Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth."
      
          Here, above,
cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on,
and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon.
He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties,
feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,
of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers.

          But when the Man-Moth
pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface,
the moon looks rather different to him.  He emerges
from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks
and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings.
He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky,
proving the sky quite useless for protection.
He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.

          Up the façades,
his shadow dragging like a photographer's cloth behind him
he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage
to push his small head through that round clean opening
and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light.
(Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.)
But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although
he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.

          Then he returns
to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits,
he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains
fast enough to suit him.  The doors close swiftly.
The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way
and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed,
without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort.
He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.

          Each night he must
be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie
his rushing brain.  He does not dare look out the window,
for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,
runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease
he has inherited the susceptibility to.  He has to keep
his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.

          If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye.  It's all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens
as he stares back, and closes up the eye.  Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips.
Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention
he'll swallow it.  However, if you watch, he'll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

Some people want to be remembered
Others would rather forget
Some seek a misplaced grace
Still more drown in regret
But we're all smaller than something
Together, greater than anything
Alone, reduced to nothing
A single invisible suffering

Half-life static decay
Mental chemical waste
Earth bound grounded plague
Over-stimulated daze
Broken bottle haze
Acid rainy days
Tragic little plays
****** ******* maze

Everything's trivial
In the literal sense
That answers don't make a difference
And facts won't bring deliverance
Your life is a misprint.

So just keep crawling down the  road
And see just where it goes
No one knows.

You wore a paper white quiet
like the spaces between      
words
And that’s when I realised
that we-
Are a misprint
unique, beautiful in a way
but never now to be.

He broadcasts a misprint offender.
He is advised to question plutocracy.
He is deformed at birth and then again later.
He goes to war with a violin case as a a weapon.
He grabs all the paintings off the wall at once.
He is in an art museum.
He is in a grassroots rebellion against the free market society.
He is crashing a boat into the Pentagon.
He is chewing on a metal bottle cap and his teeth are all breaking off.
He is not allowed into the back seat of his own car.
He is watching a play from very far.
He yawns in a diner.
He lies in his bed.
Everyone overwhelms a giant.
Everyone recovers the disappointing vehicle throughout the famine.

He broadcasts a misprint offender.
He is advised to question plutocracy.
He is deformed at birth and then again later.
He goes to war with a violin case as a a weapon.
He grabs all the paintings off the wall at once.
He is in an art museum.
He is in a grassroots rebellion against the free market society.
He is crashing a boat into the Pentagon.
He is chewing on a metal bottle cap and his teeth are all breaking off.
He is not allowed into the back seat of his own car.
He is watching a play from very far.
He yawns in a diner.
He lies in his bed.
Everyone overwhelms a giant.
Everyone recovers the disappointing vehicle throughout the famine.

I came back to the poem with more ideas,
Trying to wake up the unsuspecting reader
To walk with them though my stories
I didn’t want them to think I was rapping
nor was I singing the blues

Poetry is no longer frightening
Like a sudden force of lightening;
Awakening your senses to the art
From the start: to the fuzzy end

I dared you not to walked away from this piece
However, I beg of you to read this piece with ease
Today, I wish that the little birds on my window
Will sing to me, but instead the cold morning breeze
kept them away:
An exciting dimension of their songs makes my day
Comes alive:

In my lucid dream last night, I saw beach goers
Watching the tides go in and out:
way down the harbor road
Their soak their feet in a stream
of warm running water

So I took a seat and I joined the relaxing crowd
Dreams are scarier, more than poetry.

Sadness flies on the wings of the morning and out
of the heart of darkness comes the light. ~Jean Giraudoux

I came back to this poem with a sense of knowing, that a

*Poet can survive everything but a misprint Oscar -Wilder

Don't Tell Me What to Do !
Just a humorous look at the ten commandments!

Handed down biblical tablets,
Telling us what not to do!
Not sure if they apply to you!


Message was I'm not to steal,
Or so the bible said,
Have no money left today,
Will starve and end up dead,
Out of sight's not out of mind,
Not sure what else to do,
Steal a sandwich,
One or maybe two!
Which I would never do!

See nothing funny,
Commandment two,
Thou shalt not ****,
With this commandment,
I hereby concur with you!

Worship no-one human,
In this our mortal world of sin,
If God exists there's only one,
So let his will be done!


To make a graven image ,
Is a phoney,
Misdemeanour,
Wee mischief,
Does that include a photograph?
Maybe does,
So Moses said!
Depends interpretation,

*** I hear you say,
You took his name in vain,
Not such a great thing to say,
Within this Godly game!

Mother, mother where's my tea,
Get it now,
Get it for me,
Little honour left these days,
Sure it's there a bit,
Unfound unnoticed,
It beats me!

You married once,
Hoped for life,
What went wrong,
Found someone,
Another's husband,
Or someone else's wife,
With this statement I agree,
But don't stay if unhappy,
Steal not another's mate,
A cheating heart,
Well that ain't great!
In Adulterer's Bible, sixteen hundred and thirty one,
A misprint, stated errors, sated,
'Thou shalt commit adultery'
A.K.A, The Wicked Bible!
Thought this was really rather funny!

Steal lies and nothing else,
When stolen just discard them,
Gossip not,
Keep phantom stories to yourself,
Enough muck and lies in field of life,
Without them further spreading!

Take nothing from your neighbours,
Without their prior permission,
You may not want to love them,
Take them to your heart or care,
We all have human needs you do declare,
That one day you may need them there!

Some of these are mixed together,
In one almighty mess!


By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I'm a bomb set to a different drum,
combusted to an unhumanly beat.
It's not you,
it's Death,
it's fantasy,
it's you because you're me,
i'm the insanity splashed in red
against your plumage skin.
Explode to resist
tongue at my edged
tip's a tack of misprint words scattered to letters,
it's masterpieces shattered
on the holy savior's skin.
i'll beat to a new theme,
breathe Death's lips spindled on teeth so forlorn to lost.
I'm only pretending me to be,
them to redisplay
we's got issues beneath paper flesh
feels of oceans and drummer boy beats.
It's insanity me
and we speak of for angels plague days of night
and stars a light,
oh it's good,
it's so sweet as infinity's drink.
Immortality's a price for mind
and motions never could keep,
i'll take to crazy under body so age untouched,
years of bitter-sweet.
I'll lose mentality before i die with serenity,
die in minds eye before I and us,
we and them die to God's rule,
perish in fire beyond the grasp of Death's savior hands.
I'll bite bullets before Death could ever catch.

Misfit
Misprint
I was made completely wrong
I don’t fit the standards
Size or personality wise
I’m wider than average
And less than funny
My personality is strange
My chest is larger than typical range
I can be witty at times
But those are as rare as my rhymes
I’m unloved by most
Angry and angsty even at my best
I love sleep quite a lot
Though it never sets my soul at rest
I’m bursting at the seams within
With dreams of things far out of reach
Craving attention
But not accepting what I get
Always wanting more
But I am told I deserve less
Never good enough for society
But never given a reason why

Mislabeled
*just like everything else

She held herself high
that was until she was dragged into an all time low
she hoped to have run away from all the lies
until she noticed she was telling them left and right
staying out late at night hoping a light would light up her dull life
Everyone in town knew she was a bright girl
but no one knew the downward swirls she has when she's alone
or the thoughts she has that are nothing like the smooth jazz her parents expect
she's different
she feels like a mistake, a misprint
no one knows she feels like this
with her pretty face and good looks
she wishes it would stop and doesn't know how long it will last
maybe she just got fooled by her own mask.

"Hmm..."



"What is it?"



"Ya know those sweethearts?"

"Those what?"
"You know, those little candies you can get around valentines that'll have like 'I love you' or 'be mine' and stuff on them."
"Yeah...What about 'em?"





"Well, sometimes they don't have anything on them. They're just like a forgotten wordless misprint..."






The leaves were crunching against our feet. Our beautiful feet. I was cold and I knew exactly what I was saying. I smoothed my hair and with a slow bright toned whisper, I said,
"...the misprints are always the best..."

"what is love?"
a question asked by an inquisitive 3 year old
love is something I have for you
a well meaning mom attempts to explain
love is what your dad and I have
we love each other and we love you
she says, trying to convince herself of the same
you will be raised in a house full of love
and that was her hope
but she couldn't make a man love
and so she taught her children
what love wasn't but labeled it as what love was
in hopes that they would feel
like they had grown up
in a loving environment
but as adults they struggled
their relationships never lasting
because love had always been
half hearted attempts on holidays and birth days
but cruel words and inattention the rest of the year
it had been painful and loud
never soft and easy
It takes a lot to peel off the label of love
and realize that jar you'd been given
was a misprint
it took them years even a lifetime
to rebuild an idea of love
into something that was true

2 dead, 1 injured
in norm shooting
at Texas A&M
University.

It has been stated, in a
misprint, that bread came
from the Middle Yeast.

Even though, an erroneous
spelling, that statement was
indeed correct.

It migrated west, arriving
in Greece initially, where
a new evolution occurred.

This word they write
I think it is a misprint
it's
a-R-t-i-s-t-i-c
so ignorant

The N is a long way from F
on a qwerty key board.

So, the title is not a misprint.

Hard to imagine it now,
but we grew up in a terrace
where borrowing was constant.

Cups of sugar, tea, half a loaf.

They say that eaten bread is
soon forgotten, I think not.

One never consciously looses
the memory of generosity.

Countdown to homelessness –
mars this earthlinked sole Harris - son
panhandler would would register
pyrrhic victory won.

10…9…8…3..2..1…
Found me linkedin at the end of my wits
mein kampf and hard times
playing on big screen at the Ritz
vamoose oft times motivations quits
for -- no money iz the pits
without any rich Uncle (Sam) in my orbitz
to ease worse case scenario than bing covered
head to toe with nits
if...offered residence among...
hive feel stung as beelzebub doth buzzfeed,

after being espied,
targeted in the crosshairs
of excellent marksman -
credo, ethos, and holistic lifestyle - a mitts
fa this contemplative, furtive,
and intuitive chap lits
of luminous joie de vivre
will emanate like bland kits
and biting the bullet
no less tasty than true grits,
the latter touted by Euell Gibbons
of bias, discrimination, fuhgeddaboudit
suddenly resplendent with blinding blitz
warp and whoop of bits.

Medium of spoken or written word
avast milieu this wordsmith doth assay,
the aim of said missive constitutes
avoiding living in cardboard box or bidet
house zing debacle looms approximately
soffit teen eaves from this day
if scant success, this atypical, ideal
and zeal - lot might post himself on eBay
or mebbe get swooped up
by 10,000 cannibals and turned into a fillet
which mish mashed matted mush
will resemble fifty shades of gray.

Words above and below
written June thirtieth,
two thousand seventeen indicates,
when rental lease
will find our psyches fillet
so this buster brown
(actually Eastern European Semitic caucasian)
hooped to stave then
turning fifty plus eighteen shades of gray
weigh past time of life

to gather rose buds – boot hay
touted as AARP candidate
my inner child doth inlay,
I approach outer limits
per twilight zone of this blue jay
youthful looking married male -
with doe eyed wife does not buck,
donnybrook and neigh
against mortality reckons,
a safe and secure domicile

important basic needs
(codified by Abraham Maslow) – okay
this LVIII year young chap
haint expect tin tubby be housed
in courtly Highland manor,
yet anxiety sans poverty will play
a cruel hoax ruse trick finding me
to jump off a bridge –
with pier - sing quay
King Crimson ready

to bring cessation of existence –
when nada stinging ray
of salvation pleasantly doth sashay
and bring relief before
unwelcome ominous killer fate
inches closer incrementally from today
this father of deux darling
then near grown daughters
might fare better brexit - ting America
high tailing dreams to Uruguay.

Nary a snowball chance in hell
this alter kaker will nab employment
since receiving social security
emotional disability for countless years
(viz anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder, and prone
to become emotionally panicky
and paralyzed in social situations)
relies on medications,
which palliative doth alleviate, calm, and endow
relief (from debilitating, harrowing,
and lacerating quality of being alive.

LIST OF PRESCRIPTION MEDICATIONS THEN TAKEN:

1. Clonazepam 0.5 MG Tablets;
(generic - Klonopin); (1 tablet 3x daily).
2. Floxetine Hcl 40 MG CAPS; (Generic - Prozac).
3. Prazosin 1 MG capsule - 1 capsule nightly.
4. Quetiapine Fumarate; (generic - Seroquel) -
50 MG; (2 tablets 2x daily).
5. not a misprint – a higher dosage,
this pop pops prior to bedtime.
Quetiapine Fumarate; (Generic - Seroquel);
100 MG; (1 tablet at bedtime).

Sought an affordable place
against the sands of time
thyself and spouse race
already envisioning an outlook
that doth harken to trace
living non social on bleak street -
forever reaching for salvation
like Samuel Coleridge Taylor,
his rime of the ancient mariner
or John Keats lovers for’ ever glazed
asper ode on a Grecian (formula) vase.

Mine status begs turing
vibrant with near blinding light
could inform this bloke
if any long term living accommodations
ever available, or perhaps
if no can do versus tae kwon do might
be privy to share information about
any eco-friendly community
to forestall any unpleasant plight
specifically being pitched out
on the streets  with thee spouse
onto the bleak cobblestone streets
of the urban jungle, where right
iz determined by spittle and spite
and valuables must be clutched tight.

OCCUPATION:
I receive social security disability
for re: max him mum,
long and fostered, during the latter half
of the Fox and Roach pelted per
pesky pointedly nineteen hundred
and fifty nine
ever since my conception in utero -
likened to a luke warm Caldwell,
and the entire century 21.

STATE: protracted, anxiety
COUNTRY: United States

I am not afraid to say
what you think and when
I do, I am accused of spying,
eaves dropping, peeping, or
worst of all Sinnisism!

Yes, Sinnisism is not a misprint.

When I was an active alcoholic
I used to go into the local church
in Mallow, my home town and
sneak into the confession box where
I sat in the centre, the priest place to
drink in peace.

One day, someone came in, pulled
the slide, looked at me through the
cabbage strainer and said, " Bless me
father for I have sinned ". I heard her
confession, but gave her no penance.

I met her later in the week, in a local
pub and it was then she realised that
I was a Psychic, but not only that, she
still felt guilty because the good father
left her off without 3 Hail Mary's or an
act of Contrition, the latter of which I
helped her with, after Long's Bar closed.