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Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Drunk, we staggered home.

Aware of having been
some
other where
a while

That woman, she could answer

any question rebbi axt,
Ohhhhmyyy

she laugh and say, Dude, I got the Intent-net,
in my hand

That's more than a list of numbers, this
accounting idle words going on, on going, as fast as

lightning, at the scale, of, say

cat-ions ifiying an-ions
at random,
seen systematical, from a distance
zoom out
at the scale, of, say
Great Deep Field.

Center you, I'm no matter.

synchro
now

zoom out
Use that steam program
Universe Sandbox,
you gotta see that to imagine this, right,

and next is what you keep saying is unbelievable,
but its not.

Good things come to them
to whom
good makes more sense.

Earth from the moon POV

Confusion flux, spurtual,  caused by the solar flare of all solar flares,
one side

Whooshing the Ice left from Patton's flood
into steam, the stuff, not the app,

which swooshhhesssssssssss smack
into the freezing repurcussions
from the daark side…

The Noah event, that was bad,
This one, the last one, this just previous one,

was spiritual. Magnitudes incomparable
(save in parable and example, exemplar gratis,
says the bodiless being, with a roll of  my wrist and a bow)

At that very time on the side away from the flare,
the daark side of the planet, this one…

a Donald Patton nitrogen snow ball
that nearly breached Roche's limit,

too not nearly enough,
dis -integration
The atmosphere freezes
to the quark level, snap,

the cold
explosive
forward momentum
booms a nitrogen bubble now
minusminusminus
solid nitrogen
melting

any heat locked in flare fired steam,
what was once the water
that washed away the gods and locked their cities
of ivory under the ice

on the sunny side,
where now, then,

a solar flare like legends build empires upon
has passed, fires rage

there were survivors who lived to tell

and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,

Only miners survived, gold digger mostly,
few alchemists who knew the mystery in mercury,
Lost was all knowing but to a very few,
who truth be told had been the owner's
well kept servants, ministers of this and that
they perished with all the fires touched

we diggers, we only marvel

How bits of time, exact as ours, can be seen happening
all in bubble of Mercury. Cooked out red rock like these.

"Blood o' the gods of old, swat I'astold."

Messages from the gods, grandma, said, "Mercury calls for gold, gold listens, when fire's hottern fire can be,
unless
the breath of men blow on the coals", we all said that last part and blew out the light. G'night


but a story told a wee bit here a qubit there
here a little, there a little
line upon line,
precept upon precept,

'cept no body knows what I know about cept,

capere, a story starts, a provisioning tale. Wait.

it means grip. like a tool. rock breaks nut.

Paper covers rock, but scissors are so far in the future
that now, my time, my mind wanders after whys

this authoritative telling of the story, in it,
none know the terminal tale.

As in times past, there were survivors who lived to tell

and old stories never die. Old story tellers do,

Tho' here's a clue.
Meek's not bad,
stupid, for no reason, is.

Living long for the sake of a song heard once,
in dream luring me on, promising right now, I'll

know what it's like to see, oh

POV I made this clear some time ago,
time is less predictable than any imagined, before 2018
when, you know…

Even those tales old drunk Hesiod sold
in the Hittite tavern at Delphi,

Chronos thought wrong in those,
he ruled but for the merest gleam o'

Time, then a bubble gen erated by the thought of
opposition to transition,
nothing to something,
pushing /pushing back
stretch/snap/spark
that takes power, pulsing power, throbbing power

push/stretch
glow/snap
you know, imagine, glowing - cheat, think 2018 CG
glow/snap
Planc time,
each time the bubble pushes back
a ripple
imagine a clock, later, if you believe then, you must.

Now, see the bubble of all men have imagined,
since the time when such a bubble was only evil,
continually.

It went viral.
Noah we know for sure, almost, survived, ? Cushites kept records. In Africa.
Akkad kept record, too.
Some Hopi survived somehow and they have a tale.

They say they know the story is ten thousand years old,
I've been to a crossroads
on their journey,
stories
tell of it, still, today.

Holy means marked for good reason.
Marked with clues, not riddles, maps

Sacred means secret means hidden away for use,
not common, every day, quotidian use, right use.

Time, the opposing force, is precious to us all.
In time, we do all we can and die,

in ever, we expand, in no time at all. I imagine.

You fill it. Now, Your expandable mind's time,

time pushes from the outside,
wisdom pushes from the inside,

And so it goes, life goes on and music grows on ya,

Amusing how they do that, teeny muses dancing
shiva on the tip of my tongue,

singings songs in tongues I've never known
if they
are words on tongues
or sounds on tongues,

notes,

Baysian Binary Cross Validation
still ends with some people thinkin'
"it is finished" left them with a ton o'weight,
that's wrong, insist resistance.

Some, heavy duty, leaders of lambs, they claim
power in their mouths, spoken from fixed hearts,

but fixed upon, is truly the song,
said, words are only
little bits of whole sym ulacrum of re-ify-ing

where broken things re-pair, and life goes on…

"fixed, my heart is fixed",
no, your heart is machine of the most magnificent design, perfected,
a time at a time.
Flexing, pacing time itself, faster slower,

try some time
alone
be still, pond still

I know the story broke,
I could not hold it.

In the night, bitter cold
Frozen fragile...

There are pieces scattered every

where, everywhere
there is time, there is at least, a point

a story may stand upon and ask an angel
to dance.
Dance, give it some flare, what do we care?

Nobody's watching, but that fly.
This is read, by me at http://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton
Life is good at my house, thankyou. A reader is needed more than words can tell. My posts are a book now, few stand solidly on their own. Thank you if you spend your time perusing them please tell me where I muddy the flow, or break the story.
igc May 2015
I am Comfortable
     able to ease your fears with
     a smile or a flip of my
     appropriately curly hair.

I am forgiven traffic ticket
     proper sentences and twinkly
     eyes, able to ease your alarm

I am Just a Warning

I am The Exception
     elegant sentences
     king's English
     never tolerating the incorrect use of their

I am private college education
     the accessory to your culture
     the other to your subject
     always complimentary,
     but never the source of discussion

I am Beautiful
Accompanied by "What are you mixed with"
     A reflection of appropriation for my own culture
     Too White for Black,
     Too Black for White

I am inner city in the suburbs

I am Lightskinned
     the kind of Black that keeps you
     Comfortable.
Amoy May 2
I'm angry
I'm a cause for concern
I'm smiling and you think I'm fine
I'm quiet and moody
Next, I'm laughing like crazy
like a baby chick about to hatch, I'm curled up inside
Waiting to be someone's baby, not someone's maybe
emotional moments
Hannah May 2017
you said i love you first
yes, i did believe you
i thought you were the one
but we fought, leaving me in dilemma
after a month, i said i love you
you said it back, i said i miss you
you said it back
after a few days
i asked you if you still love me
you said i don't know
little did i know that
it would change my feelings for sure
Today
Happy sad euphoric
But every day can’t be
Today
Random thoughts

On a little break, will be back soon :), best wishes to all :)
trf Jul 2018
sleeping tears awoke to crimson crust & apple red veins,
eyes peering through the dizzying fog to find a faucet
& drizzle rain like nectar down the peach pit's core,
along rugged edges & oval pores,

imperfect patterns & lightning blinks
remind the second sadness to cry once again.

My swipe of crust is rusting
like a smoker's yellowing finger tips gathering paint on callouses
& cracked lips

mirrored reflections shadow gaze,
squinting to locate bronze crow's feet of a man, mid thirties,
lying for what-to die
dying to wait-for what
I wrote this poem on the back of my most recent 36x48 painting. Abstract-fully Delicious, yet sad and viscous
Sean Hunt Sep 2018
I'm leaving this
a little late
I hesitate
procrastinate
but soon
I'll see my son
across the sea
I'll see him
he'll see me
Jetlag is
a horrid hell
but then we'll have
some tales to tell
I wonder what
those tales will be
when I return
across the sea
We'll have to wait
and see
Franchesca Nov 2018
My voice is the clouds and ears are the sky, but blue is blue, regardless of a white clump getting in the way.
Though, that isn’t how it should be.
That isn’t tranquil.
Tranquility is knowing that blue is not always blue because maybe that clump of white gets mixed in and makes this amazing new color.
This new inner-connection.
Maybe one day, laying on the earth’s green, the new color is looking down at me and, I finally know what can be.
Alan S Bailey Nov 2018
Various things surround in this dark room...
lost in the buzz of the whirring fan motion.
It slowly draws one into trance state, I'm like a
glow in the dark skeleton, silent darkness, and so on.
The forest path that guides us to a clearing,
whispered hushes and quiet anticipation
of the next story to be told, going from
one to another, a bead, white gold.
Starry skies endowed with crystal droplets cloud,
the moons face in the misty shroud. Woven by the hands
or fate, this way or that, the future can not wait.
Whatever this is become now, please love, set me free.

From some spell, life has changed. The darkness used to scare me.
He watched the moon,
As it became immune
To his galaxy eyes.
Silver liquid flowing,
The night's come to a closing,
As he mixed his 'sky dye.'
At least, that's what the stars said,
As each one rubbed his head
Goodnight.
Colored images glowing,
His eyelids began lowering,
As he, again, was forced to fight-
Helina Nov 2018
Giving me mixed signals
You keep getting in my head, and not getting out
zebra Nov 2018
the virgins ravenous vault
college girl ******
a seething abashment
with mixed loyalties
who belongs to no one
ferocious for annihilation
*** blast
poured out from essence
spread shanks
wet spot
hot shots
meditative and gleaming

huge hearted
she is one and many
choking on desire
far flung in Turkish bath fantasies
a singing **** tearing heaps of suns
like burns and spatters
her ***, a high pitched note
his ****, rage at bay
poised hot **** ****
gasping fire

*** criminal's

foot kissing
****** biters
Sylvia Plath was referred to as "The Smith College ******" in some biographical material. I love her poetry, like incredibly, and so by the proxy of her literature I remain very much in love with her both as a writer and as a woman, albeit a vivid fantasy. That love remains amplified by her suicide as I find myself still aching about her now, 50 years after her death. I remain continually mesmerized by the appalling dread, yet sensuality of her draped corpse hanging out of the oven. Her dead body is an ineffable poem of grace in form and shuddering despair. I always want to rescue her.... It gnaws! This poem is prompted by Sylvia Plath, a Goddess of modern language, her youthful passions, and inconsolable despair.
Silverflame Aug 2018
my old futile dreams
make the windows all misty
ripping up the seams
blood mixed with ancient whiskey

a smile around the corner
lures the naive mind
******* up the world order
another death wish signed

overhead, brick by brick
the november wind stands still
heart oozing of homesick
empty thoughts keep my glass refilled

delusions cover my sight
faraway lights blink with eager
fixing the crooked night
dinner with the grim reaper
A poem I wrote last year, which I someone managed to delete with my clumsy fingers.
I was born in a house
And it wasn't a home
and my takehome from that
Is that inside of my bones

I am bad, I am needy
not enough for this
Gotta work to be loved
Even a little bit

But mixed messages come
From all over the place
It confuses my mind
When I get into states

When a friend starts to say
Something nice about me
It just hurts that deep down
That they mean what they see

I wish I saw it earlier
The goodness in me
and it hurts I've had to
Crawl down on my knees

Through the dirt and the *******
That nobody wants
To a pothole in London
written in different fonts

And there's tourists around
They're amazed at my skin
But when i moved up north
they found me sickening

Throwing rocks at me
while I walk to school
i want to succeed
so I don't see you

So I'm ***** I think
Should be ashamed of my skin
didn't think my colour mattered
Nothing's changed I think

But when I met you
you'd been in my skin
I felt so understood
In everything

and when you just left
Couldn't handle my honesty
Honestly sorry
couldn't keep it all in me

And then there is family
Or whatever's left of it
Half of me urbanised
Half of me ethnic

All these expectations
You're placing on me
Then after all that talk
You tell me I'm free?

It's *******
I know you wouldnt ever forgive me
If I threw away my intellect
Just to see the sea

Just to paint the waves
Just to see my friends
It isn't your fault
You're only 18 when

You're meant to decide
What to do with your life
but what if all my decisions
Are just socialised

I'm going by norms
I'm following trends
Don't want to be a sheep
or be mindless again

So right back to uni
I don't want to scare you
When I love it I love it
And when I'm angry
I'm fearful

**** fear let's talk love
He opened my heart
While I cut up dead bodies
In anatomy class

And when we broke up
I felt so **** useless
Who would want this body
When it's so **** fruitless

Then the dating apps differ
I'm swiping past lives
How can I judge someone
With only my eyes?

How is it so easy
To just **** a stranger?
Am I being healthy?
Or am I in danger?

How can I be rejected
In daily persuits
while simultaneously
Be chased by boys
who'd **** anything too

don't get me wrong it's fun
But sometimes it feels wrong
I was raised to wait till marriage
Before you get to that song

But I am my own person
I am not my past
I am not my future
I can't ******* be arsed

To listen to you
I'll be who I am
it's hard to stop listening
Not most people can
I'd like to think I'm an artist

Working at a pace far too glacial to be in the race.

Trying to write this poem is like painting a portrait with handcuffs on;

The architect’s human condition

Calculation, infatuation, manipulation,
a Little Miss Communicating.

Words are incapable of recreating

The way your face illuminated the solitary silence of my darkroom.

A winter solstice in full bloom.

This inversion in theory isn't negative, yet I don't feel satisfaction when my bones start to shutter.

The subject of my matter does not matter.

It's how I paint the portrait.

I’m constantly developing the negatives  
that I hear in my head.

Curiosity created the cat, and slowly, she grew wings.

A hall of fame rage angel.

Rendering the artist

Insatiable.
Working in progress
Cautiously, we're tied together, but that doesn't mean I'll be scared forever. With blotted thoughts you smeared my logic, blurred my memories and mixed them toxic. And honestly, I'm dying out, you smothered me with my own doubt. And as I drown, remember me, for all the things I couldn't be. Copycat, I'm losing here, and all you've done is uncover fear, you made me evil; illogical, and now I know you don't care at all. Do you make the desperate cries, logical to my demise? Involuntary refracts this soul, can you place back what you stole
from me?
--------------
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!
Louise Ruen Dec 2018
You share a strange similarity to a traffic light that’s out of order
All I receive are mixed signals
I don’t know whether to stay safe and stay put
Or to take the chance and just go

you emit green light
when
Your left hand reaches out and caresses my thigh
Your head finds a spot leaning down on mine
But then you shift to yellow
and I can feel the cold from your chest pushing into mine
in a way that makes me wonder
how I am able to support your entire weight
Why doesn’t it burst the ballon under my skin?

My thoughts put to a halt when I see the red light in your eyes
and you say
“I don’t want a girlfriend”
I have to trust your word
Because your forehead part times as a unbreakable fortress to your mind
and today there are no lines nor crinkles to give me a sign on what’s going on in there
I do know that your mind is running rampant
as always
I know that mine is running 90 miles an hour
on a highway that never intersects with yours

You repeat:
“I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
What I don’t say is
it’s okay, I don’t mind
I just want to be your ex
Because
I know
even if our highways were united through a bridge
we would stand on each side and wave at each other
But never dare to take the first step out on it
In fear of falling into the water

Because
I know that
I’m the type of person that burns my bridges
To ensure I don’t cross them
I know that
You’re the type of person who wouldn’t call 911
But instead stand still and try to heat up your chest

What I don’t know is
whether to hit the break or the speeder
ethan gaskill Jul 2018
i want to be
your vintage crooner for life
frank sinatra mixed with marvin gaye
with twenty-first century style
i'd greet you at the door with flowers
and be your chauffeur to wherever
you want to go i'll take you
there's no rush; we have forever
our life can feel like a movie
almost too good to be true
sooner or later you'll realize
i've always felt that way about you
galas and night dances and jet airplanes to france
would only be enjoyable if i'm holding your hand
i think that we could see our dreams
with our own awake eyes
so come and ride away with me
and we can have the time of our lives
whether sunday morning pancakes or a tuesday noontime lunch
breakfast in bed or a venice bistro will be equally fun
and if god takes us that far
i'd point to you when our daughter asks what a queen is
we could show our children how dedication
and compassion makes life feel like you're dreaming
and someday many years from now
when we have an empty nest
we'll remember the feature film of our romance
and decide that we did it best
King Panda Mar 2016
I laid an anemone
on the mask of a crying girl
the young mother
the crouching woman
I am beautiful
says the sirens
says the ever-youthful vegetation
of God

I mixed my blood and nectar
on the mask of a dying man
the decay of kiss
the resurrection
I am beautiful
says the anemone
says Adonis in his grave

I burned their leaf-stems
on the mask of an artist
the eternal springtime
the life-death-rebirth deity
I am beautiful
says the martyr
says girl as she wakes
to the sirens

I am beautiful
says the head on the platter
I am beautiful

and the woman descends
the bronze invading
the bronze high-handed
the bronze opening
to the gates of hell
axel Jun 21
nothing is worse than mixed signals
do you still want me
do you still love me
please let me know
so i can act accordingly
TD Jul 14
Opalescent emotions/thoughts riotous
tossed like drowsy eyed flora
tangled
in dove-eyed bed sheets
their nuances silken edged
and cool to the touch.

Sunlight drives winks of promise
the beckoning beam
a gossip mongers wicked tongue
unleashed
as tortured petals/seeds
share their space
so indiscreetly.

Boasting a spider creed
a web of delicate mazes
that twist and choke
photosynthesis
the mixed bouquet
struggles for forbearance
and composure.

Ahh you are a funny bunch
eager to burst forth
without a root to bear
beautiful in your swilling path
unsubstantial at best..

And yet you bloom so beautifully
the experience untamed
and I am quite fond of it.

Blossoms no matter how reckless
leave behind sweet dreams to be desired.

And I am all about dreams.
harlee kae May 2
and i don't know if that's allowed
or if i'm just too basic of a *****
for it to matter

but i'm dancing in the kitchen
to j cole
and making galaxy cookies
as valeona would call them

and maybe i get the hype
maybe 5/10 ?
maybe a 6. i don't know these things..
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