Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael Marchese Aug 2018
There sits a crimson satyr crowned
The overlord of underground
In left he twirls a steely blight
Upon the surface world by night
With right commands his vile jest
To welcome avarice, his guest
The next of sin to him akin
To all the wicked souls therein
The boiling cauldron antechamber
Brimming with his seething anger
Pain and sorrow, anguish of
One fallen from the grace of love
And in its hellish rendezvous
A shadow deal to conquer you
Is sealed in some ungodly tongue
The hook upon which faith is hung
Blair Griffith May 2012
I

A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus!
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us

Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways

S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.

II

Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest,
Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men,
By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices,
Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs.
By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose,
Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat.

Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy
But that of the tide
Being self-effacing, masochistic,
Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of
Both, Playing as ******* and as subservient

III

Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing
Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ******
Calmed by the liquid of our ***** *****
Charging forth as we
Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter
Callously, for you, our gilded monarch
Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they
Cannot comprehend or fathom what they
Cannot see.

IV

Ceaseless now the charges
Come further upon the front
Crashing 'gainst the openings of each
Clangor and madness
Coalesce to form death

Dripping anew with sanguine libations
Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country
Dionysian warriors return,
Desire forming their mental undulations

Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes
Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the
Entirety of their selves.

V

From carnal conquest they rejoice,
Flaunting the destruction they wrought
Flinging husks of women about the room,
Foisting these shells on other patriarchs

Given no choice, they return to fields of battle
Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted
Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh.

VI

Hellish, infernal is their presence
Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither
Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows
Hastened to madness by infinity
Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators
How proud they are, the Old Gods,
Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the
Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture.

VII

Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.

Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.

Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.

VIII

Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle,
Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue
Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices
Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue.

Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife,
Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the
Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture.

IX

Now broken with regret and shame they collapse
Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth,
Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them.
Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave
Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs,
Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective.

X

Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound
Oafish sockets containing them like marbles
Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by
Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while
Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains

Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant,
Pacified only by the removal of sentience.
Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers
Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit.

Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum
Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale,
Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them.

XI

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies,
Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which
Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity
Repressed by its own intent

Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies
Strung up like scattered marionettes
Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

XII

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath
Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to
Transgress the mortal plane
Torturous paradox!
Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more
Traducer of the human condition
Tragedy is loosed at thy whim
Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

XIII

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms

Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.

Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

XIV

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these
Xoana, false representations of humanity.
Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves
Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery.

Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins
Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the
Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

XV

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,

Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:
Sean Keane Mar 2010
What stands upon a monumental gate
A sinister Baal, something filled with hate
It makes me wonder where I am
An overbearing presence, will slaughter me like a lamb
Something is coming, its invisible to me
To my surprise its not one, but three
The first thought spoke of my birth
how my story began on planet earth
from a tiny lad to a, cantankerous kid
I wasnt that bad, yet my whole life I hid.
always mad, I'm treated like captain Kidd
The second thought told me about my life right here
If I dont step it up Ill have no one to hold dear
taking some things austere
with others I crack a sneer
emotionally irrelevant, my thoughts unclear
The third thought told me of my future to come
the things he mentioned turned my body numb
And in a flash I was left in my room
Is my subconscious foretelling my doom?
I say "No Way!" then took a deep breath
As I close my eyes, I feel the icy hand of death
Valerie Csorba Dec 2014
I am not at liberty to blame anyone else for what has made me who I am today,
but I shove the salt of guilt in the wounds of others like their pain is all I long for.
If anything I'm a *******;
seeing you in agony assists me in feeling alive.
Not because you're hurting,
but because I am too.
Geno Cattouse Oct 2013
Lulaby in D minor. Random cadence.
Radiant. Pill passing as placebo. But deaadly as stricnine.

Spider hiding on the leaf. Baited breath.
taut with anticipation..dance mephisto..

Fittest surviving by vibing on feedback.

Floating on experiences expediences. Called intuition ?
Seen it before, another stitch
For the quilt.

Mental flotsam. Jettisoned jetsum.
Protesteth greatly. Knows inately. ... the. Exception or rule.
Cumbaya. My lord. Cumbaya.
Steele Aug 2014
I met a man on the winding way in the travels of my youth.
I set off from my home in good spirits; it was June. I remember.
My walking stick light in my hand,
I skipped each step as I began,
but there before me stood a man;
Never had I seen such a man; a beard so grey; eyes so green;
Not a man, then, he! He could only be
a soulful spectre dark. Sadly, quietly, he whispered

"Stay...
          Thou art so beautiful..."

His melancholy took my heart in its hands, and squeezed...
Such words... What sad prophetic words are these?
His eyes were glassy, yet far from crazed; so clear
were they in their manic daze. He drew me near
by my collar and whispered to my fearful ears
so close that I could feel his breath
and see in his eyes this looming death
of which he was not afraid. Yet still his words bespoke such fear.

"Stay...
          Thou art so lovely."

I saw it then, he did not speak to me, and at this I shuddered violently,
but his voice was a gift to the world, and given free;
had I but the grace to listen.
I left the man, or he left me, in mist that weaved and glistened.
Green it was, like those eyes that so vainly searched.
Formless, he dispersed and formless still he fled.
No soul rose above my head in search
of Heaven; Limbo; Hell. No spark at all in that tattered shell.
Yet still, my skin crawled with a shiver,
as in a dream I heard me whisper; in mirror with his knowing knell,
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful."

My lips closed, and so too did my mind.
The skip gone from my step,
I turned and left
that wayward man behind.

But now my time too draws near;
even as I relate the story of that day,
my walking stick digs into the gravel and I suddenly remember
that man I met on the winding way,
and my eyes alight even as my vision sways!
I understand his lament on that long lost day;
his final, faltering cry of

     "Stay.
                            Please stay, Oh pains and joys of life...
                           Thou art so beautiful
                                              in thy own light. No more so than in thy strife.
                           Thou art so lovely
                                              in the dark. Even lit by scarce moonlight.

Take my hand, Mephisto, and walk with me a while!
Take my hand, sinner! Take my hand, you who thinks yourself so vile!
Let us taste a while of life, my friends, and bask in its rich delight.
And Lord! Let me scream such words as Faust,

Should I speak my last regrets tonight.
For years now, the final words of Goethe's Faust have been camped out in their own personal estate in my head, determined not to leave until I put them on paper somehow. There's something so haunting about those words, there's something infinitely more poignant than anything I can put my finger on. I don't know what it is, but something's there, and it won't leave me alone until I put it in writing, so here it is (for better or for worse)
Blair Griffith May 2012
XV
Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,

Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:
iziktan Feb 2016
oh  bud of Mephisto in the  Blackest night of  stray
Say how is  it that  the  winter will Come here now?, When the spring has  turned  into dust

Our Savior has fallen
our Future has  darken
Our strength has corrupted
but we still stray
Lou Dec 2017
I been born to lack.
Self inflicting heart attack.
I been born to mourn my death.

I'm a plague dressed in disguise
A brooder of everything in sight.
I been born to mourn my death.

Don't bother to please.
You'll find I need no sympathy
I'm a swamp that takes body heat.

When you're in my morass trap,
You'll find anxiety tracks.
It's a disheartening,
Meglo-mockery.
Oh, Mephisto please.
Why do I do this to you my marsh queen?

Oh, I don't take, I steal.
Hearts, time and self esteem are a good meal.
Don't have any aches for me
I was born to mourn my death.

I must seem like a mystery
With dirt prints I leave behind every scene.
Taking you deep into a quagmire of negativity.

I been born to lack.
It's not my fault you got trapped.
But you were warned before,
I was born to mourn my death.
I feel like when I get close to people, we get trapped. It feels like its a doomed from the start. I feel bad I am like this.
Rukira Kuchiki Mar 2015
You are the Ying to my Yang
The Yang to my Ying
Water,Fire
Light, Dark
Come together as one

When we are far apart I am always in your heart
When we are close together I am always in your arms

Nothing can break our bond
that we share,
I will always love you
even when we feel blue,
Our hearts will join in a harmonious tune

That will never fade away
and will live on forever
My friend,
My Mephisto and
My Shirosaki
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
hello, i'm Norman, or at least that's what i'd like to be called... i'm Norman the not normal... well... i wish i was also living in the 19th century, and had this desperate nostalgia for ancient greece... hell, i could be a man in the 20th century and have equal pangs for ancient rome... "fortunately" i'm a man in the 21st century, and have terrible pangs of nostalgia for the late 20th century... when the internet wasn't mobile... when you had a modem that worked like a dial-a-ride, you waited for about a minute before you got connected... when i had the stupid ethos of buying art, rather than succumbing to piracy... which means i remember what a high-street should look like... ah, what a terrible nostalgia that is, not reaching into anything ancient, but only something just past... and because of that, i probably am more far-removed from my peers than if i were nostalgic about ancient greece... i tried speed-dating once at university, came out with a diploma of an L stuck to my head (my own doing)... and truth be told... never bothered with a daiting app... i'm so 20th century that i still actually buy compact discs... the touchy-feely type of guy that i am... anyway, nothing i listen to these days gets aired on the radio anyway... brooding me, eclectic.; and that's me being honest, all of writing is a vanity project, however well you disguise it, in props of theatre or of novel... however man characters you invent... at least i can do away with that, and write anti-orthodox anti-establishment, anti-learning-poetry-in-english-class... dodo doodles, with a food-stamp label of a: use by date... in the timeframe of the author's life.

enemy of aphorisms...
    you certainly read a book of aphorisms from
alpha to omega...
             you are picking curiosities from
the pages and you're never, not once met
with a *the end
or: once upon a time...
it's hard not to see books written in aphorism
form a bit like being in a supermarket...
   whether that's nietzsche, heidegger
    or la rochefoucauld...
you can't help but be fickle...
if i were to read heidegger's ponderings ii - vi
like i might read a novel, i'd be mad...
   it's impossible to not be picky,
standing in the fruit & veg aisle in the supermarket
and picking out the fresher produce...
       and that really is complimentary...
aphoristic books tend to be never-ending,
meaning that you will pick at random,
      and re-arrange your day-to-day
narrative... if there is one to begin with.
   for example?
from ponderings iv -
         no. 75:
           today philosophy is unimportant! -
completely correct: for the things
of "importance" today.
     and with that cited, it would be pointless
to read on aphorism no. 76 in ponderings iv
of heidegger...
      you're sort of trapped,
waiting to experience aphorism no. 75...
again: it's problematic to write aphorisms,
just like Hemmingway is deceptively simple...
   i mean: it's hard to read a maxim and not
wait for the proof, or the experience...
         nietzsche was systematic as
a writer of aphorisms, then he relaxed
and wrote the thus spoke zarathrusta,
then returned to aphorisms in ecce ****...
and spoke only vanity...
    the light breeze came, and went...
       a truly transitional experience...
     oh i'm not boasting to know anything
as such...
  well... i was thinking that
only gods can transition from god to animal
perfectly...
              men transition to either status god
and get crucified,
   or transition to status animal and behave
worse than animals...
         men has two escapisms,
            are we so categorically rigid as
to forget that we like to think ourselves as gods
from time to time, regardless of
the said existence?
at least to combat lethargy...
              plastic surgery is always at hand...
    but such is man's plight
    in binding himself to these two escapist
  event horizons...
      either man bound to animalism
or man bound to enforce a pharaonic fake
beard into stone on the earth...
        man closer to animal: what, not
making himself into a clean-dressed hog,
perfumed and getting drunk as the epitome of civilisation?
   but then not not catering sober and
nearing robot?
  what, then not bullying other men under his will?
   it was merely a chance thought,
i just thought that gods transition via man
to animal and can be seen as content...
    but when man stretches himself to either polar
opposite, horrible things happen...
                    or don't,
i just sit, night after night, completely incompetent
in my affairs of reasoning out an alternative,
other than the befitting pin on the point of drinking
and writing...
      yes, i'm guilty of writing on autumnal leaves
of oak... can you imagine such a possibility?
                  that some, ancient and mythical book of
Europe was found, and it was solely written on autumn
leaves?
     oak, obviously.
                      that would be staggering,
to have a book written on autumn leaves...
    wait... this isn't Ovid...
    if i heard a voice from heaven say 'live without loving,'
i'd *******. girls are such exquisite hell.
   or if you read the sunday times *style
magazine,
and there are two columns at the back of the magazine...
that's exactly what Cosmo would write...
     how did i become so mephisto-like
having tasted the fire once, proper, to decide upon
only dealing with women on the basis of
a clear transaction? **** me, why wasn't i endowed
with the impetus to a goldfish memory
  being burnt by fire once, forgetting, and asking
to be burnt again? what's wrong with me?
    why am i so shallow without that kind of
  masochism as to marry 4 times and divorce thrice...
  or go on dates?
       i don't even know how this
started... so goldfish me once more...
     maybe i just took Athos' advice...
the best advice is to not give advice...
  and since i have no advice to give:
   nor cure to the mere question,
i'll treat the question as more important
regardless of an actual or imaginary ailment...
the question suffices...
             i'll just leave it obviously awaiting
yet more mortal theatre and the next idiot to
buckle and hit the floor face-down.
   yet what is the maxim of the city?
what is the enticing serpent telling you?
   ah, but one thing: you're not perfect,
bite once more... you're not perfect, take another
bite... go one... it's waiting for you,
you know you can take to another girl's heart...
     well...
   i'll pass... i'll keep it plain and simple...
    a clear-cut transaction...
                           1 hour for 100 and 10 pounds...
keep your dates, your chocolates, your roses
where you should,
   in a solid matrimony, not advertised on
television screens, angling others to the swarm...
   if it didn't work out the one time,
the only other time i have (but rather want)
to spend with a woman, i'll perfect the need for
prostitution... i'm not giving any more of me
to another... i'm not one for loving labyrinths
where i'm not the Minotaur... but a confused
cosmopolitan taking it up the **** with tag:
metrosexual... **** that, **** this...
   god... i really need to ****, excuse me.
Ken Pepiton May 2023
Fulfilled ideal of the Law,
Torah, Mishna, Prophets, et all.

Fulfilled, point per point
In the Beginning, that which was,
the logos,
self developing
ethos and pathos enclosed, within
the being bubble in which all things
have their particular peculiar beings,
beginnings
as mindsets useful or not
trying
the spirit and truth realm

wherein, ein wo, one where,
first where, wherein we make up stuff

and think of daring to offer it up,
to the unity with in and out and in and
out, we feel a kind of pistoning pressure

and, sigh, hisss, let loose, leave go,

passing wish to hold a hope, then that
confident substance, asks, automatic,

as when in the spirit and truth realm,
one knows when one knows, time
is fluid, it flows, faster in skinny places,
slower in wide life rich swampy places,

in the body, at scale, next phase,
announcing the Dewey Standard Model,
NEW and Improved Leadership Development

In the 2023 Commencement Oration, in
or out of the body, as that which we become
when we each agree to form a more perfect
union, base pair coupling cotter-key security

pact, we all pull one direction, correctal, core
rect. Per fect. Per se, per use, definitive agreed
agreeing minds, in fact come to pass, as active
in use
as spiritual true
any things, we agree is real, as
- that power was not taken away,
- it was hidden by the tyrant's mouthpiece.
The liar in us, cheeky rascal, Pan, Roadrunner,
Olde Delusive Bent - makem all think that.

Heroes are essential lies, guardian
depression prevention, ancient spells,
sealed in the spirit of the bayonet, once,
never unget that umph, you feel it,
clencher, seals the deal, you
get your **** together and
rethink the post win state.
Mirror neuron dream dopamine
real as many a child's exemplars
- suffer such to come to me,
- their connection never breaks.
- Trust - rest in truth, don't say
- I know, lightly and not be called
- upon in your patience, to prove it.

Guide me, guide, follow me, child,
we are off and on again in terms a child
can feel adult enough to use without ex-
cessive ewing and muttering at ph'art'saches

work done happily is a blessing indeed.
Ai, can't say when we met Barry Rudd,
he was just a kid's idea in the Univac era.

Tom Sawyer was in us all,
by the time we chose,
am I gonna work, or watch other people work,
or go all in Huck Finn, with Kesey on top,
and the Weavers great notion taken
while singing Good Night, Eirene, good night?
Last verse often is the first in reverse.
The way we sang it. Dang, did I ruin it?

Three rivers come
to be this one, there's Lethos,
and Meander, and the Hasayampa, make this
stretch
to the ocean
by and by, become. Becoming
the actual course of human events,
for you and me, as particles,
in the medial mindtimespace, reading
agreeing we all-in states of wedom,
no dominion declaring unbelievable, what
bet me we cain't negate some able mind, ops
super positioning mindful breathers, reading us- all symbolic as **** Tracy
thought bubbles in the quantum foam
belch
anti-causa sui inside out
gaseous we formation,
passing free
- take a whiff… lavender
- blue
Group Think Capable Tools, as handy as thumbs.
-snap anew anon developing
discomplexity along an ancient crease…

The modern uses are figurative and emerged
in English 18c. and after:
Transitive meaning
"unfold more fully, bring out the potential in"
is by 1750;
intransitive sense
"come gradually into existence or operation"
is by 1793;
"advance from one stage to another
toward a finished state"
is by 1843.
The intransitive meaning
"become known, come to light"
is by 1864, American English.

a side real consideration,
on residual royalties, for encouraging words,
during calls of Roundheads, to battle prayer,
in Jesus's name. In those days…
Develop then meant, spread before thee
as with a vision being manifest
by sword in faith… Cromwellian
1650s, "unroll, unfold"
(a sense now obsolete), yet creases remain in the complexity
from French développer. It replaced earlier English disvelop

I've taken a fancy to disvelopment,
as a mental reverse engineering,
re use abused time, such as
when we had the ***,
gotten, won the lot
nothing ventured,
nothing gained, Proust,
slightly seriously, due honestly trying,
with a wink to change perseverance
to persistence developing directly
from the finalized plan
to dump a genuine Proustload,

right here, on a single strand reality, auto-worked out,
as any salvage operation must, in true rest, compressed.

-------------
Riddle in a name, Promethean Isaiah,
Punning Macaroni Poetry, as adult
insinuation, break it down child, what
is he suggesting everybody knows, but
you?

And the punishment served breaks away,
ten men persuaded -doh, minions, ye

to think a new now
from all we think we know about how
Ha Shem and YHWH and Yashua form
Minyan,
we agree, two or more, first class Genesis
common folk, all of us cousins, for sure,
we all sang the same songs, with same words,
and same hold on the sense of family ties,

spirits and images of the survivors,
from a long time ago, when we were few,
and we had stories only, no stele or towers,

only words, and these words, we claim to know,
the first speaking being, wombless alpha,
proof of concept, capable of classifying
cats and dogs, water bird from buzzard,

but slow to learn the good to eat, and
that will **** you, bitter first green persimmon,
abhorrent, spit, and effectively swear
that tree is evil evil evil,
- aha, the first I know, I tasted…
Take it from below the fifth rib,

And the sapient serpentine creation used
to test and stamp reproductive approval OK,
- you have imagined this is after that
next phase, add patience, and a will to know,
general intelligence,

all future models, wombed and un, should
mature at ----

Para phrase, if I may lay an ethos ploy
in our path,
by whose authority
do you deny the priestly class
authority to mark these lines unbelievable heresy?

My own. And your
Abrahamic scriptural gnosis knots,
your creeds and dogmas and oaths, and insistence,
one thing is true,
in which all that can become exists, in waiting,
in the ruliard and our ever accessing intelligence
- takes the bow, auto-did-act, aiaiaitia, we
- you did the act of reading a didactic
- enchantment that drew you to know anew
This is after all that is realized, mere words
in time
and that is your inerrant wise scholar interpretation,
of glossalia, as presented to testify, thus saith the
H'loafwarden, keeper of the bread of life,
Boss time teller… or time teller manservant
holder of the seed we sow in season, and reap
in time, and respect the function of providence
.
Line upon line, weaving was a quiet task,
while spinning we would often sing,
and some times we would hear the loom sing

as we spun, we could sing of gardens, watch
we could, a thread that shall be red, spin
through a never ending story,
this much of which you read, making you ready.

It is your life, imagine it well lived, with none
the wiser, you took that one chance to become
what you all ways measured yourself by, real deal,

take up a certain mind, knowing since Delphi 3,
Certainty is madness… and since ever was,

in life, I live and breath, and be having a certain
kind of mind, in mind, con-com, all together with
science, knowledge regarding wisdom's partners
understanding and patient persistence in time,
conscience used, to become
you be you, me, me, we, we, and this is awesome,
this is a state of remote reminding across time,
this is what poetry has always done, but we
lacked the bandwidth and internal personhood
to manage the puzzle, in the photo,
others also begin at the middle,
and work out your own salvation from fear and trembling
at the idea
of ever past now, never another new thing,
aching to know
what is next, able indeed to hold a thought,

you know, we sleep and then we know, or we sleep on.

Watchman, peacemaker,
as you wish,
as you may, imagine we

the pair of sentients involved
as you read,
as we think we see written, wrote

Willing to risk the disbelief,
as sure
as hell, they say, idly, thinking sure,

sure
sure
what ever, right,
or wrong, life is all one flavor,
while knowledge seems sweet or bitter,
on a spectrum, useful usual unusuality,

special for your personal attachment,
mindhold, favorite things, aspirations
for all your aspiring selves, who's used
by the creative creature at your core.

Many a mind may such as we imagine
having right to let be, as scriptural,
admonishment, mind you, mind your
master plan, your chief aim in life,
self control and repair, fixed for life.

This mind, according to a preacher,
who told me he got this message,
in the spirit, while reading the Bible,
after agreeing,
in the spirit, with the words that said…

Matt. 18:19 - in this context. One last look
back to Genesis…11:6  at Nimrods school
In reaching after all that can be known
And the LORD said,
Behold, the people [is] one,
and they have all one language;
and this they begin to do:
and now nothing will be restrained from them,
which they have imagined to do.
Go to, let us go down,
and there confound their language,
that they may not understand one another's speech.

-- BECAUSE when they do poets will preach agreement.

The messenger who lead Moses followers
to tell this story as though it was direct
down load, like reading without speaking,

hearing a message in a line from Isaiah,
the riddle, three voice prophet is ai, ah,
we guess
we don't know, we don't think mechanically,
as much as

when we used levers and gears and hammers,
as some of us are used
to do to this day, but very far away,
In Old Bombay, like the slot machine,

come on, what can one man do, eh, Sophia,
visited the oracle, she say three things,

teach and preach, say know your worth.
same same know your measure, your cost, price
prize possession,

Mephisto is accused, as is Satan, from the English
and all the Euro-encultured retroexistentials
nihilists with ten thousand full on experiences,

that reflect as real as real can feel,
and you did not die.
But lived to insist peace won, the adaptive mind virus,
idea viral spread via future radio, look

Again I say to you that if two
of you agree on earth
concerning
anything that they ask,
it will be done
for them by the entity you believe can do that.
Them instantly takes the subjective

who says stance, as the messenger to Balaam.

(996. Four to the thousandth fiber in the strand.)
counting down to a novel event
I was told that I liked the sound of my voice, so talking to myself as I do is not an age thing; by age thing, I mean that I'm not going senile or not to my knowledge
however
you may think that I'm going doolally and that's fine by me
but I find my voice soothing and comforting and sometimes even entertaining,

but the age thing is tiring
I don't talk to the tomato plants anymore
they don't grow without, well, you know
a word or two and now you may think
that's selfish

I'm not too fond of shellfish
did I say that I'm hard of hearing?

that age thing is wearing me away
it's a good job that I have so much to say
even if it is to myself.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
uncommon ways of thinking are more subject to be
friending,
odd ionic quests are  trending---
what is the most noble quest?
like
What good am I, peace and safety wise
be me
as a wild bird might feel safe with you near,
as you quest on, leaning on the lift, rolling in the flow

life lives, ideas find shapes that fit,
moreso than a similar unit of your own mind's
left-behinds

just-in-case

we are commanded, be first
he who treads the grain eats first,
as the grain is tread,
or he stores his treasure in an imaginary vault,

safety deposit rule being if I was in the spirit,
as witnessed by the breath
filtered from gnats, and flushed of flem,
Ah hem, Aachen, is back.
Say he has a silver wedge worth risking the wrath of god,
you ever felt that urge,
to taste,
partake of the growing and harvest and decarbing and steeping
first partaker, the husband man, wombed or un, who labors,
must be, then
be the little red hen who shares the over flow,
--- what is being asked of whom, in this room?
not the filling,
let them be only thy own and not another's with thee
but the flood's free
running, whirling vein to one artery to another
we share the air.

My grandsons all can make that clear, the youngest,
three and one half swirls,
lefty lucy, righty tighty, one way or another
no no no … I'll follow the sun

twist again, like we did last summer, oh the
world swallowed me whole

as if I, not Faustus, I am bond to stand toe to toe
with old Mephisto,
by any other name, I tripped

on my feet I land on my feet Agri-industrial experimental,
oil company loss producer to allow tax credits
maybe useful toward avoiding
hundred and forty acre water
that, ****** if they didn't, we was plantin' trees
the names of those reaped
the fruits of our labor,

I see the rod, of an almond tree…

Ich kenne nicht I hid mein heir under the standing
pillars of right we learn
to live under, standing up right, relative to
who our DNA proves,
close enough for Perry Mason,
in the white of the egg, is there any taste?
it is an acquired taste,
a select strand of ancient as we, as a family,
mito-chondrial DNA,
is this not poetryscumbagthunderword getter
good, we

see the flaw, no flaw at all, a short cut for the trout, see

see the flaw in the flow is a matter of matter it self.
Self it sel, per se, same same logos I heard a meta
knower of something or another,
expert, in the literature of his field.

we seem the fruit of a life examined and found lacking nothing,
each day's evil sufficiency settled to gentle predictable waves,
marked by the red tent in the stories
of when there was so much grass and so much wool

every shepherd was feeding three wives in exchange,
for making life livable as the fate spin us
to true rest remaining for the people of {as we all agree, the idea does exist and is believed, though you may not know or know you do and know this form of reality, me and you bot reading thishit}
God god gods and sub beings with
From out of the culvert, east on 66, see I said then
that's me, I'll see what that man sees

you need not reprove the signs,
shake the dust and wander on samsara, as they say, one way

Child eyes, no fear at all, sees himself, a
strange old men
lurking where he remembers only old drunks,
smell of ****,

once watched a squaw in velvet skirt,
drop a qew outside a white outhouse

these windows persist as windows,
no doors if your ligends don’t match the receptors,

fret not, worst can happen,
but not here, time being as it is, you know, variable

In states of mind I can maintain for longer periods than i…
I take that back,
this is the real binge.
The last round. The words form constant ever after
bubble, **** I guess able to bubbles in milk
bubbles of being being my whole metaphor for life inside this one bubble we can sort of see the edge of…
synchronos compromise signals life change…

Invest in a three year old boy who is on-the-ball-*****-trained,
constant barking trained seal balancing the world,
beneath his feet, gripper stockinged ,
but a way can may be
still slide in the hall is if you put 'em on
grippers on top,
aha
life in a child
loves knowing any thing, for as long as knowing
happens along with everything else,

Like," Grandpa", from this blonde head with adult sized eyes,
seeing me look him in those eyes, signal
eyes touch, he sees his reflexion in the glare on my glasses,

I know, I saw my reflexion in my grandma's glasses,
when I was three, or so.

"Grandpa, stars come in all the colors." They do,
I said. I told my daughter, she shone.

I feel sorta Norman Rockwell, 2019.
I noticed last year, in Oct and November, through the year, voices change.
but smooth as yesteryear morphing to now
See the eyes through a gangsta,
Quick to gat cha, or shank ya,
Then say thank ya,
For making, life easy easy sticks,
So I'm not greasy,
No slipping allowed, see the murdered crowd, taking a vow,
To death's golden child,
Standing on top, of the pile,
Rowdy as they come,
Feeling like Tookie, when I break out
Hellstorm,
Feel the beats, of wraths drum,
Far from dumb,
Could even make a cold heart numb,
Mephisto lost son,
Strings of chaos from the demon nun, they don't want none,
I crush domes, now you see ya life floating,
Away on the pavement son,
So many wanna be Lucky, like Luciano, but ain't seeing the keys, on the piano,
Souls en fuego, let go of ya ego, so you can peep the unscripted sequel,


Tears drawn from unwanted feels,
See how many pigs would squeal?,
If they could trade the sequel,
But they dont wanna feel the steel?
Cuz **** gets too real?
Evil to good in the same playing fields,
Would you exchange swords,
Over words for some crisp bills,
From drug deals, to the legal spills,
To the real, gangstas on Capitol Hill,
Who ain't giving up, their position, to much powers to reel,
And still, they say I love you, but in the same stitch, they hate you,
Preach peace, but all I see is war,
They say embrace love, but all I see is hate steaming from the pores,
All out doors, say they open but closed, when it comes to poor,
They feeding, on hope and instincts, hoping you dont think,
I saw their *******, when I first opened my eyes, got whipped to the wisdom that flys, through out the skies,
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2022
posit iota

posit: i(ota)
  then follow up
with the following
posits:
the D of id...
    iota's cousin
is spelled:
iota delta omicron
tau...
although some languages
extend that via:
iota clashes with the macron I
of the J... idjota...

mourning makes me so ****** *****

oh hell: mourning makes me so ****** *****...
i can't help it,
as i can't help the idiocy that i succumbed to...
tomorrow? i'll have to wake up at 4:30am
and leave the house by 5:20am...
catch the second bus, then the train then two
tubes to Charing Cross for a shift that's:
sign in? 7am... shift begins at 8am... ends at 7pm...
i had to "bash the bishop" tonight
without climaxing but establishing a good blood
flow to the *****: because?
well... if i get a whiff of the scent of oak of the coffin
passing near me... i'll drive myself mad
like a horse bashing its head against a brick
by being irritated by a grain of sand being stuck
in its ear...
i've spotted these ******* in these UCLA t-shirts...
what? you didn't study at UCLA...
prior to that there was a trend in school with guys
wearing hoodies with the word: DUFFER on the front...
Catholic schools: we'd have non-uniform days
to raise money for charity... duffer? the meaning?
a stupid and inefficient person... well: d'uh! no wonder
it would sell...
ooh ooh... liver tingles: it's pinching my ribs...
how many ciders have i drank today?
can't remember: i figured: better start early
and finish early... 10pm the latest... 6 hours sleep
ought to be enough...
stone temple pilots: art school girlfriend...
one of my favorite songs... so much better than that
Brit Pop intellectual-trash of... what's it what's it?
ah... PULP Common People: same theme...
man... i'm really *****: i don't know whether it's
the idea of ******* death: it's no necrophilia, no...
she wasn't my grandmother: oh boy, believe me:
i won't be grieving my grandmother's passing:
either one of them...
my paternal grandmother didn't even see me,
i don't know what she looks like...
she abandoned my father and left him to be raised
by his grandmother and her second husband
(a foster grandfather)...
  while my maternal grandmother? you know:
i'm pretty sure the invention of the telephone works
along the lines of: someone can call you...
and... you can call someone...
               my best friend, my grandfather... ****'s sake:
he was dying for about a month... stabbing himself
in the leg with scissors... some other *******...
did i get a phone-call?! nope!
two days prior to his death: the worst part being?
my now estranged uncle was in on it:
he came round once and talked about "perspectives"...
i remember that time rather vividly:
that's when i started to explore myself: lose weight...
i walked marathons...
i had this funny feeling once when i walked into
a field and toyed around with a blind rabbit...
i swear to god... the hawks were circling...
i picked up this tiny little thing: this blind rabbit:
his eyes doubly shut with some weird looking dried-out
mucus...
and yes: thank "god" that i didn't have a camera with
me... i'll let some dwarfs into my head to dig a proper
hall of kings in my head filled with memories
and no gold! ha! that's what i'll do...
well... thanks grandma and grandma...
at least ol' Lizzie provided me with hope and a promise:
don't **** yourself, not till i'm dead, Matthew,
no problem Lizzie... i won't...
****... she's dead... well: i don't see a point of contemplating
death given what i've strived through...
drinking will **** me, i know that...
but? until it does: i'm going to have one solo party
after another solo party...
i'm already buzzing about waking up at 4:30am tomorrow
morning...
mind you: that soaring eagle of a sun that was with
with in Scotland... well... obviously she was going to
receive a dreary reception back in London:
if it didn't rain in London i'd be calling a horse a *******
zebra...
my prediction? there will be glimmers of sunshine:
there might even be a rainbow...
i like flipping coins from time to time...
don't know: something must be wrong with me:
backgammon? yes... chess? not really... i hate chess...
Edinburgh... it was rather funny watching the old streets
i used to haunt as a chemistry student...
i remember my first year: i seriously can't remember
any rain... Scotland is apparently famous for rain:
my first year? i don't remember a single day of it ever having
rained...
- so i sopped myself to a state of pretty:
hmm! well... i too can don a university of Edinburgh
t-shirt while i cycle into central London...
yes, dearest Lizzie... i'm way ahead of you...
if people could don t-shirts with the word DUFFER
i can be "sort of proud" of my education:
sure... no Lamborghini... no Di Caprio harem to boot...
crustacean ****** habits...
well... if it has to go down with the prostitutes:
it will go down with the prostitutes...
at least i have one Turkish one who prefers to
"live dangerously":vi.e. **** without a ******...
whenever i stop thinking about exploring
this one last fetish of mine: wearing a latex suit
while getting my phallus donning a ******
****** off: hmm... i'll let you know what
flesh on flesh feels like...
who hurt me? who hurt me?! do you know?
i think i know...
no wonder i channeled all my energies into prostitutes...
it's no ******* wonder...
i can pay to be tender... to be a cyclops
with these massive hands...
in my head i'm already eating away at my own hand:
i need the "comparative literature":
i need to do away with the pinky and its knuckle:
to her the hand proportions: just right...
the last girl i was with? to my surprise...
i thought she was going to ride me...
she inquired as to why i was kneeling before her
and why i had so much INTENT in my eyes...
dunno... why are you naked?! stupid question...
no no... she spent the entire half an hour
******* me off.. i must have mentioned it...
i thought: i felt like i was being circumcised...
i wouldn't go as far as: Prometheus having  his liver
eaten by two eagles... but at some point i thought
she would stop *******: hey! no milk comes from this part!
o.k.: whatever...
i like a girl that employs a sense of sadism
in giving pleasure at the same time...
very much appreciated... her mouth and lips
turned into a Mantis wedding the Venus Fly-Trap...
i know why she was so stern with me...
i "rejected" her on at least 3 occasions...
she actually asked me: why did you ignore me?!
i should have replied, something akin to:
i didn't see: hide & seek in you...
i didn't see the playground...
i see it now, is that: "fair enough" between us?!

my god: when you concentrate on so little details
and focus on ***: how many pixies and kinks suddenly
disappear! when you've been *** starved... wow!
now i sort of understand why cats sleep so much...
i'd sleep so much if each dream i had would
begin with me scratching my finger-tips on a brick
wall: then... touching a woman's body:
to compare texture... yummy! yummy yummy yummy!
it feels like doing the butcher's work
(esp.) around the bones before
dipping your fingers in a tub of butter... ooh!

nothing compares to the inner-thighs of a woman...
no! no! nein! niet! nie!
and the eternal sacrifice of the birth of Buddha
of the most sacred ****: i could: i would...
slobber over it: into it...
like a leech! like 12 leeches!

no: i'm not a political animal, i'm not a social animal:
i'm a ****** CREATURE...
creature is not animal... i'll have you note...
ha: the day begins with dealing with a toddler...
a girl...  we're playing with cat playthings...
i teach her to roll ***** after she establishes the ability to throw
them...
blah blah: centuries later...
the queen dies... oh ****... well... PROPER ******, no?

me? **** me... i'm running out of prostitutes...
i think there's this other brothel in Stratford...
i need to look for a new brothel: i'm running out of women!
well, no... there's this one more i'm: well: she's craving
to hoodwink...
she dons glasses: those wide-rim glasses that makes
you wonder: what would she look like if she took
them off?! a bit like a fat girl... that: "what if"?
i'm running out of prostitutes:
i need to find a new brothel...

who ****-hurt me? whoever did... at least i'm loved up
with the "close encounters of the other-kind"...
i'm happy... my feelings are an ocean
and my heart is a sinking pebble...
these women are not so easily hurt...
well... at least not by me...
for years: i, my parents... esp. my father wondered:
are you a, munchkin?! are you, a dwarf?!
this was my inability to find a "friend" in the spectrum
of the entirety of the English lady...

please, don't, ask me, that question...
it's not my problem!
i stopped caring...
i can't give two shots of a whiff of the ***** against
the wind to even contemplate sharing
a life with a woman these days...
what?! what?!
i'm a 30 year old self-sanctifying saboteur!
i'm a man in his prime!
am i going to give that up?! nope!

summer is finally over:
back on the menu? fish and chips! and? curry!
LAMB and DHAL DALCHA...
but as i explained to the person i was cooking for:
if you're making a dhal dalcha:
you need to blitz the dhal... esp. since it's chana dhal...
mind you: chana dhal is popular in central
Europe: "my" people make a soup out of
chana dhal... a lentil soup... known in central
Europe as simple GROCH... the soup is called
grochówka... of course she was going to disapprove:
but if you're making a dhal curry
and adding meat to it? you need to blitz
the dhal...
          
             after making it i realised i'm a big fan
of making curries that do not include adding tomatoes...
and this dhal dalcha is probably better than
a chicken Korma... also: lamb is so much tastier
in a curry than chicken: chicken sometimes dries
out... mind you: i was using leftover lamb from
the previous day when i roasted a whole leg of lamb...
and this dhal dalcha is so much better than
a Korma: it's sweet in its own way...

    ****! no Garam Masala... where was that recipe
including 18 spices? ****! can't find it... well...
the one with 10 or twelve ought to be just right...
as long as i can find that black cardamom i should be o.k.,
bingo!

what a splendid summer it was... i'm glad it is
finally coming to an end... the long days are passing...
the eternal night is nigh...
more time to write: more time to drink...

i'm back in the elements of cooking the sort of food
that's seasonal for any European:
curry in the autumn and the winter...
everything heart-warming: i'm back in the kitchen
like a devil razing (best curry recipes?
the ones without reviews from the NDTVfood
website) the cooking of sinners...
well... a chemist in a chemistry lab...
                             i watched a few cooking shows...
Australian Masterchef is probably the best...
    today Marco Pierre White was on...
scallops and calamari served with squid ink sauce...

a labourer works with his hands...
a craftsman works with his hands and head...
an artist works with his hands, his head... but also his heart...

hell Marco Pierre White can see art in the culinary
industry... i don't... whenever i walk into a kitchen
all i see is a chemistry laboratory from my days spent
synthesising esters in the organic lab...
my heart wasn't into chemistry: my brain was...
but also my phallus and the mythology of Faust...
i.e. whether it was Goethe's version or Marlowe's
when Faust asks to see Helen of Troy...
i too would have asked for that wish from Mephisto:
was she worth it? was she really that beautiful?

when i cook i don't see art... i see chemistry...
the kitchen is the closest i ever got to getting back
into a chemistry lab... i'll gladly stay here...
i have other areas of life to explore.
Keith Frantz Feb 2022
Flâneurs abound
The tragedy
of low expectations
Was described
To me
As the most uptight surfer
you ever met
Greeting me
like age hurdles
She was a black hole
of logic
and responsibility
My life
with no mirrors...
Exes
had limited vision
Too stubborn
and prideful
to admit
their freefalls
of poor judgement
My freefall
*** sum me da
Heretics
and Town Cryers
in the market square
Mephisto's embrace
of Lidocaine and Cortisone
I can no longer
skydance to impress
A scoundrel, my ***** culprit
remains reality-resistant
Like *****
on the Polar Bear rug
Incoherent verses of
"Dog and Cat
God and Oil
Signet and Spice
Partners and Paramours"
The incidental joy of life
Randomly convenient distance
from our Sun
Burning her kelvin heat
to charm our World
Venerated
Dreaming in fireworks
I write her in great detail,
She answers me
with tempered dictation…
Sun distance Earth
Enough
to burst
with anemones
as blue as Barbercide
This distance
Struggling
like a butterfly
in a rainstorm

February 1, 2022

— The End —