trials,
I knew the risks going in,
Got hooked in The Cloud &
Now it always seems easier,
With diminished psychic chafing
Whenever I go with the flow, as the
Hipsters are saying again.
Yes, the hipsters:
Finally, some kids I can relate to.
At least on some level, their music e.g.
The first thing I did this morning,
Waiting for my laptop to boot,
Was put a CD on the stereo:
Matrix Reloaded: The Album.
I set the shuffle function,
Looping back between
Linkin Park’s Session &
Team Sleep’s Passportal.
You can tell a lot about
What kind of day it will be
By the soundtrack you choose,
Your infinite play list,
Don’t ever say these kids have no culture,
Or nothing to share with us old farts.
Old Farts: an apt, Baby Boomer term in 2015.
Kids’ music, some of it quite good,
Quite 60s-worthy if you catch my drift,
As we used to say while grazing in the grass with
Hugh Masekela & his Naai Mongoe-Swazi red,
Surfrikan homeboys & band mates, & that
ANC Kwa-Guqa Township posse,
Shadowing him since Sharpeville.
That’s right, Babaloo,
Go with the flow.
Don’t fight it. You’ve been spared the unintended
Consequences of government shenanigans &
Free market meltdowns.
Consider this a CEASE & DESIST NOTICE:
Cease swimming upstream Mr. Phelps.
Desist fighting tide & current, Michael.
A mariner’s distinction, yet serviceable &
Purposed for this narrative.
“And away we go,” croons a Gleason levitation;
Aloft we go into the wild blue yonder.
The Cloud: an exalted playground.
You are atop the slide,
Kindergarten lord of all you survey,
Sultan, Chinese Emperor & Venetian Doge,
A 90-caliber Duke of Earl,
You are euphoric, Mike.

The descent into the humanoid condition
(See Paddy Chayefsky’s Howard Beale),
Is slick and precipitous.
It begins when you first finger ****
A pocket calculator or touchtone phone,
Or use a Xerox machine.
From there it’s a quick slide down
The technology ****-shoot: video games,
Spreadsheets & word processors,
Emails, texts & tweets,
Laser projection keyboards,
Wi-Fi amplifiers,
GPS navigators, &
Apps for No-Strings *** . . .
By “****-shoot” I editorialize, of course,
In a state of future shock,
Resenting planned obsolescence,
Contemptuous of shrewd **** kids,
Wharton School sharpies,
Scoping out price curves & flowcharts,
Colluding at industry trade shows,
Powwows & confabs,
Releasing newer, more versatile
Models & spinoffs, according to a
Scheme planned three years in advance.

I salt the inevitable wounds of technology,
Taking my fight to the streets, realizing too late
My sole means of alerting the flash mob
Is by so-called smart phone,
*******!
Even the revolution has gone digital.
Poor Gil Scott Heron, dead last year at 62,
Poor Scott Heron, channeled into the
Harlem Renaissance by that loyal Chicago Defender,
Subscriber & reader, to wit: his Grandma,
A “Rainbow Conspiracy” co-conspirator,
Cooking ham hocks & collard greens for that
Mythical coalition of Young Lords,
Black Panthers & SDS.
Heron’s prognostication was wrong:
“The Revolution Will (In Fact) Be Televised!”
We’ve witnessed quite a bit of it,
Lately, prime time lately,
Live by satellite from once exotic places,
Places like Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria & Ferguson, MO.
I say “once exotic” because it’s hard to be
Visually intoxicated by images of screaming brown men
Sporting New York Yankee ball caps,
“Vote for Pedro” T-shirts and
$200.00 Air Jordan footwear.
Admittedly, the production values of
Revolutionary journalism have improved,
Action reported Hollywood-style,
Narrative arcs, scripted episodes,
Drive-by Potemkin villages & battle scenes,
30 or 60 or 90 day shooting schedules.
Spontaneous proletarian uprisings as Reality TV,
Riveting dramas,
High Nielsen ratings & $500K
Per minute corporate sponsors.
Let’s view the new fall line-up:
(1) “Mustafa Behaving Badly!”
(2) “Tunisian Tear Gas Talent!”
(3) “Gaddafi Gets Sodomized!”
Matt Revans Oct 2015
My autism's a part of me,

But it is apart, you see.

...

Who are you?

With your ‘normal’ view.

Are you just one thing, or are you a person

With thoughts & feelings, that are your own unique version.

Preferences, ideas, talents, and dreams?

That are bound by senses that meet at their seams.

Are you fat, short sighted or visually impaired?

Are you ever wondering why I just stood and stared.

Those may be the things that I saw the first time I meet you,

But you’re more than just your ‘normal’ diagnosis…. True?

As an adult, you have control over how you’re defined.

Your normality means your perceptions are refined.

So why would you single out one characteristic of mine that you can make known.

As a child, I am still unfolding, I’m not fully grown.

Neither you nor I yet know of what I am capable.

If you think of me as just one thing, then one thing’s inescapable.

You run the danger of assuming I have no chance of achieving.

And my heightened senses know this, it’s only you you’re deceiving

For I am not endowed with any ordinary sense.

You need to know this before I commence.

You take for granted sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

Never once realising that these things can be as painful as hell

For me.

You see.

My world often feels hostile, and makes me so fearful.

I may appear withdrawn or belligerent, whilst others are cheerful.

Or mean to you, or antagonistic,

Defending myself, then going ballistic.

You tell me we’re going on a trip to the shops

And out of the world my safety net instantly drops.

My hearing, you see, is hyper acute.

But I’m put in the car, though I loudly refute.

At the shops, walls of people jabber and whoop.

The loudspeaker booms and adds to the soup.

Music blares and lashes and whooshes.

Tills beep and cough, a coffee grinder swooshes.

The meat cutter screeches, a baby starts wailing,

I’m starting to malfunction and am rapidly flailing

As trolleys pass creaking, and fluorescent lights hum.

I’m starting to panic, but also turn numb.

My brain can’t filter the input, the voltage is massive

I’m in overload with no chance of staying passive.

My sense of smell is stratospheric.

That fish on the counter is NOT atmospheric.

The man in front hasn’t showered today,

That Stilton cheese – someone take it away!

A baby goes past, it’s ***** needs changing.

Things are going faster and turning deranging

They’re mopping up pickles on aisle two with some bleach and a rag.

My stomach is churning, and I’m starting to gag..

And there’s so much hitting my eyes!

This trip has turned into the world's worst surprise.

The fluorescent light

Is not only too bright,

it’s that flicker.

The space seems to be moving, getting quicker and quicker.

The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or saying, or being.

There are too many items for me to be able to focus.

The world starts to drain me of my internal locus.

My eyes try to compensate by tunnelling my vision

Fans on the ceiling, twist my senses into nuclear fission.

All this affects how I feel just standing there,

and I can’t even tell where my body is in space, do I care?

You’re yelling at me now, and shaking my shoulder

But the fiery fog is down and is starting to smoulder

It isn’t that I don’t want to hear your instruction.

I just can’t understand, due to mass self-destruction.

You're shouting now, but what does "£$%^&&% NOW! !£$%^&*" mean?

My senses will **** me in a collusion so obscene.

Once we’re back at the kids home, it all feels less absurd.

And now when you speak, I can hear every word.

Simple instructions, that I know off by heart.

And I cling onto these so I won’t fall apart.

You tell me what you want me to do next and I’m able to reply.

Now I’m happy and it’s easy for me to comply.

Now I’m OK and I’m running about

And performing my ritualised songs, which I shout.

Then a visitor grabs me saying, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” – This means danger!

I can’t stop the horses, I’m me, not the Lone Ranger!

And I’m thrown into panic when what you mean is, “Stop running.”

But I don’t know that! Those stampeding horses are coming!!

That’s my life, you see, it’s not “a piece of cake”

When there’s no dessert in sight and you’ve made a mistake.

When you say, “its pouring cats and dogs,” I see pets flooding from the sky.

Tell me, “It’s raining hard,” so I won’t fear the animals will die.

Puns, sarcasm and allusion

Simply generate confusion.

Tell me facts and keep things clear

So I can live, yet not in fear.

It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when my senses are reeling

When I don’t have a way to describe what I’m feeling.

I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or perplexed.

But I can’t find the words, and lash out, angry and vexed.

Be alert for my body language, or my gestures and obsessions

Then you’ll handle my feelings like your own treasured possessions.

Watch out for me compensating for not knowing the right word

By mimicking my favourite film star, or something just as absurd.

Rattling off words or whole scripts, which will leave you confounded

That I’ve memorised from Disney, because they make me feel grounded.

They may come from the TV, or speeches, or a book

And though they make people give a funny look

I just know that saying them gets me off the hook.

Show me, show me! I’m visual, you see.

And I’ll understand rather than you just telling me.

And be prepared to show countless times.

I’m listening, despite my ritualised rhymes.

Visual supports help me move through my day.

They relieve me of the stress and I feel OK.

I don’t have to remember what’s happening next

For I operate on a visual text.

This makes for smooth transitions in my life

And we’ll finally progress without anger or strife.

I need to see something to learn it, because spoken words are like steam to me;

They evaporate before my mind's eye, and are gone instantly,

Before I even have a chance to make sense of them,

They've died in the ether, leaving me in mayhem.

I don’t have instant-processing skills.

Instructions and information are my life giving pills

Images can stay in front of me for as long as I need,

and will be just the same in years, for they'll never recede.

Without visual help, I live the constant frustration

of knowing that I’m missing big blocks of information,

Not to mention falling short, by being a misfit

And I'm helpless to do anything about it.

Unlike other people, I'm unable to learn

If it's normal interaction for which you do yearn.

I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough

And people are stern and people are tough.

They think I need taking in hand and need fixing.

Never knowing the world and my brain are tranfixing

I avoid trying any new things, for I'm sure I'll get 'dissed'

And another grown up will be angry and get 'real ******'.

But no matter how “constructive” you think you’re being.

Look for my strengths, though they're hard for the seeing.

There is more than one right way to do most things.

It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the swings

But it may be that I simply do not know how to start

They just think I'm weird, and set me apart.

Teach me how to play with others.

Remove my autistic shrouded covers.

Encourage other children to invite me along.

They might learn something of value from my life's different song.

And rather than spend my day as separate, secluded.

I might show an ethereal delight at being included.

I do best in games that have a clear beginning and end.

Random play is something my fears won't transcend.

And just one other thing, a sort of confession

I cannot interpret a ****** expression

Or body language, or other peoples' emotion

So in group situations I'm resigned to demotion.

I want to learn, I want you to teach me.

Reach into my mind and help me to see.

If I laugh when Tommy falls off the climbing frame,

It’s that I don’t know what to say, nastiness isn't to blame

Talk to me about Tommy’s feelings and teach me to say,

“Are you hurt, Tommy, I'll get teacher, then you'll be okay?”

If you don't I'll meltdown or blow-up, and get in a stew

And this is a thousand times worse for me than for you.

For my mind will go into overload

My sense of equilibrium will start to off-road.

For I'm well past the limit of my social ability.

As those off road lights glare at my own disability.

If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented

And my behaviours will abate, less frequently lamented.

Keep notes about me and a pattern may emerge.

As your understanding of me will gradually converge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication.

It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to each situation.

My behavior may have a physical cause.

Think for a moment, just have a pause.

Food allergies and sleep problems can affect my behaviour.

Just look for signs, for you might be my Saviour.

Because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

That blunt my affect and cause my mood swings.

Throw away thoughts like, “If you would just—” and “Why can’t you—?”

You didn’t fulfill every expectation your parents had either, that's true.

And would you like to witness a constant rewind.

Of the traumatic deficits by which you're defined?

I didn’t choose to have autism.

Or to live with this division

Remember that it’s happening to me, not to you.

But without understanding, my chances remain few.

With love and support, my horizons are broader

But I can't live my life by other peoples order.

Patience. Patience. Patience, are the three words we need to live by

For my dreams to be reached, and my confidence fly.

View my autism as a different ability

Rather than as a freak show disability.

Look past what you may see as limitations and feel for my strength

I may not be good at eye contact or conversations of length

But have you noticed that I don’t lie, or cheat at a game

Or pass judgment on people, and make them to blame?

I rely on you, if you can make me your personal vocation

All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation.

Be my advocate, be my guide

Be my strength, stand at my side.

Love me for who I am, and not what you know

And we’ll see just how far I can go.

Matt Revans 2014
©Copyright
I wish you would say every thought in your head
While you blissfully stay 'sleep in our bed.
I would stay awake the whole night through
Just so I could hear every word from you.
But you've been asleep for quite a few hours
And I've been having a breakdown that comes in showers.
I've been staying silent so I don't wake you up
But all I want is to be held and rubbed.
I love you so much and the future scares me
I know the road we're on is pretty bumpy.
I feel like when we talk I'm the only one speaking
I know saying what's on your mind isn't very easy.
So I wish you would say every thought in your head
While you blissfully stay 'sleep in our bed.
Then I could stay awake the whole night through
Just so I could hear every word from you.
Mine, please don't steal it <3 Previously titled "Communicate". I felt Midnight Meltdowns 2.0 was a more fitting title.
He's asleep and I feel like ****.
I can't seem to cry but I want to throw a fit.
I work in the morning and I hate my job.
All I want to do is lay in bed and sob.
I don't know if my parents' plane ever landed,
And sometimes I still feel like I've been abandoned.
I call myself an artist but I don't think that's true.
I don't really put work into anything I do.
I'm afraid I might be an imposter just following a fad.
I don't know anything about anything and I know that's bad.
Mine, please don't steal it <3
mk Sep 2016
Her mind cracked at dawn break-

that box down there is too shallow;
give me something six feet deep
and 5 foot 3 inches wide


So small.
She was so small.
But the world was smaller.
It was the size of a blue pill.
don't go
The Bard Mar 2015
I wear a shroud.
A shroud made of prescription slips.
A shroud of little orange bottles.
A shroud of oddly shaped pills, circles, ovals, capsules.
I wear this shroud to conceal my demon, my curse, and some say a blessing.
Without this cloak I'm a monster.
As a child I didn't have this cloak and I was seen as what I am, a monster.
Pointed at and whispered about.
Given sideway glances.
I was angry, angry at me for being me and others seeing me for being me.
This anger spread.
No longer directed at those who hurt me but abroad.
I was a child.
Mad at the world.
At age 5-7 I dawned my cloak.
At first it took getting used too.
I was told that I need fixing.
I was sent to a psychiatrist who taught me "How to be normal."
I abided my parents wishes and thought it was for the best.
I got older, and the cloak didn't work as well.
In middle school my cloak was transparent.
I had to deal with school now more than previously.
The stress wore my cloak thin and I was a ticking time bomb going off when something caught fire too close to me.
Then, after fights, meltdowns, tears, the tears of my parents, school stress, their stress things began to get better.
Things got better in school but not among people.
I still felt rejected, judged for my weirdness in the past.
Maybe it was guilt for the things I had done wrong.
Maybe fear, no it was fear.
Then I began to wonder.
I had asked myself this before but never paid much attention.
Was I afraid of what was under my cloak?
I was born without pills in my system.
The un medicated me is the real me.
I was never born with pills in my hand ready to be popped into my mouth.
But the real me scares people.
It scares me.
I twitch.
I fidget.
I can't sit still.
I look around all the time.
I get laughed at.
I get made fun of.
Or I did...Till I dawned my cloak....To hide from myself.
I write my heart out
In my thoughts and words
You will see glimpses of my soul

Two years of writing
Has brought in me a change
Meltdowns have gone down
A mature turnaround
I am all happy , yet insane :))
This part of me remains the same

Life begins at 40 they say
At + 2 ,
Young and free spirited mind
The child within me thrives

Sometimes I like my shell
Undefined solitude
Peaceful place to dwell

There is beauty and pain in the Walk of life
The beauty I love to rejoice and pain I learn to endure
To strengthen the core
The heart and soul


My calling lay here
Unknown to me for years
It was destiny and good fate
A passion for words
That led me to this place
Hello poetry
A haven for Thoughts and Words

Reading writing sharing
Has taught me
To imbibe , absorb and let go

Not moving an inch yet trotting the globe
We may never meet
But I already know
The hearts and minds of so many of you
Thanks for showing me your world
And sharing your thoughts and words

I have always been fascinated
By nature and philosophy
Here I read them in abundance
Enrichment it brings to my soul
Thanks for sharing the knowledge keep doing so

The lesson I took  to my heart ,
“Share the love , share your gifts “
Thanks for teaching me so

Life is uncertain
Sure , here I share my thoughts
And will
Whenever I can

Blessings to one and all
Peace love and harmony to the world
Today
(19th Oct , I complete two years of writing)
Have been sharing my work here , since Dec ‘ 16 .
I want to thank you all for being a part of my journey here on HP and all the love encouragement and support!!

Also would like to thank
my cousin( Sparkle In Wisdom) here on HP,
She suggested I should share my work someplace, where I would be able to connect on a wider platform .
And ,HP happened to me .

Had posted this poem few hours ago have comments from (Lyn , Fawn and Ben , thank you so much for the same)
But I was alerted  By ( sparkle in wisdom) that it is not visible on my stream so posting it again !!
we gathered in a lighted tower
of a lower Manhattan promontory
seminarians listen
to discursive ramblings
of bank industry experts
on the finer points of
Basel II
Tier Three
op risk

towards a better better
best practice
we pique our ears to hear
the critical
dispassionate annunciations
of expert expertise

a panel of practitioners
a panoply of knowledge
networking opportunities
and hands on insight
we are granted
institutional affirmation
nesting warmly
in a corporate cocoon
13 flights up
off West Street
10 bucks a seat
30 for non-members

we settle
in soulless white rooms
divided by long
horizontal wall panels
bleached of all humanity
visualizing phantasmagoric vistas
of changing regulatory landscapes
in strait backed chairs
resembling the blanco armor acrylics
of Imperial Stormtroopers

on watch for Black Swans
the panel's moderator incants
if one appears
we told you so
if one fails to materialize
risk managers
have earned their dear keep
seminarians chuckle

the dais backdrop
a massive SONY plasma screen
stares down seminarians
with ruminative bleakness.
no digital blips or power points
will convey any meaning
turn a clever phrase
sprout a statistic
paint a pretty picture,
just the plain spoken word
of highly credentialed
speakers with bios
many paragraphs long
confers license to speak

the screens blackness
a perfect counter point
to a rooms spare whiteness
and pedestrian furbishment
save a day glow Warhol Print
of the heroic MTV moon walker
and a predominant majority
of Far Eastern attendees

questions from the floor
drizzle the panel
tied tongues
use tight selective language
of lexiconic colloquialisms
speaking a queer vernacular
of erudite bombastic bunk

questions are mumbled
with increasingly greater acuity
dancing around bank meltdowns
and global economic catastrophes
with a self anointed smug absolution
and poignant failure to acknowledge
a failures paternity
pink elephants and 800 pound gorillas
remain dance hall wallflowers


to be sure language evolves
the moderator instructs
as regulatory guidelines converge
to address market flux.
Is everyone comfortable with
the current acronyms
we devised
to describe our
present situation
best laid plans
and timely initiatives
to safeguard capital adequacy
and institutional solvency
right here in our own
little tower of Babel?

My tie is too tight
to clear my throat
I can't ask my question
of apples to apples
dust to dust
and oranges to tangerines
while the halting speech of others
is broken up
by timely ring tones
from Jeopardy
and Gene Autry's
Don't Fence Me In

every once in awhile
a chuckle is raised
we laugh about the score
in this inside baseball game
of capital requirements
regulatory Nexis
and smart *** traders
plying bold arbitrage strategies
blowing us back to Basel I
after the global bank implosion
oh the hilarity
of credit crises and crashes
the jokes on us
the joke-sters R US

some begin to
urgently finger blackberries
sending confident commands
to be dutifully carried out
by young back office minions
impatiently waiting
hanging on every word
of unintelligible texts
eagerly biding time
to take
the solid senders warm seat
in these cold blanched rooms

Closing the seminar
the moderator's summation
offered the thought
that her fondest hope remains
scenario analysis,
stress testing
and the new
emerging paradigms
will become
embedded in
risk management
best practices
and that fewer regulators
will be needed to regulate
and we will continue
to be employed
(nervous chuckles)
clapping
reception for networking
to follow
questions
and
cocktails
in the next room

I move quickly
to fill my plate with brie
English tea crackers
and a smoky tangy cheese.
A fellow seminarian
approaches me.
He smiles and asks,
Whats your name?
What do you do?
I tell him
and ask the same.
He says he is 50
and unemployed.
He sounds unsure
and frightened.
I bite into a chunk
of exotic cheese.
******* crumbs fall
onto the lapel
of my freshly pressed
pinstripe suit.

Music Selection:
Miles Davis
Red China Blues

jbm
NYC
03/03/09
I write my heart out
In my thoughts and words
You will see glimpses of my soul

Two years of writing
Has brought in me a change
Meltdowns have gone down
A mature turnaround
I am all happy , yet insane :))
This part of me remains the same

Life begins at 40 they say
At + 2 ,
Young and free spirited mind
The child within me thrives

Sometimes I like my shell
Undefined solitude
Peaceful place to dwell

There is beauty and pain in the Walk of life
The beauty I love to rejoice and pain I learn to endure
To strengthen the core
The heart and soul

My calling lay here
Unknown to me for years
It was destiny and good fate
A passion for words
That led me to this place
Hello poetry
A haven for Thoughts and Words

Reading writing sharing
Has taught me
To imbibe , absorb and let go

Not moving an inch yet trotting the globe
We may never meet
But I already know
The hearts and minds of so many of you
Thanks for showing me your world
And sharing your thoughts and words

I have always been fascinated
By nature and philosophy
Here I read them in abundance
Enrichment it brings to my soul
Thanks for sharing the knowledge keep doing so

The lesson I took  to my heart ,
“Share the love , share your gifts “
Thanks for teaching me so

Blessings to one and all
Peace love and harmony to the world
Today (19th Oct , I complete two years of writing)
Have been sharing my work here , since Dec ‘ 16 .
I want to thank you all for being a part of my journey here on HP and all the love encouragement and support!!

Also would like to thank
my cousin( Sparkle In Wisdom) here on HP,
She suggested I should share my work someplace, where I would be able to connect on a wider platform .
And HP happened to me .
Sjr1000 Jan 2018
When peace finally comes
A softness in the winds
The fires are gone
The quiet has come
Except for the nightbirds
which sing their songs

The shadows get long
Children's egos disintegrate
Meltdowns fry the atmosphere

The skunks come out

Moonlight after twilight
Sometimes to linger
Call out to the coyotes

Get old but stay young.
Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó, she bathed but always oriented herself as an Argonaut star bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she modeled the auletic- citaristic, in glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy.  In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a number of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal when entering the bay of Skalá that she was waiting for her native, where the art of navigation danced in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, mimetic was thrown towards the art of the unknown sea, collapsing and disoriented by its territorial similarity, and maritime per se of its Otolith that brandished it in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the auletic to infer Ballenid genera, which acted precisely between the island and the Bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá.

Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold teeth that rotated on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidae that delimited towards a dialectic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical one, especially in the form of Vernarth's sub-mythological subgenre. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale, it sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to harmonize media in its cranial cavity, and in the muzzles of its larger fins that transmitted waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, parodying the transparent sendal ballads that it made. with his transit through the water, however, not having members that strengthen his controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious literary language, such as a great inspirational propeller, and satires that host greenhouses in most of the jubilation, related to rudders that furrow his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived him in his gestation, of a maternal expropriation victimized with fears of an end, and Apocalypse hungover by the sea and freshwater. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirizing formula additions, and a piece of dull wood on its spur that was It bore like a whale, it was carrying its weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she laughed alongside the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril in thick keel skins, dramatizing him and perhaps delaying the investiture of Vernarth's Himation Proskynesis, peering jocularly and foreshadowing his encounter with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single Down Whale destination, ******* with her dorsal to exhale genome rearrangements with Cinnabar, refining hormones and stereotyped whale chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the polarized gender correspondence inanimate Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two roads of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, in tragic representation versus the comedian staging, harbinger of an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that plunged into three tragedies, missioning the furrowed features of the ideals of survival, with preceded parables of the psychic-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality by blending itself with disciplined domains. Of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions that grant Orphic and messianic structuralism; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, comparison, or image.  Song and poetry, song and prayer, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable phrase of meaning in it, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; "Make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for those who feel vibrations under his belly in his orphic water, portraying semis or semiotic cathartics of their own trisomic roots, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he told her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within the storytelling of provinces that sensitize the culture by rebirth on spherits and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist that admits inanimate corporality actor. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, commanding them ibid to the inter-dogmatism that it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Borker  Nótos. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods and relegate the forgetful in the tradition of existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills that enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a truly supernatural!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of light that distorted his view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and the phenomena of the underwater stones were relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish, brushing against systematic hermeticisms of what was infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his genome, to re-establish himself in his hybrid status upon reaching Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale but in interrogation. …?  Based on Leiak's sexagesimal nanoscale extension, endowed with a fractional comparison that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. The only burden of etiological myth in Kaitelka is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in psychic trisomy, for being **ized by three chromosomes, disorganizing her reality as a specimen that unfolds as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: "Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and honeysuckle, which tell a story ****** under the tripod of Herophila.  Authoritarian truth that will bow before the pig to become, smelling here the tragic essence in truths that are hidden in symbolic denial"

Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that the self encourages to plunge into diluvian tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the judgment of pouring out real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that lifted it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous polymorphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she reached the pleasant Skalá, escaping from the cosmogony that bound her ungraciously on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimicry gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on disturbed waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice. Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will remain Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift from her Orphic origin to her, for purposes of radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist sacred sites. The adventure prescribes a univitelino twin, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into a rainy sphinx on the thick bronze roof when the coins are broken, towards a seduction stop that is enthroned in the gloom of the minotaur, in the numinous hands of a daffodil and on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in mitral of valvulopathy with the carriage messengers, with the swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually more than multiplied towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts, which are dolphins, and Thracian pigeons, a priori of being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.
Equinoctial Aftó by Kaitelka
Fred Kinard Aug 2013
You Like It Rough:
No longer can you numb the pain/
So you walk blindfolded in the rain.
You are soaked like never before/
Somehow reborn and ready to explore. (Emotional meltdowns and the pursuit for happiness .)FK
Mary McCray Apr 2015
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 26, 2015)

The tendency to want to finish a given unit of a task or an item. Strong effects on the consumption of food in particular.

The small bag of corn chips, the can of soup,
the box tray of pasta, studies of portion

marking progress through existence.
Units move from your hands to your body

whatever the form of consumption
like track loops, pudding trays and poems--

they all have their metrics, even nostalgic
collages hiding behind miscellany.

Even improvisation has its forms; every mess
and message has its borders like nuclear meltdowns

moving in waves to the California coast,
Nepalese earthquakes and the avalanche of Ever

through years of tremorfications.
The corner diatribist can always tell you

there's a horrific endlessness to it all
and many, many happy ends.
Nepal earthquake, an avalanche on Mount Everest....looks of earth talking today.
biche Jul 2021
Catch you on the
Blindside where your best
Tricks await me to take the wind
Right out of my sails and
Bait me to anger

You must not consider or
Really even think about or care
About my feelings but
You say you do and
Insist it is so
And so this
Makes
Sense in
Your world

That place where I’m searching
For your attention and reeling from
Condescension and the
Rejection created by
You and your priorities
Or is it the delivery
of your goodbyes
I don’t know
Anymore

I swear to God
(Please help me)
I was about to write a
Happy poem about
Signs and Wonders
Summer’s Cauldron and
Other delights — even
This morning with the waning gibbous Moon, as She likes to keep company
With the rising Sun — these few days a month their romance blooms

Like ours — there are moments
Even a ******* foundation, baby
You said so yourself and I
Don’t understand, never
Did get your way of
Negotiating
Connections
And I’m
Heartbroken
Today like a teen-
Aged girl who doesn’t yet
Know that this is the constant
State of Love, no fleeting passage of
Pain and whimsy tantrums like the
Ones well-fed toddlers have —
Those meltdowns the
******* likes of
Which you’ve
Never
Even
*******
Seen

Don’t worry, though, apart from
A few brutal texts to you to threaten
You with my venom and lies
You won’t hear from
Me I can’t dwell
Here in this
Bubble of
Nonsense
And Hurt
I’ll go to
No place
And be
Nobody
Again
Yes, ******* again
For the
Livelong Day
https://youtu.be/HFfrJlgXUN0

Maximo Park “Going Missing”
Ryan Bowdish Sep 2010
Anxiously Awaiting Atomic Assimilation:

Still not happy.
What is it about being pinned down that causes our hearts to rush
Or the pulse to harden?
I can hardly listen to music anymore: It all sounds like you.
My brain says give up and stay home
My heart says go out and love!
Give it all away! Take them all for granted! Let them use you!
Would it hurt? Not anymore. Not after us.

Random but justifiable meltdowns occurring every day sometime past noon. Every single day.
Your picture still on my windowsill
You in that dress
Our hands melted together
Our arms behind each others' backs
The smiling.

All the holding and kissing we did on the boat.
The propeller spun the water through my head
And out your mouth into my eyes
From there into your thighs
Out your ears and under your bed
From the time we wake up until we're dead

Bolted shut. The door is locked.
Every time I leave, I lock it again.
Robbery is a victimless crime when you don't care about your worthless crap.

Take me. Take it all from me.
Be an angel and sin with me.
She never will again.
Not as long as her picture exists.

She will never leave my head.
Just as long as that picture persists
Or the Pinback track continually insists
I just sit back and cry and open my wrists.

I can't cry. I can't laugh for any real reason unless a hookah is near, AND SPEAKING OF WHICH:

I want to be with you again, man. You left me at the same time she did.
Add insult to injury. Degrade my emotions. "She outranks you. It doesn't matter what you are feeling. Only what she is feeling."

Those words echo like a ton of bricks
Thrown against a canyon
Or a gunshot cracking on a silent, frosty night
The city glows, but not the way I like it.
Not the way you described.

THE WAY I DESCRIBED.
Don't you ******* tell me I ruined it for you.
It was already ruined! I just spelled it out for you!
Have you no eyes?!
Can you not see your impact?
You witch. You monster! You ghoul! You sorceress!
Succubus!
Seraph!
Get out of my head! Leave me to rot!
Let my tears dry! Let my head clear!

Fog from my eyes will dissipate!
But only if you GO AWAY.
You know who you are. And this is not intended to offend you.

However, the other, he can definitely take it seriously.
Francie Lynch Nov 2020
I'm a loser.
I'm a loser.
And I'm all that I appear to be.

Of all the foes I have won or have lost,
There is one foe I should never have crossed.
He tallied tons more than I did my friends,
I'll not admit that I lose in the end.

I'm a loser.
I'm a loser.
And I'm all that I appear to be.

They say I look and I act like a clown;
My skin runs orange when I have my meltdowns.
My fears of jail are too real and acute,
A real man would self-aim and then shoot.

I'm a loser,
And I'm not the president you see.
I'm a loser,
And I'm all that I appear to be.

All I have done is the cause of my fate;
I'm old, bald, and stably overweight.
And so it's true pride comes before the fall,
It's also true they won't finish my wall.

I'm a loser.
And I'm not the president you see.
I'm a loser,
And I'm all that I appear to be.

(harmonica and don fade out)
Sung to the same title as the Beatles' song, "I'm A Loser."
kate crash Jul 2011
I live in the land of concrete and flowers
of broken dreams that dazzle on gower
the end of america
The edge of the pacific
where the mad fEver rush
rolls the last minute carney hopes
in the sea swallowed by
Foam, gasp, foam, spread, foam, butter legs, sand *****, scabs, toxic waste, castles, meltdowns, stock crashes, dance parties, heroes, well -theives disguised as them, cardboard castles o **** n drugs n poverty,
some promise that one in several million will b truly rich beautiful and free enough to complain about meaning
Hello my ***** luv
That throws me up
After its feasted my youth into apathy
Hello oligarchy
Homeland
Birth place of so many things I lust after
Broken concrete flowers peak through
Some neon sunrise
A prop to be used
a marketing strategy of humanity
living the dead end dream
C J Baxter Jul 2017
Kim Kardashian is my neighbour.
I see her every day, smiling seductively;
her curves grinning too.
She recommended some gluten-free meals,
skincare products, mobile apps, and friends.
She introduced me to her family,
and they are a lovely bunch.

I don’t know my other neighbours.
I know they are noisy, smelly,
up all hours of the night like bats.
But they haven’t been as helpful as Kim.
They’ve never entertained me for hours.
I’ve not seen their break downs, break ups,
make ups, and family meltdowns.
I’ve not seen them ****** and ******* ****
in a hotel without a worry that I was watching.

And Kim is never going to move out.
At least not until those curves stop grinning,
and she stops breaking down in front of me.
Not until she lets slip the mask that the machine wears.
Ryan Aug 2016
A man tore himself apart
It was just the other day
Limb to limb, bit to bit
****** pulp, sinew askew
And now he sits and wonders
Was he always in such discord?
Or was this a fabrication
A fabrication of the mind
Or of the absence of a mind
Self diagnosed insanity
A man who had reached an end
A break, a crack, in his psyche
Exhausted every nodule of sense
Along the highway of consciousness
But how has it come to this?
What was it that sent him into madness?
Was there an actual affliction?
Or did he see his reflection?
He took his manifestation of monotony
Blew it to pieces with a shotgun blast
Picking out buckshot with broken fingers
Each pellet another unanswered question
How many times can a man crush himself
Before he's pressed too thin?
How many times can his world be flipped
Before he knows which way is up?
How many deaths must he endure
Before he feels alive again?
But he can no longer take action
After all these mindless meltdowns
He lays on the forest floor, motionless
Becoming one with the earth
Buried in leaves and branches decaying
The dirt below him is cold and wet
Insects crawling and colonizing
Marching through his rotting flesh
And it all feels romantic and beautiful
Sunlight and serenity fall upon him
Feeling nothing and everything
And then nothing again.
nzakrh Jan 2015
"I loved every moment of it. Sure we're growing up now, but to me, the most beautiful part will always be the fact that we grew up together. You saw me grew out of old habits and into new ones. And despite all of my mistakes and flaws, tantrums and meltdowns; you grew unto me, and I unto you- and it's something I'll never regret. It's something I'm eternally thankful for."
Breathe in the trail of love
Ice river vaporizing the pain
of old heartaches
the light-years afar meltdowns
I feared to taste what love had
to give to me
I breathe inside my soul
the sweetness of true love  
the sweet abundance of stars
instilling dark
I look to see if I could find
your name in the heavens
where the moon sings out to the
millions of stars dancing around
That gives out pleasure in the
flowers and the beautiful sea
I feel you, my love, watching over me
where love is found springing of the year
I hold you near
with love in the air
The beating of two hearts becoming one
It's love that keeps us holding on
Breathe in the trail of love
Ice river vaporizing the pain
of old heartaches
The light-years afar a meltdowns
I feared to taste what love had been about
Love can be very sweet
when the golden sun is sinking
my heart form carefree
when thousands of stars blinking
I must think
did you ever think about me?

Poetic Judy Emery © 1986
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
THE QUEEN OF DARKEN DREAMS POETIC LILLY EMERY
Danny Mak Jun 2015
for I do not know if I should
write in notebooks or on this laptop
that hurts my eyes.

When I hold a pen, and press it to a piece of paper
inside a notebook, I feel alive.
It feels organic.
And the universe notices the concentration
of pure energy.
Nature.

However,
my consciousness flows at tops speeds
all the time.
(literally)
And writing on my laptop
aids the flow.

At what price?
my soul, possibly.
for, its not organic, the process.

It is false.

I look around my residence and see a TV
a Laptop
a Smartphone
and I weep.

Nature is dead.
I am confused.

Poems scattered in various notebooks.
Meltdowns ending with it all
crumpled and in the garbage.
followed by regret
for I just murdered my own children
and threw them in a container
with spoiled cat food,
***** napkins,
empty beer bottles,
and scraps from breakfast (Salsito turkey sandwich)

Nothing makes sense
and nothing I write matters
to anyone

Indeed, I know,
I am simply a poet,
and I crave suffering.

This new millennium genocide
is perfect for a guy like me
who wants to fade away
slowly
and *in pain.
This new world is hard for me to handle.

© Danny Mak 2015
I always said you’d break up with me,
(not seeing the power words have over us.)
Within seven months, before May grew pregnant,
you were gone.
You did not leave me as I feared, but you did not bypass my words,
which took over my tears and the gulps and swallows;
regenerating fresh saliva, to form more words, soon lost by the invisible hands on my cell phone,
misdirecting time so that the time spent with you went from now to then.

I spoke what I felt, what I thought to be utterly true
Because how could you love someone crumbling on the outside
and oozing with hot tar pain on the inside?
How could you love me?

You didn’t, you never said it, but I grew incapable of avoiding that metaphorical heart concept:

My heart dictated my hands that formed meals and massages and meltdowns.
You weathered my compulsions and the storms that overtook my countenance and threw you so far from my shore that even swimming to reach me took your patience and your prowess.

But you found a way. You always did. Every week, for months,
from a time when we melded egg white, egg yolk, to a time when oil and water tried in vain to caress.
I was your girl, and you answered my every problem with a solution,
And your eyes sought the truth in mine and we formed our own.
Us two, forever never and then.
Kate Lion Oct 2015
2.
His white, wool shirts hang in the closet
I count them like sheep
To put my heart to rest

Our eyes lock, our lips lock, our legs lock, we become completely undone.

And even when it is over
He nestles his head against my chest
I run my hands along the grooves in his muscles

We are inseparable
(Who knew something so lovely could be in two places at once)

To think that for six continuous months
He has been mine and I have been his

i. we flew to a foreign country
We paid for over-priced sunscreen to "save the environment"
And we laughed as we paid $15 for something we'd only use once
Swam with dolphins and didn't have enough money to buy the pictures in the end.
But we had experienced it with each other and it really didnt matter.

ii. two am in the emergency room
He was wearing the hospital gown that makes your **** hang out
And it wasn't funny until after his kidney stone had passed
And we knew it was going to be okay

He and I have been through car problems, job searches, *** meltdowns, misunderstandings, laughter, love, and happiness.

See--

You and I
had moments
He and I
live moment to moment.
I am so terribly calculated and impulsive at the same time I am constantly causing my own meltdowns

I'm not sure if patience is a virtue but I am pretty sure good things don't come to those who wait because the early bird gets the worm and there's still movement in slow and steady because you can't win a race if you don't move

My mentality has always been "if you have to think about wanting me then you probably don't deserve me" and I will never wait around for a man to decide whether or not he loves me because he's only wasting both our time



But with you...
Well everything slows down
And the things that I never stop thinking about escape my mind when I sit next to you
And I hate waiting more than anything else in this world
But looking at you and wondering what my hand would feel like in yours and what it would be like to wake up next to you
For the first time in my life
I feel like I found something worth waiting for
Kaitelka was in the Equinoctial Aftó of Áullos Kósmos IV after geomancy was oriented as a star Argonaut bathing in the Aegean while waiting for the ******* of various sectors of Áullos Kósmos. Between both Aulos and Citara, she was modeled with the aulética-citarística, glimpses of her Psychic Trisomy. In effect of the existence of an extra chromosome in a diploid organism 158, for a quantity of chromosome fifty-four, instead of a homologous pair of chromosomes. From this position she was limiting herself with her chromosomes of normality in the genetic proximal, upon entering the Bay of Skalá, which was waiting for her native again, where the art of navigation flourished in the nitrogenous water that brought her from Skalá; from Eleios-Pronnoi, about 39 km south of the main city on the island of Argostoli, in southern Kefalonia, on one of the Ionian islands of Greece. From here, she mimetic, she turned towards the art of the unknown sea next to Wonthelimar who endorsed her with his favorite, collapsing and disoriented by their anti-gregarious territorial similarity, and maritime per se the Otolith that brandished him in dual places of Ionian-Dodecanese geography, following the semiotic songs of Leiak that emerged from the aulética to infer Balénid genres, which acted precisely between the island and the bay of Patmos with the same name as Skalá, to meet everyone and be a participant in the construction of the sanctuary.
Kaitelka's Vernarthian tenor carried her behind her with another Ballenid, this one again carried the Demiurge Ezpatkul, with his prominent Augrum or Gold incisors that turned on the backs of all the borer beetles, being Scarabaeidaes that were delimited towards logic, and paraphrase of a qualitative satirical, especially in the modality of the subgenre, and sub-mythology of Vernarth. To commend all the hypotheses of this whale that sang with the native cephalization ultrasound, where it continued to arrange means between the middle and in its cranial cavity to the percentage of the world map, with the muzzles of its larger fins transmitting waves of parapsychological regression towards Vernarth, and parodying the transparent cendal ballads that he did with his passage through the water, despite not having members that strengthen the controversial cetacean passerby by waters of a melodious rhetorical language, such as a great inspirational helix, and satires that house greenhouses in most of the jubilation, akin to rudders that I furrowed in his verbal poetry, easing restrictions, and possessing the genome that was deprived of his gestation, of the maternal expropriation, victimized with fears of omega, and of Apocalypse hungover by sea and water candy. They piloted their heart valves, mere and Dantesque with the Zeusian buttress spauto, muddled and bundled in their bombastic myocardium like omitted ships without ever lifting anchor and setting sail, a very brief tulle of water satirized aggregates of their formula, and a piece of stony wood on their spur he braced himself like a mammal, he was carrying his weight in a literary category where there is no way to test it. Without hindrance, she was hilarious next to the breakers in the manner of a belligerent tendril with thick keel skins, dramatizing him, and perhaps that would delay her in reaching the investiture of Vernarth's Proskynesis Himation, some looked out jocular and foreshadowed to meet with her. Her chains were Caucasus icebergs, demystifying seasonality by residing linked to a single destination of Balénido Down, ******* with her dorsal that exhaled rearrangements of the Cinnabar genome, clarifying hormones and stereotyped balenid chromosomes.

The concordance of the Satirical subgenre, and the inanimate polarized gender correspondence to Kaitelka, usurping the intentionality of the sub-mythological drama, in two Radas of Skalá that appeared to lose the standard of their ears, with tragic representativity versus comedian staging, heralding an interlude between two areas that struggled to have it directed towards three comedies that pounced on three tragedies, missionizing crossed features of the ideals of survival, with parables preceded by the soul-linguistic being, due to its canonical supernatural modality when it was mimicked with disciplined domains after of a rhetorical poetics, rectified in religions granting orphic messianic structuralism bis of the equinoctial aft; foreshadowing the hymns of Orpheus in the Bible, and metaphorical in revealing divine truth, accessible only to spirits worthy of it. The purpose of metaphor in her poetry has the deciding function of the ineffable of thought, through simile, or in comparison to imagining. The song is one poetry, and the song such a praying too, prayer and ritual forming an inseparable syntagma of meaning in her escaping from Arbela's zither, impossible to differentiate in the biblical psalms themselves. The penultimate of them recalled number 149, being a hymn destined to accompany the dance; Orpheus says: "make melodies for him, with drums and lyres." It is known that the classical instrument of Orpheus reaches the level of the sacred in biblical texts. Psalm 150 contains an orgiastic ending to a symphony, in the description of the instruments that accompany the word and the voice that praises God, with sermons from Kaitelka blooming from an oceanic being and printing songs of the subgenre, without blemish of sub- mythology and the unconfessed proceeding. The comical exaltation of him recreates aspects of great joy, for whom in his Orphic water, he feels vibrations under his belly portraying cathartic and semiotic of his own trisomic root, in an effort to decode drama, for intermezzos of the mythological subgenre. Borker with his sword Mythos interpreted the story of Kaitelka when he tells her about the melting of Horcondising, seeing in them friendly glaciers that included her within provincial storytelling that sensitizes the culture being reborn on its spheres and plasma hematocrits, for an apologist who admits acting corporality and inanimate. Its genesis is Bereshit, "which names and does not start", from the undervalued parashot of the gods and kings, ordering them from the ibidem to inter dogmatism, in which it contributes in its credit reserve, in large consortiums besieging colonies by the southern seas of the Nótos of Borker. "Evil tears their veins heal their goods relegates the forgetful in the tradition of their existence alongside the demiurges, incontinent to their ills who enjoy making creation sleep, soothing it in innocuous myths that are often more than a supernatural truth!

Helios went out to the road by the west and not by the east, in the nascent instant of the ectoplasm that revealed micro satires that led to the station of the hero who lives hidden, behind the proscenium of a cultural and religious intimacy, Kaitelka plunges a few meters below the Aegean where he was already arriving, and he can realize that he did not see marine species around him, only beams of lights that distorted the view of those who flatter him on a descent? Underwater a mythical mission wailed on dry surfaces, and in the phenomena of the underwater stones, they relaxed before any reflection of the veracity of a myth of expression in the mouth of a fish other than Theseus, brushing systematic hermeticisms with the gloomy and infinitesimal. All this dialectical journey towards inevitably alternating molecules of his finite genome, to reestablish in his hybrid status when arriving at Skalá, here he would have to use his two neurochemical brains for a mortal instinct that does not die inside the mouth of a whale, but in the interrogation after being swallowed…? based on the extension of the sexagesimal nanoscale of Leiak, equipped with a fractional comparing that collects mythologies within them, for the uncertain truth. Kaitelka's only etiological myth burden is a consequence of her suffering, which is offered in her psychic trisomy, for being bastardized by three chromosomes, disorderly the reality of her specimen that unfolds her as a congenital disease.

Kaitelka says: Who am I and where do I come from? I am reaching the floodgates of my lord Vernarth, and I can see that I am reborn in his astragalus and vines, which tell a story ****** under the tripod and vapors of Herófila. Authoritarian truth that will bow before a pig to become, smelling here in the tragic essence, and in truths that are hidden in its symbolic denial?
Kaitelka is instituted a few miles before she begins to navigate in a zigzag, trying to condense forces for the origin of her ethereal, with sarcasm techniques that self promote her to blink in deluded tears and moan in the scenarios of uncertainty, in the opinion of pouring real myths, transposing its flow in the destination that is flooded in imprecise gestures and between cries with super sounds that raised it on the swells, and these, in turn, were shedding the mystery Masken by raising water concentrated in onerous poly morphology. With joys and hilarious meltdowns on the mountains, she approached everything when she arrived at the pleasant Skalá, escaping from cosmogony that linked her weightlessly on the light water, overflowing towards the very origin of a Vernarthian deity, in pasts and futures that do not intersect in the radial of its origins. The sky proclaimed laughter and mimic gestures that adhered to the vitrifying phenomenon of past-present pashkien images, ready to lightning that heals the invalidations of walking on troubled waters, a dipsomaniac leitmotif in early Christian justice.
                                            
Kaitelka sins irascible, violent and proud, urgent and judicious, but conciliatory despite carrying a cross and a harpoon on her back. She will continue to be Kaitelka Down, but Patmos will arrogate her Thracian gift of her of Orphic origin to her, for purposes of her radial preeminence in the Ballenids that hoist all the sacred sites. The biological diagnostic prescribes an univitelino twin whale, but when she goes beyond the hirsute destiny of her Iliad, she begs to go transforming into the rainy sphinx on the thick bronze ceiling as she breaks in the minting of the coins, towards a stop of seduction that enthrones in the gloom of the minotaur, and in the numinous hands of a daffodil on the face of the Epsilon. Or crawling in the mitral and in her valvulopathy with messengers, carriages, and with swans or pigeon birds; perching on a wreath of roses and myrtles that surround her red bozos. Almost always appearing undressed next to her escort, usually multiplied in excess towards her, with the amazement of her animal consorts that dolphins are, and Thracian pigeons, a priori being covered by the Pythia of Delphi that is migrating in the murky triumphs of the Achaemenides in Gaugamela.
Áullos Kósmos IV
BAT Kahnert Aug 2015
For Others:
U nbelievable knowledge
N ew experiences
I nsightful courses
V arious people
E ntertaining places
R elaxing environment
S pontaneous parties
I nteresting theories
T otally worth it
Y our new life

For Me:
U nbelievable stress
N ew finances
I nsightful worries
V arious fears
E ntertaining breakdowns
R elaxing insanity
S pontaneous meltdowns
I nteresting pills
T otally crazy
Y our new hell
Yenson Sep 2021
The charcoal glows
in soothing warm embers
shinning face in radiant light
out in blistering beyond
vapid snows are tumbling
on the hardened ground
to melt into muddy slush
cold congealed droplets
soft coreless particles
simple vacuous drips
the banality
of Nature
fray narte Aug 2019
my lungs are made of sunbleached storms
and unfinished poems,
stalled and trapped in a cycle
of kisses under the disco lights
and muddled
phonograph records;
it's been so long
since they last sealed
my comets shut;
its ice, dust,
ammonia, sadness,
now trying to spill
out of my chest
every time i sigh a word.

that's what club music is good for;
they mask the sound
of breaking down;
the sound of
bodies and meteors
falling apart;
each noise drowns out
my unsent letters,
and restroom meltdowns,
and my voice, saying your name
over and over and over again
as i come undone
on a stranger's lap.
he looked almost just like you —
and then he didn't.

and my comets almost all stayed,
but they didn't.

and i was almost just alive —
and then i wasn't.

honey, the world got us all wrong —
brewing *****, noise
and ash-brown eyes
across the floor —
it's happiness until it isn't;
in the end,
we're still comets
melting into solar flares
and forlorn figures
that never make it home.

the music fades.
the glasses fall.
it's 8 am, and we still wake up
to the suntrails of all the things we'd lost.
bs Jul 2016
...
Generic poetry
And a Father who left me

Generic photography
And a Mother who I believe loves me

Fake friends, expensive brands,
Shots of ***** on the kitchen floor
After fumbling around,
Trying to forget about the day that almost killed me.

But how can you die, before being born?
Sometimes I imagine myself trying to commit suicide in the womb,
On the 8th month my Mother was pregnant with me,
The man who never sat me on his shoulders,
Never made my family breakfast,
And never brought me in to 'Bring your Child to Work Day',
walked out of the door and carried with him all the could-haves of my childhood.

Silent panic attacks,
No one validates,
Because they are silent
And not screaming for help
The way my eyes do.

Meltdowns after medicine,
Throwing up,
Being too loud and too proud,
Never seeing past the bedroom door
Because the days were just too much for me to absorb.

Not knowing how to be grateful,
Because all I see is dusk
And dark
And fear
And no light I've ever known.
Damian Murphy Jun 2015
It happens on buses, in restaurants, or on trains,
On my work break, in waiting rooms, or on aeroplanes
It even happens on holidays and on nights out too
It drives me absolutely mental but what can I do?

I always get stuck with the one person, (I never seem to fail)
Who feels the need to tell their life story, (in all its gory detail)
Is it something about me, or is it just downright bad luck?
What makes people like these think I could give one f..k?

I try my best not to engage, but I do not like to be rude
Though I want to say Shut Up! I’m just not in the mood!
They start to talk, I disengage, it’s a real battle of wills
But they carry on regardless, have they no social skills?  

I try to make it obvious I’m not the type who gives a sh.t”,
that I am not someone who cares, even just a little bit
But they miss all the signals, that much is obvious
As they carry on regardless, completely oblivious!  
  
Now we all have our problems but we do not feel the need to share
So what makes these people think a complete stranger will care
Is offloading to strangers for them some kind of great panacea?
Or do these people just suffer from acute verbal diarrhoea?

As they prattle on I nod, make all the appropriate noises
If there was a competition for talkers these people would win prizes
While amazed by the fact these people never seem to draw breath
I fight an ever growing desire to simply beat them to death

Some things you don’t discuss with strangers, should it require explanation?
But nothing seems sacred, no such thing as “too much information”
These people tell me intimate details about themselves and their lives
Stuff you and I would hesitate to tell parents, siblings or wives

They seem to think I am their counsellor, some kind of therapist
When God was giving out social skills, they were obviously missed
They have absolutely no boundaries, have never heard of discretion
I pity the poor priest who has to listen to their confession!

And women are the worst, lest there be any doubt
You would not believe the personal stuff they tell me about
They get very inappropriate, though I do the best I can
To remind them of the fact they are talking to a man!

Some of these people have meltdowns, lose the plot altogether
And a little part of me just wants to say “Whatever!”
But I look in their eyes, where I often see tears glistening
And despite all my best efforts, I always end up listening

Those I meet just once on trips, well they are bad enough
But those in my social circle think I am their new BFF
Even though when I bump into them I could not be much colder
It is never long before they start crying on my shoulder

And soon they’re sending friend requests to me on Facebook
And following me on Twitter, God they’re everywhere I look
No matter how I try I cannot seem to shake them loose
So now I am seriously considering becoming a recluse

While these people are annoying, I have to say I’m worse
Because I really start to care, what an awful ****** curse
When I should just tell these people to please leave me alone
I start to listen to their issues, so I cannot really moan!

We should have more time for those in need; that is my belief
and my listening to these people seemed to give them some relief
but while these people seemed much better, having got things off their chest
I am bothered by all their issues and find I am constantly stressed

So if you meet me now I might seem very unsociable altogether
But my experiences with these people have pushed me to the end of my tether
And so I have taken my mothers advice, (she obviously knew the dangers)
For she always warned me as a child; “Never talk to strangers!”
Sjr1000 Oct 2017
Traumatized
Post Traumatic Stress
Most of us
got it

Cortisol fear screaming through
our blood stream
Seeing or being something
people never should be

Adrenal Dumps
Road rage

Meltdowns in the
five to eight shot
morning or evening
it doesn't matter

Memories traveling
on the light of the day
scents floating in the air
the music
A ****** expression
in a crowd

Holding on tight
Jumping out of our
skin

Embarrassment
Feelings of rejection
Than rage

How to handle it today?

The walking wounded
walking on parade
no point in going to the circus
when we are the circus

Maybe it's always been,
What do they say,
The human condition
is the condition
we're in

If we do it right
maybe
(there's)
(next time)
another way
to get it right.

— The End —