Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Traveler Nov 2017
Once I attempted
To compose
The greatest songs of all
That crescendos
Up the scales of life
Modulations
That evolve...
But in these
Staggered stanzas
Where memories
Together bleed
The music
Changes minds
As drama changes keys
And so a broken opus
Is the only song I leave
...
Traveler Tim
Laurel Elizabeth Oct 2013
So there I saw-
and then I curled
into my fetal ball of envy

my happiness had coagulated
and chilled
like a refrozen popsicle
at the back of the freezer.

even if you melted
my
stale
cracked
enclosure
you would still smell
the jealous-
like
hangover
on my breath

I swear it even
exploits my muscles
my tendons grimace
like massive internal
pulley systems.

when my mind
frowns condescendingly
at my juvenile grievances,
the follies laugh their
disassembled modulations
and ignore my pleas

no-it takes more than that.
my every yellow Laureling
becomes a necessity
to coax, soften my
serpentine
charity
from whence I have locked it.
Melissa Eleanore Aug 2014
As candy thaws neath my tongue
My eyes take dilation.
I fall into an inception
as I walk into a place
where my tender age went...
Then,
I saw sevenths of an illusion
Acidic iridescence
Suffused in a type of dimension
I was present.
Bound to life's existence...
Each and every Earth-bound object
was formed
by masked bodies
that cradled each other.
Lifelessly connected to one another.
Expressing the same dainty love
we are mad for...
Jade orbs
were absorbed
by a topiary lord.
Beating.
Circulating.
Captivating.
Caught me devoted in all sorts of emotions.
Repetition. Repetition.
Sight distortion.
Colors stacked on colors.
I saw modulations.
But they spoke to me in motions.
I felt as if I was breathing this all before.
And that I was anticipating on something that I could not get myself to ignore.
Some moral.
That I've been awakened for...    
I was reverted back into a timeless age,
where matters were forgave
and where passions were seemliness.
and because of awareness
you become unable to love like a child
when you abandon your innocence.
So here's the message.
"Seven is perfection."
The eye to see life.
Making a connection.
Breathing Earth's affection.
There's so much more to this poem that I wish I could explain in words but unfortunately I just couldn't. The graphics in my head were too much and truly was perfect...
K Balachandran Jan 2016
The world as we know it
doesn't exist, from an evening days ago,
unruly fog with the menacing arrogance
of a killer whale, skimming
in the shallow waters near the shore,
has made the world vanish
without any trace, how long it would last,
no one could hazard a guess, till now!
"Is it the end of the world?"
within closed doors people wonder.
1 But no 'bang' of any kind was heard
did anyone hear any suspicious 'whimper',
the weather women with a broad smile
and reassuring voice  fails to tell us.

In this stormy night of primeval elements,
what exists for us is a continent of fear.
Shiver touching the highest recorded mark
in the Richter scale of fear, staring at a
dark night , bundled in white blanket,
all thing moving and static are kept  frozen.
Blizzard, a drunken madman keeps on
inventing a cuss word different, a minute
hissing it in varying tunes and modulations.

I hear no drone of airplanes flying low
to take the landing approach
in the airport nearby, anymore
everything except the storm and snowfall
has come to a standstill,what the morning
will bring, who could tell?
Every heart will be heavy tonight,
if only 2 Stephen Hawking will lift
his cell phone for a minute,
this is the time to ask in hush hush tone:
"Does such unprecedented signals
points that God would play dice
negating the prophecy Einstein made"
1.This the the way the world ends/Not with a bang, but with a whimper(T.S.Eliot)
2."God doesn't play dice" said Einstein, meaning there is an innate order in universe.Stephen Hawking corrected Einstein"Not only God definitely play dice but He sometimes confuses us by throwing them
where they can't be seen", meaning future could be random and unpredictable.
Maxim Keyfman Dec 2018
dissolving in the violet rays
I'm in september I'm on the beach on the dark
coast by the sea of ​​the past summer
i dissolve on the beach in purple
rays with modulations of moons with modulations
ice with fire rays from under the roofs

dissolving in the violet rays
I'm all standing I'm standing all standing and now
I go I go I go I go and my eyes
look straight at the time they look
straight into september and what do i want to say
and what does september want to tell me I don't know

dissolving in the purple rays I know
I know that I know what those moments were
tomorrow they will leave me tomorrow tomorrow
today they left me and then already yesterday
and the roof broke through the waves on the seas

08.12.18
David Barr Apr 2014
Synthetic sympathy is like an epidemic across the surface of our baron horizon of sophistication, where predictable greetings and condolences are proclaimed with interpersonal detachment.
An aperture is a hole through which light travels across a threshold of darkness.
Gullible are those voters who strive for independence whilst firmly clamped in the jaws of proclaimed democracy, where reporters become lively at dramatic scenes of carnage and death.
Oh sibling of the expanding universe -  I implore you to project your voice across constitutional and cosmological  municipalities.
Let us run for office beyond the confinement of bureaucratic galaxies.
After all, our modulations echo throughout solitary cells of our revered bedlam.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
it's hard to imagine gin gin gin a pseudo-ariθmeτic behind every coupled word utilising the Logos, a -logy, because what is the motivational word behind it, truly? it could be any word, mind me saying. logistically speaking each compound aligning itself to some -logy (logistics) will know the parameters, in question π, the infinity basis, the irrational ever-after, 3 point whatever, we can scrutinise with millimetre, and the infinitely regressive divide of the circle, hell, heading toward the nanometre, but still the compact, intact π... but there has to be some ariθmetic involved! the easiest to understand logic of mathematics is buried in arithmetic... but words are too large to suit patterns in consistently changing: try fitting a word like apple through a keyhole denoting five one three (513 / five hundred and thirteen, arithmetic conjunctions, spelling)... in the end all you need is A... that's what happens when you riddle the stupidity, you can't make-up 26 units with the craze of ∞, not so much 1 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0  1, no algorithm bouncy castle: no hip hip hooray! i mean, what logic is there behind these philosophical words, what arithmetic? what words are required to say 1 + 1 = 2 ontologically? i have an etymological example, but prior to the example i was told to state: certain phonetic encodings are for aesthetic purposes, the C and the K, musicology, cat, clever, clover, kettle, keenly etc. - existence of aesthetic purposes, and dyslexia - we write in complex encoding for the encoding to look the ***** - otherwise we'd be writing like salvaged Latin of Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli (famous for his sonnets, e.g.): the city (acronym c, i know, unitary acronym, the wonder) - both S & K whenever the lady minds to change her posture of SIX P's, popes, priests, princes, prostitutes, parasites and the poor - in poem, the lost aesthetic, excess spelling, no diacritical reprimand: starting with the word cappuccino - perfectó! (ó, not like a Polish u morph, but like a shove, a throw, like an olé! tremor prior to the gesture... a Mexican wave at a football match, the build up... oooooooooo lé! that included no W - see, the tetragrammaton coupled with a systematic vocabulary does wonders, hence the necessary shortening... OH LÉ! catch a breath, catch a breath... take two. the two hatches of the tetragrammaton are more than a deja vu, they're more like jugglers of vowels, the first extends, the second curbs - i might not love the Jews but i love the geometry of YHWH... love it to the extreme, never have i come across people who desire nationhood but are so reluctant to settle there, the intelligent ones preferring exile (the exodus) than hope for a genesis (Zionism). i swear i was supposed to write an etymological poem, sidetracked mentioning Giuseppe and cappuccinos... chinos or khaki? never mind...
vio sentite una madre. ammalappena la cratura c'ha
ffatta ha cquarche ggiorno, ggià è la prima cratura der contorno,
e ssi jje dite che nun è, vve mena -
he salvaged the ******* Titanic of all Titanics and left it aesthetically ugly - look at the alphabet, ugly as **** in the practice of composition, what did he do? look at it! gee gee, if two letters joined necessary, clones, there exists no law to coerce them into a grapheme, like in cappuccino - or Gucci, or Coco Chanel - can't make a tongue-tie within cappuccino if you don't know the basics: like Chino, Chai Tea Latte... siberian grizzly... rrrrraaa... mimic schizophrenia,  the best advice is to mimic a Roman Forum, democracy, make writing democratic, this is democracy, we will not have authoritarian rule of a rigid narrator! burn 'em! burn 'em! no peeping toms here, no omni-voyeurism. but you'd be lucky to pick out the slobbering with accents to a piquant stress worthy of distinguished notation, say it's all Cockney and you'll throw pears down a few ladders; oh yeah, ****'s stable: Coco Shanel but written Chanel - and we're selling chastity while burrowing in chimneys on the shly.

seriously... an etymological poem, using one word:
skleroza* (yes, colon and italics after, a heresy, i know,
but a necessary double emphasis).

paranoia and pronoun usage: the notorious they and he.

so, skleroza, etymological root-prefix: sklera-
or, simply sclera, i.e. adjectives opaque,
fibrous, protective - Westminster Abbey bells at
a wedding - ding ****, ding **** -
so relating to the eye, pertaining if you must -
now what to do with the suffix -roza?
well... there's Barbarossa - pinkish, i say,
although stressed to a geographic region a rose
is actually róża - yes, rose - couple them
together and you get: a rosy blankness -
simulation of momentary dementia -
****! where did i leave the keys?! skleroza
is a short-lived memory gap, a momentary
loss of memory, a funny sort, means you're
abstracting, abstracting a pain akin to
the arithmetic of, e.g. 1 + √43 + 23 - 100 x 2 ÷ 50 + 1000...
a weird sort of pain trying to work that one out...
so, to the limit of the what's behind skleroza,
utilising the arithmetic of etymology:
a rosy blankness - the automated form of forgetting,
that's protective, in terms of a permanent association
of forgetfulness - the easiest burden:
so there you have it, etymology, the logic infuriated with
linear associations and modulations using +, -, x and ÷.
Hal Loyd Denton Aug 2012
Sequestered

Lost in love the two playfully were immersed both in water and love an idyllic pool far from public view
Opened a portal hidden serene private was the reality their attention was exclusive for one another the
Quiet solitude it reached shore the trees took on the appearance of soft green uniformed sentinels of
Nature on the other side the rock cliffs was the amplifier their laughter had a rich explosion it feel back
On their two hearts wistfulness tinged in bliss opened deeper grandeur in their eyes for one another a
Glow pervaded this hideaway the secure the richest ground where all love flourishes be ye old or young
Seek these timbers the run off of mountain streams in them you will find life invigorated timelessness
Releases a sea of joy compressed into this hidden place a drum is beating it is both of your hearts
Beating In unison even nature has this ripple they say fire and water doesn’t mix then why is gentle
Sparks rising and a smoldering in the eyes passion’s fire is about to ignite it’s instantaneous
Explosion will rock the surrounding elements the epic center will come from no other place than
The body beautiful it crests and falls in deep valleys and reach mountain peaks love alone can only
Know these pleasures and at certain seasons this is a must you prolong not just love but great love
Romance will come like the island girl's dance deep rhythmic mesmerizing you’re their when you forget
Your name your brain has been thrown in to over drive enjoy the ride nothing will be common in
Embrace the thundering waterfall will drive you to your knees here your pleas will be answered where
Is the magic you both have whispered it always lays at the end of comparable searching by both you
Touch with body and soul a mysterious fount laid in spiritual bedrock never fails to provide if you call
And search you will walk into this living promise love is a surety but you must dress for it in proper attire
You divest yourself of self and your desire is to only to give to this significant other they speak of morning dew
When struck by the morning sun appears as landscape filled with diamonds love is a Curtin bejeweled
With many precious stones how it shimmers hidden within its vale wonders exists it has and never will
Be plundered by thieves and robbers only innocent lovers will it admit many are the places it can be
Found what is described here is one of them life will and can be hard but in these recesses you will find
Armor that cannot be penetrated you both will emerge as visual and powerful casted hardened steel
Forged and molded in the sweetest modulations I went a poverty weighted man and returned with royal
Riches if you ask what are they called with the highest praise a tongue can tell they are called the love of
my life my beloved wife
Poetemkin Sep 2019
I.

Tнʏ functions are etherial,
As if within thee dwelt a glancing Mind,
***** of Vision! And a Spirit aerial
Informs the cell of hearing, dark and blind;
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought
To enter than oracular cave;
Strict passage, through which sighs are brought,
And whispers for the heart, their slave;
And shrieks, that revel in abuse
Of shivering flesh; and warbled air,
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile
Into the ambush of despair;
Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle,
And requiems answered by the pulse that beats
Devoutly, in life's last retreats!

II.

The headlong Streams and Fountains
Serve Thee, Invisible Spirit, with untired powers;
Cheering the wakeful Tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull perchance ten thousand thousand Flowers.
That roar, the prowling Lion's Here I am,
How fearful to the desert wide!
That bleat, how tender! of the Dam
Calling a straggler to her side.
Shout, Cuckoo! let the vernal soul
Go with thee to the frozen zone;
Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone Bell-bird, toll!
At the still hour to Mercy dear,
Mercy from her twilight throne
Listening to Nun's faint sob of holy fear,
To Sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea,
Or Widow's cottage lullaby.

III.

Ye Voices, and ye Shadows
And Images of voice—to hound and horn
From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows
Flung back, and, in the sky's blue caves, reborn
On with your pastime! till the church-tower bells
A greeting give of measured glee;
And milder echoes from their cells
Repeat the bridal symphony.
Then, or far earlier, let us rove
Where mists are breaking up or gone,
And from aloft look down into a cove
Besprinkled with a careless quire,
Happy Milk-maids, one by one
Scattering a ditty each to her desire,
A liquid concert matchless by nice Art,
A stream as if from one full heart.

IV.

Blest be the song that brightens
The blind Man's gloom, exalts the Veteran's mirth.
Unscorned the Peasant's whistling breath, that lightens
His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth.
For the tired Slave, Song lifts the languid oar,
And bids it aptly fall, with chime
That beautifies the fairest shore,
And mitigates the harshest clime.
Yon Pilgrims see—in lagging file
They move; but soon the appointed way
A choral Ave Marie shall beguile,
And to their hope the distant shrine
Glisten with a livelier ray:
Nor friendless He, the Prisoner of the Mine,
Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest.

V.

When civic renovation
Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste
Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration
Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast
Piping through cave and battlemented tower;
Then starts the Sluggard, pleased to meet
That voice of Freedom, in its power
Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet!
Who, from a martial pageant, spreads
Incitements of a battle-day,
Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless heads,
Even She whose Lydian airs inspire
Peaceful striving, gentle play
Of timid hope and innocent desire
Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move
Fanned by the plausive wings of Love.

VI.

How oft along thy mazes,
Regent of Sound, have dangerous Passions trod!
O Thou, through whom the Temple rings with praises,
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God,
Betray not by the cozenage of sense
Thy Votaries, wooingly resigned
To a voluptuous influence
That taints the purer, better mind;
But lead sick Fancy to a harp
That hath in noble tasks been tried;
And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp,
Soothe it into patience,—stay
The uplifted arm of Suicide;
And let some mood of thine in firm array
Knit every thought the impending issue needs,
Ere Martyr burns, or Patriot bleeds!

VII.

As Conscience, to the centre
Of Being, smites with irresistible pain,
So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter
The mouldy vaults of the dull Idiot's brain,
Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled—
Convulsed as by a jarring din;
And then aghast, as at the world
Of reason partially let in
By concords winding with a sway
Terrible for sense and soul!
Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay.
Point not these mysteries to an Art
Lodged above the starry pole;
Pure modulations flowing from the heart
Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth
With Order dwell, in endless youth?

VIII.

Oblivion may not cover
All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time.
Orphean Insight! truth's undaunted Lover,
To the first leagues of tutored passion climb,
When Music deigned within this grosser sphere
Her subtle essence to enfold,
And Voice and Shell drew forth a tear
Softer than Nature's self could mould.
Yet strenuous was the infant Age:
Art, daring because souls could feel,
Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage
Of rapt imagination sped her march
Through the realms of woe and weal:
Hell to the lyre bowed low; the upper arch
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse
Her wan disasters could disperse.

IX.

The Gɪꜰт to king Amphion
That walled a city with its melody
Was for belief no dream; thy skill, Arion!
Could humanise the creatures of the sea,
Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves,
Leave for one chant;—the dulcet sound
Steals from the deck o'er willing waves,
And listening Dolphins gather round.
Self-cast, as with a desperate course,
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides
A proud One docile as a managed horse;
And singing, while the accordant hand
Sweeps his harp, the Master rides;
So shall he touch at length a friendly strand,
And he, with his Preserver, shine star-bright
In memory, through silent night.

X.

The pipe of Pan, to Shepherds
Couched in the shadow of Maenalian Pines,
Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards,
That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines,
How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang!
While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground
In cadence,—and Silenus swang
This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned.
To life, to life give back thine ear:
Ye who are longing to be rid
Of Fable, though to truth subservient, hear
The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell
Echoed from the coffin-lid;
The Convict's summons in the steeple's knell;
"The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore,
Repeated—heard, and heard no more!

XI.

For terror, joy, or pity,
Vast is the compass and the swell of notes:
From the Babe's first cry to voice of regal City,
Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats
Far as the woodlands—with the trill to blend
Of that shy Songstress, whose love-tale
Might tempt an Angel to descend,
While hovering o'er the moonlight vale.
O for some soul-affecting scheme
Of moral music, to unite
Wanderers whose portion is the faintest dream
Of memory!—O that they might stoop to bear
Chains, such precious chains of sight
As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear!
O for a balance fit the truth to tell
Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well!

XII.

By one pervading Spirit
Of tones and numbers all things are controlled,
As Sages taught, where faith was found to merit
Initiation in that mystery old
The Heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still
As they themselves appear to be,
Innumerable voices fill
With everlasting harmony;
The towering Headlands, crowned with mist,
Their feet among the billows, know
That Ocean is a mighty harmonist;
Thy pinions, universal Air,
Ever waving to and fro,
Are delegates of harmony, and bear
Strains that support the Seasons in their round;
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

XIII.

Break forth into thanksgiving,
Ye banded Instruments of wind and chords
Unite, to magnify the Ever-living,
Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words!
Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead,
Nor mute the forest hum of noon;
Thou too be heard, lone Eagle! freed
From snowy peak and cloud, attune
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn
Of joy, that from her utmost walls
The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim,
Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep
Shouting through one valley calls,
All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured
Into the ear of God, their Lord!

XIV.

A Voice to Light gave Being;
To Time, and Man, his earth-born Chronicler;
A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing,
And sweep away life's visionary stir;
The Trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride,
Arm at its blast for deadly wars)
To archangelic lips applied,
The grave shall open, quench the stars.
O Silence! are Man's noisy years
No more than moments of thy life?
Is Harmony, blest Queen of smiles and tears,
With her smooth tones and discords just,
Tempered into rapturous strife,
Thy destined Bond-slave? No! though Earth be dust
And vanish, though the Heavens dissolve, her stay
Is in the Wоʀᴅ, that shall not pass away.
Transcription presented without claim to accuracy. Original text, page 213: https://books.google.com/books?id=lpncWYjJneYC
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2013
Lost in love the two playfully were immersed both in water and love an idyllic pool far from public view
Opened a portal hidden serene private was the reality their attention was exclusive for one another the
Quiet solitude it reached shore the trees took on the appearance of soft green uniformed sentinels of
Nature on the other side the rock cliffs was the amplifier their laughter had a rich explosion it feel back
On their two hearts wistfulness tinged in bliss opened deeper grandeur in their eyes for one another a
Glow pervaded this hideaway the secure the richest ground where all love flourishes be ye old or young
Seek these timbers the run off of mountain streams in them you will find life invigorated timelessness
Releases a sea of joy compressed into this hidden place a drum is beating it is both of your hearts
Beating In unison even nature has this ripple they say fire and water doesn’t mix then why is gentle
Sparks rising and a smoldering in the eyes passion’s fire is about to ignite it’s instantaneous
Explosion will rock the surrounding elements the epic center will come from no other place than
The body beautiful it crests and falls in deep valleys and reach mountain peaks love alone can only
Know these pleasures and at certain seasons this is a must you prolong not just love but great love
Romance will come like the island girl’s dance deep rhythmic mesmerizing you’re their when you forget
Your name your brain has been thrown in to over drive enjoy the ride nothing will be common in
Embrace the thundering waterfall will drive you to your knees here your pleas will be answered where
Is the magic you both have whispered it always lays at the end of comparable searching by both you
Touch with body and soul a mysterious fount laid in spiritual bedrock never fails to provide if you call
And search you will walk into this living promise love is a surety but you must dress for it in proper attire
You divest yourself of self and your desire is to only to give to this significant other they speak of morning dew
When struck by the morning sun appears as landscape filled with diamonds love is a Curtin bejeweled
With many precious stones how it shimmers hidden within its vale wonders exists it has and never will
Be plundered by thieves and robbers only innocent lovers will it admit many are the places it can be
Found what is described here is one of them life will and can be hard but in these recesses you will find
Armor that cannot be penetrated you both will emerge as visual and powerful casted hardened steel
Forged and molded in the sweetest modulations I went a poverty weighted man and returned with royal
Riches if you ask what are they called with the highest praise a tongue can tell they are called the love of
my life my beloved wife
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2012
Sequestered

Lost in love the two playfully were immersed both in water and love an idyllic pool far from public view
Opened a portal hidden serene private was the reality their attention was exclusive for one another the
Quiet solitude it reached shore the trees took on the appearance of soft green uniformed sentinels of
Nature on the other side the rock cliffs was the amplifier their laughter had a rich explosion it feel back
On their two hearts wistfulness tinged in bliss opened deeper grandeur in their eyes for one another a
Glow pervaded this hideaway the secure the richest ground where all love flourishes be ye old or young
Seek these timbers the run off of mountain streams in them you will find life invigorated timelessness
Releases a sea of joy compressed into this hidden place a drum is beating it is both of your hearts
Beating In unison even nature has this ripple they say fire and water doesn’t mix then why is gentle
Sparks rising and a smoldering in the eyes passion’s fire is about to ignite it’s instantaneous
Explosion will rock the surrounding elements the epic center will come from no other place than
The body beautiful it crests and falls in deep valleys and reach mountain peaks love alone can only
Know these pleasures and at certain seasons this is a must you prolong not just love but great love
Romance will come like the island girl’s dance deep rhythmic mesmerizing you’re their when you forget
Your name your brain has been thrown in to over drive enjoy the ride nothing will be common in
Embrace the thundering waterfall will drive you to your knees here your pleas will be answered where
Is the magic you both have whispered it always lays at the end of comparable searching by both you
Touch with body and soul a mysterious fount laid in spiritual bedrock never fails to provide if you call
And search you will walk into this living promise love is a surety but you must dress for it in proper attire
You divest yourself of self and your desire is to only to give to this significant other they speak of morning dew
When struck by the morning sun appears as landscape filled with diamonds love is a Curtin bejeweled
With many precious stones how it shimmers hidden within its vale wonders exists it has and never will
Be plundered by thieves and robbers only innocent lovers will it admit many are the places it can be
Found what is described here is one of them life will and can be hard but in these recesses you will find
Armor that cannot be penetrated you both will emerge as visual and powerful casted hardened steel
Forged and molded in the sweetest modulations I went a poverty weighted man and returned with royal
Riches if you ask what are they called with the highest praise a tongue can tell they are called the love of
my life my beloved wife
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
B-side

things have changed since the days of progressive rock,
the whole idea of the concept album...
i once owned this copy of a music magazine: MOJO...
when magazines were still in print...
that's the thing with me -

three passions in my life, three great loves in my life...
cycling, music and philosophy:
if i said that i loved poetry i'd be lying...
since i imagine myself as writing it -
with this little beast there's a love-hate relationship -
it's hardly a love: it's a medium where my three loves come together...

but a lot has changed since the progressive rock days of the concept album...
what album topped the MOJO top 50 albums from
the progressive rock genre?
Pink Floyd's dark side of the moon...
who was second? ah...
YES' close to the edge:
personally i preferred the yes album...
Jethro Tull's Aqualung was way down the list...
Radiohead's OK computer wasn't unsurprisingly high...

but i would have topped the list with
King Crimson's in the court of the crimson king...
never mind...
i'd love to start a petition for all
the Red Hot Chilli Pepper albums to be released...
only upon hearing some of the B-sides from By the Way...

then moving to the B-sides of Blood, Sugar, ***, Magik...
i'm not sieving through the B-sides of Californication...
i'd want to start a petition for
all the Red Hot Chilli Pepper albums to be released
like Stadium Arcadium was released...
as a double-album... ****'s sake...
the artistry of this band is inexhaustible!

ALL RED HOT CHILLI PEPPERS' ALBUMS SHOULD BE RELEASED AS DOUBLE-ALBUMS...
that would be ****** innovative:
a natural progression from progressive rock...
all other mentions of progression the spheres of politics and

sociology blah blah ought to begin with... this...
i'm just surprised "they" only figured it out with Stadium Arcadium...

i mean: this B-side of the band is like:
i remember the days when bands would have
INSTRUMENTAL tracks, most notably Iron Maiden and
Metallica... take for example the Teatro Jam...

vocals brought to a bare minimum or nothing at all...
yes... i feel privileged to get a sneak peek into
the potential for the "concept" of the double album...
oh... sly technicalities...

i'm seriously not the type of a Matthew Arnold type...
crying myself to sleep after seeing Liszt play and swoon
the ladies...

i stopped caring about the "lady department" of my life...
that's how the story goes...
Matthew Arnold went to a Liszt concert
and he went back home and cried about how Liszt:
the virtuoso managed to swoon the ladies...
it helped that i was working those two gigs
and i wasn't just a fan...
because watching the women watching
these guys on stage helped with
the required attire of the security services...

perhaps i wasn't jumping up and down...
but i was "secretly" tapping my feet...
i chose the wrong instrument:
like any boy does when he has no band mates...
tried my chances on the guitar...
i should have been a drummer...
envy of the world could not topple what i'm interested
in / with anyway...

my solitary existence is enough
for whatever is not enough for others...
beside the double-album fixation,
i have a more potent "fixation": it's an analogy...
the Matthew Arnold vs.
                 Matthew Conrad (that's me) analogy...

poor M. Arnold went home weeping
at his inadequacies, poets are never favoured by women...
poor sod... how could he cushion himself against
the onslaught of Liszt? he couldn't...
back in the day you went to see a composer play...
you just bought a ticket... even today...
you go to an opera... what can you scavenge?
merely the ******* programme... but moi?
i was working... sure...
but i was probably the only person working
that double shift who ended his shift buying
a T-shirt of the band... that's a nice cushion to have...

it sort of distanced me from envy...
from utter despair... i didn't want to be on the stage...
i didn't want to be those guys...
i was just happy buying the band's T-shirt...
i switched off in that moment...
moments prior i was worried about crowd
safety intrusions into my psyche...
the next... after all was said and sang...
i emerged like i just went and saw my
"new" favorite band for "free": well...
i got paid to see them... that's also crucial...
i was paid to see them overseeing the crowd seeing them...

maybe that's why... my focus was split...
splintered in half...
i was of a conscious akin
to a lightning bolt splitting a tree in half...
i forgot despair... i thought about seeing
them live back in circa 2004 when
the London Arena in the Docklands was still viable...
with Chad Smith pre-warming before the gig...
walking in the crowd seemingly unnoticed
in a cowboy hat... hell...
i was almost an optometrist
when Frank Bruno brushed shoulders
with me coming back from ring-side
at that Tyson fury match-up... patient little me...

i've landed the perfect job...
i remember the days when my former school-friends
would joke about me not having a job...
being misdiagnosed as a "schizophrenic"...
what the **** did they do? oh... right...
one worked in a pub... another worked in Homebase...
this general DIY wholesaler...
i was cycling past where he worked...
it's getting torn down...
i only laugh at things that other people
don't find funny: most notably my own thoughts:
or thereby a lack of them... and to think...

all it took: to be in the position
i'm in now was being "nice" to my next-door neighbour...
the same "******" story: it's not what you know...
it's who you know... no...
i couldn't possibly be the next Matthew Arnold
bemoaning whatever successes Liszt had with women...
i got a Red Hot Chilli Pepper T-shirt...

there is healthy consumerism and
there's unhealthy consumerism...
the healthy type of consumerism is akin to:
             buying a memento...
some sort of memorabilia...
i love that sort of consumerism...
since i was working i couldn't take pictures of the events...
but it has become apparent...
the T-shirt saved me from the agony
akin to Matthew Arnold's agony...
i rather think i know what i'm doing...
it's not exactly ontologically based with a bias...
it's what i've acquired...
of course i'm seeking fame...
but it's not fame associated with being alive...
it's more a fame centered with: when i am gone...

when i satiate all that's mortal about me...
that's why i reject the motives for employing
the tactics of: fake it until you make it i.e. CREDIT...
i work on a debit allowance...
i spend what i earn rather than borrow in order to spend...
sure... i'll miss out on... wait... wait...
what am i going to be missing out on?
i love the company of my coworkers...
sure... i'm not a brain surgeon...
my mother is currently watching this ****** show:

the good doctor... no! that's why doctors are not walking encyclopedias...

that's why they specialize...
no chance in hell is there a "god" in the medical profession... PLATE OF BROWN... sweet instrumental...
progressive instrumental...
bourbon is the sweeter version of whiskey...
probably the greatest "thing" to come out of H'america...
prior to the blues and jazz...
and i get told: white man bad... slavery bad...
sure...

until the original slavery emerged as introducing
the black man to musical instruments that gave
the poor white boy prune an escape from classical music...
i don't see what the "*******" problem is...
talentless people drowning gripping to razor blades...
sure... i'm sort of jealous... but i'm not envious...
i allocated myself a company of Ovid and Horace...
Milton is not going to be replicated...
i want to write something:
i will write something that's properly
resembling the sort of life worth living
at the turn of the 21st century... oh ****...
i forgot to mention my 4th love...

drinking... i mean...
whether it's bourbon or whether it's whiskey...
you can't really love something unless you bring it
to the altar of excesses... and i do just that...
perhaps i have room for a fifth... but?
seeing how my father behaves around my mother?
i hardly "think" that's a viable choice for me... ergo...
i can spare myself the unnecessary details
and go straight after the prostitutes:
i don't mind sharing... after all...
i'm not sharing alimony guilt / no guilt...
i figured out a way to avoid making "profile-contact":
eye-contact i can stomach...
but all this a priori modulations of man...
no wonder dates are so boring: dating...

i don't want to know anything about
another person: PRIOR...
i want to find out... gain knowledge...
but if i'm about to be served something on a:
precursor basis? that's... ******* boring...
no wonder i'm not interested... and never will be...
it like... you either get given a fish...
or you're given a fishing rod... and some maggots...
people have their fiddly bits...
but if people expose their fiddly bits...
the stereotype is that man is the "hunter"...
what the **** am i hunting?

i don't like hunting: i like scouting...
that's the entire problem
with Darwinism mingling with "humanism":
too much is borrowed from the natural world....
and when that happens?
imposing the natural world
on the technical world of man rarely helps anyone...

          by proxy or default... or perhaps by simply
the spiral in control of ad hoc...
i write... after all writing is an extension of thinking...
it's not an invitation to speak...
people complain about their internet access...
leverages of the comment section...
maybe i just figured a way to bypass unwarranted
"attention".... writing that's not to be sung...
lyricism: as much as i love it
i abhor it...
           because i'm not even close to singing it...
i'm also not even close to speaking
it... best left in the vaults of thought...
after all: i'm measuring my steps for a posthumous
fame...

           i couldn't rob an entertainer from his
today: our daily bread...
and there's always one member in the band
that's going to be grounded in:
a focus of creativiy:
grounded in not allowing all the caveats of fame
that come with it (fame):
the crab bucket principle...
me? i was lucky to watch both of their shows
in London...
                  while actually watching the crowd...
Matthew Arnold would have felt so much
better if he managed to get a Liszt T-shirt...
a consumer statement akin to:
i was there...
       i saw them live... look how happy i am
to be alive... i got the mother-******* T-shirt...
who gives a rat's *** about their private lives...
i too have a private life... i write scribbles that do not rhyme
and i'm juggling the idea of counter to
Nietzsche and poet-philosopher... philosophy is in
the background... but it's more a case of poet-journalist...
and i like the forest in the winter at night...
and i adore aloneness... which is a quality of being
that's un-reflective / restrictive of the expressions:
being alone or being lonely...
it's dissociative... not associative...

and i adore writing as a way to create constrains...
constraints...
                           because if i were to jump the fame
bandwagon of: "fame ruined my mortality"...
i'd be making videos... exposing myself to the world
of bad people with even more bad ideas...
**** me: filter in place...
all are welcome who seek to be served...
the rest can snuggle in a crab-bucket elsewhere...
by just consolation:
"being there" will pass me by...
i will have no concern for the world...
instead: the world will have concern for me
having past through it... that's how Heidegger's
idea is inverted:
   i have no concern for the world... for "being there":
i'm already "here"...
           for me the world is: there's being...
i can't pnpoint a "there" and couple it to "being"
to create Heidegger's bad grammar...
there's being: der welt... the world...
but there's also the self-being: selbst-sein...
                as much as there's the selbst-sein-im-der-welt...
there's also the selbst-sein-im-die-sein...
contrast: selbst-sein-im-die-selbst...

ha ha... me and a "girlfriend"? captain complications
"autistic"? no wonder i spend most of my time
around animals... this one time in the supermarket
a boy in a buggy started pointing at me...
see! that's the problem! the creatures that least understand
the complications of language: man can arrive at...
understand me best... we communicate on the focus
of onomatopoeias... syllables... vowels-alone...
finger-pointing: ooh! ooh! beard! tall man! beard!      

mein gott!
the idea of me being married is a bit like thinking
either Nietzsche or Kierkegaard being married...
or for that matter Kant...
i just kept focusing on the voyeurism presented
by pigeons... how many times they get rejected:
Darwinism is a fake:
it's not about the survival of the fittest...
it's about the survival of those who are subdue
about making the most mistakes...
i opted out... i like my comforts...
i'm not a social animal... i'm not a political animal...
ego: non animal-sociale...
   non animal-politica...
       ego-ergo: creatura-ex-solatium!
i'm a creature of comfort...
          
         i don't need complications
of womens' exfoliations...
"expectastions"...
                       bye bye... wave goodbye
the would be sinking Titanic...
       ice is a new hello!
         "women and children first"...
sink the ship... count the *****...
no... because this "****" doesn't end... unless it ends
with the DRILL FABRIC OF A MARCH...

not since it was so easy for the Islamic
Conquistadors to be made so easy
and for us "remainers" to have it made to "hard"...
then again... eh?! keep what?!
leap over what burp of a frog?!
            i'm pretty sure the Slavic world
imploded when they heard about the antics
of the "west"... i'm pretty sure the Russians were
like: before... we reach that summit of insanity...
i... a Russian... will sooner ****-fiddle an Ukrainian
with war... before the cancer spreads...
and so it happened...
                         west: my ungovernable wet ***!
"west"...
                       i might speak the language:
but churning through the outliers i'm ANTI...

  any deficiency in the orthodoxy use of language is:
HERESY...
           i have LIMITS...
**** it... i'm siding with the Russians...
i don't care...
              **** Ukraine: for Chernobyl!
we might as well find our nearest sacrifice...

BUT I KNOW THAT I'M ALREADY DEAD!
i'm just waiting for the "PAUSE" buttonz...

yeah... like that joke...
an Olaf... a Lothar and a Conrad walk into
a bar...
    only Conrad walks out...
why? because he didn't make any Hebrew jokes...
and he drank more whiskey than both
Olaf and Lothar...
i know i'm not funny...
i'm not supposed to be: ******* funny!
i'm supposed to be imitation-cannibal!

A-side

i'm truly lucky to be alive...
at least in my generation...
i was 13 when Californication came out,
i spent one afternoon
with my now estranged uncle
listening to the record while
he was working on his Porsche
eating take-away Kentucky fried
chicken...
                     talking about music and life
and *** and what not...
mostly girls...
            
my sympathy for Ukraine? none...
maybe Ukraine was part of the Soviet
Union maybe not (obviously)
but: yeah... thanks for Chernobyl...
my mother's premature chronic pain...
i might be the last drinker in the family
lineage who takes drinking
seriously: as a way to progress intellectually
but my mother's on opiates...
i was born with a "mark of Cain"...
whatever the hell it was...

it was a ******* nuclear REACTOR...
it wasn't a nuclear BOMB...
a bomb EXPLODES... a reactor IMPLODES...
who know what the ****** difference
is... but give it enough time
and you'll find out...

well... it must be bad... since how many *******
tests did the Americans the Russians
and the French carry out with bombs?
Godzilla blah blah...
       but it only took ONE bad reactor to make
people look all-crazy-at-each-other...
******* KARMA... oh yeah...
it wasn't enough to do both Hiroshima
and Nagasaki... more tests required!

and all those cases of freakish premature
cancers in eastern Europe... hell... elsewhere too...
last time i heard an imploding nuclear
reactor is like detonating 400 Hiroshima type
bombs...
and the effects were immediately apparent
in the botanical kingdom...
effects which even reached the region
where i was born...
   it was a case of Spring-Autumn...
     oh yeah... you had streaks of trees that
were autumn like: perhaps even past autumn...
sort of dead-ish... and streaks of trees
that were: spring-esque...

by then, no one knew...
                             the crescendo of the collapse
of the Soviet union...
a bit like the crescendo of the end of the second
world war and the all great h'american hard-on:

but let's face it... no other culture was so
good as the late 20th century American culture...
the Beatniks,
Charles Olson - the only post-modernist i have
any respect for... if i can call him that...
then again... i'm jumping hoops and conclusions
that that non-verbatim...

and you have to admit...
    no no... it wasn't because i was working both
the shifts for the Red Hot Chilli Peppers gig at
the London stadium: but let me tell you what...
i would have been completely ****** (OFF)
if i didn't buy tickets for both days...

day 1: opened with CAN'T STOP
day 2: opened with ALL AROUND THE WORLD
day 1: played UNDER THE BRIDGE for the encore
day 2: didn't play UNDER THE BRIDGE for the encore...

proper old-school...
that other shift i did where Weezer, Fall Out Boy
and Green Day played...
even the guys i was working with were like:
they (i.e. Green Day) 'these guys don't know when to
shut up'... i was like... oh... right, this song?
they'll finish on that one:
   it's one of those sentimental closure songs...
one of the girls sang that song
in an assembly when we were leaving school:
(have the) time of your life...

i was sure of it... oops... a ******* Dawid Bovie cover!
sure... people are at a gig... we're too,
but we also want to: ******* go home...
and we can't until all these ******* leave first!
ugh!

- thank god (casually expressed, eat dog doog...
yes - intentional, FELA'S **** is the *******
groove party - food)
i'm not one of those people forming a cliche
opinion about whether i'm a fan of the Beatles
or whether the Rolling Stones...
ask me again... James Brown yes...
and Red Hot Chilli Peppers' A-sides
or Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides...

now... that's a tough one...

mind you: what gave birth to the Communist project?
pan-Slavism...
there were plenty of Hebrews living in Russia
and in Poland... i guess those people were
like... sure... let's try...
if we **** up: we'll **** up SPECTACULARILY...
and "we" did... but... the current reiteration
of "communism" in the VEST?
hmm... all this post-grammatical-mystique...
oh look! adjective, verbs, nouns,
the indefinite article and a definite article
are being neglected by the hyper-focus on pronouns...

it's like a second imaginary Chernobyl imploded
and fried people's intellectual capacity
for formal / casual conversation talking
about the weather and buses being late...

i'm only saying that Red Hot Chilli Peppers is
a band of / for my generation because...
i've already come across younglings
that haven't heard of them...
YES!                             and the band too...
but finally! i've reached the cut-off point
where i'm part of a zeitgeist that is reaching its
zenith-nadir...
                       the equilibrium akin to the Olympic
passing of the torch... although:
there's not much of a fire left...
       just an unlit torch... instead of fire: ambers
of a once fire...

but that's what happens... i understand the paranoid
Russians all too well...
back in 2007 they were such welcoming people:
i still don't understand why the western media
narrative about McDonald's being shut down
in Russia suddenly turned into a new fast food
chain under a different name serving the same food...
when i was in Russia: i swear to god...
i didn't see a single McDonald's... so... twinkle toes...
hum hum hmm...

were "my" people paid reparations
for the **** invasions? i know the Hebrews were...
oh yeah: we had that glorious task of being
invaded and then told to stack 'em bricks
for the crematorium CHIMNEYS...
well... it could have been worse...
we could have been told to ***** the NECROPHILIC
architecture of ancient Egypt in the guise
of the pyramids...

and because being under the Soviet yoke
of influence... and then... oh god! they gave "us" a
******* first non-Italian POPE!
one hand washes the other
but neither hand knows what the other hand
is doing... from ultra-atheism to ultra-catholic
conservatism...
"our" capital shouldn't be called Warsaw...
(no jokes about that, unlike Bangkok)
                                it should be called Seesaw...

backwards and forwards... as Norman Davis pointed
out: god's playground...
which it is... mind you: i'm sort of bad tempered
when it comes to being a Siamese-twin with
my Deutsche neighbours...
lucky that some of those Schwabs or Saxons
migrated... settled on some ****** weather island
and mingled with the Velsh and the Picts and
whatever other Celtic remains were left
in Europe...

oh but yesterday... that old man made me lose my
cool... i was already sweating it out for over
an hour and he exclaims in the street like
those manic street Apocalypse preachers:
where are you lights!
if i stopped i would have properly explained
than merely pointing at my rear-light glowing
red and telling to *******...
BUT YOU WOULDN'T SAY JUST AS MUCH
IF IT WAS ONE OF THOSE INDIAN
DELIVEROO ELECTRIC BICYCLE GUYS?!
would you, old man?
mind you: old man... you give a rat's *******
about one cyclist... then tell me...
who does your council employ... shouldn't
the street lights already be switched on?!
    hmm.. already be...
shouldn't the street lights be already switched on?
that sounds... eerie...

shouldn't the street lights already be switched on
shouldn't the street lights be already switched on...
i honestly can't decide upon the correct
grammar... let's be trans-grammatical about that one...
after all... it's all trans-biology anyway...
a bit like Plato telling Sisyphus that the gods
forgot about him and that he can stop his pointless
toiling... or what Plato mentioned about
being punished and being reincarnated
as a woman if one begins as a man...
well: to hell with reincarnation: time's up for
theology now that science speeds things up...

scary world... even scarier people...
THIS DOOR NEEDS HINGES!
bring in the unhinged experts in not-doors!
yesss... we need a house with enough of
BREEZE!
me? i'm just complementing their insanity with
my own special strain that prostitutes call:
GOOD-CRAZY.
Chris Saitta Jan 2020
The mouth is the small compass of the soul,
Without dials, true north, or magnetic force,
The ungaugeable instrument of the voice,
In directionless modulations of undertow,
To circumnavigate under cartographer’s pole
Stars guide our wayfinding-heirlooms of words.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
i can finally understand the concept of
hurt emotions...
well... because i can understand
the concept of emotion of people who
have never had an original thought...
the people who advocate...
not, not hurting other people's emotions,
as the people, glorifying thinking,
without having an original thought
to begin with...
  i can understand being
emotionally hurt...
it implies: being driven out of
the ontological neutrality of apathy
that allows you to think...
some or any sort of narrative...
i'm finding it hard...
        for the necessarily
agitated, "cognitively"...
                they feel nothing,
and whenever they "feel" something,
it's nothing more than a lack
of an original thinking...
feeling? that's individualistic...
i don't understand the argument
from the posit of superiority...
thinking is no lesser a feeling,
than feeling is a more than thinking...
i experience more by feeling
than i ever could wish my thinking
to be, or become...
thinking is an a posteriori subject...
yet feeling is an a priori object...
i can't glorify thinking...
   thinking and facts are two
segregated entities of modulations...
feeling...
             feeling is irrational...
so why bother giving feeling
a fact, a past, a present,
a future?!
               i can understand
hurt feelings...
as enzymes, metaphors,
motivations...
        hurt feelings cannot,
ever be, "hurt" thoughts...
the "hurt" from thinking has its
avenue of explanatory fabric...
difficult arithmetic,
notably algebraic in nature...
so... "hurt" feelings...
how about your, hurt "thoughts"?
oh come on!
even i don't remember
the details of solving quadratic equations!
fudge-packaged-brain-drain-drudge?!
May today bring unbridled bliss
delivered courtesy sunshine kissed
giving Midas a run for his money.

When the last trace of night
evaporates analogous to milky hue,
whereat a dreamy state
pervades thy being from tropical delight
as  approach of Dawn
highlights morning landscape Gaia drew
ah, a paradise
in pristine majestic light
arced, bathed, chiseled displayed
described, elongated, fingered gilt
heraldic imagery joyfully

kindling luminosity
markedly novel picture
quintessentially resplendent
sedating this ubiquitous voyager
waking xing vision
yawning zealot acquiesces
bounteous chimerical dalliance
betwixt Goddess delivering break of day
against defeated quotidian
celestial vault, where Mithras dethroned

the capriciously finicky
inky beleaguered darkly crest
etched fading faux French Gendarmes
into humongous jagged lances
endowing sinosoidal amplitude
modulations nudging raiment
donned by trumpeting requiem,
quiescent pronouncement
obliging new morning laminating,
kneading, and jettisoning

remnant shreds twilight
understood voicing willingness
Xerxes yeomen paid tribute
as did preceding and subsequent
captivating Earthlinked
fighting globe trotters held hostage
upon thee third rock from the sun
straddling an invisible saddle
which oblate spheroid
forfeited, manacled, and pitched
tarry sky (vis a vis feathery touch)

as one more ordinary day
wrested, tussled, and quickened
nocturnal nod toward solar spears
betook the reluctant
wrap of blackest night soundlessly forcing
transient ******* (overruling
the cerulean skies) until
dark shadows prefacing the edge of night
once again admirably, willingly,
and unequivocally surrendered  

a fair pact to take solace
whence the morrow allowed, enabled
and provided a ray of shining hope
(every now and again eclipsed)
via the Lunar trajectory
coinciding with axis
when spatial relations
commandeered thru cosmic consciousness
dictating gambit heft
forging atypical sliver of night

before cosmological laissez faire
retreated into the back round,
a universal choreographer
envisioning, insinuating,
maintaining quirkiness  
until recapitulation
sans astronomers predicted future
trio of heavenly bodies
would be aligned bedazzling Primates
access to espy Corona of the sun.

— The End —