It was those blue eyes, sparkling with words
I dreamt about reading but believed it impossible
Too beautiful to be seen with nuclear nerds
In my breakable beaker, you'd never be soluble.

A mismatched juxtaposition, atom for atom.
Even if I permutate, molecule by molecule.
We could never have struck stable equilibrium,
I could never escape the premise of ridicule.

Spent too much time postulating the unknown
Spent far too long balancing tricky equations
Head dug too deep to realise a factor that had grown
An external variable that had encroached with similar intentions.

My hand slipped from the scale when your finger touched my own
I forgot the words "controlled reaction", momentarily
Seeing goosebumps on your skin, and other bumps now shown
I gently pushed your wayward hair behind your ear, daringly

A moment frozen in the range of sub-zeroes
Dare I forgo the mandatory steps and arrive at a conclusion?
If I do I'd garner the title, "the nerdiest of all heroes!"
My "spidey-sense" failed me this time, and awarded me with a "fist-meet-face" reaction!

Happened in a blur, nanoseconds that sang in mock.
What was it that left me in a twirl?
Propped myself up to see the wrath of a crimson-faced ****.
All fists, no brains who yelled, "Hands off my girl!"

All this hilarious yet passionately painful hullabaloo
Let me drop the beaker of sodium in the zinc basin
Forgetting not to get it wet, the moment, clearly now unglued
When suddenly, "BOOM" it sounded like a pending cremation

Jocks, and nerds, and screaming cheerleaders
Hit the ground like a lunchtime scene from downtown Baghdad
And Blondie whispers in my ear, like a gypsy mind reader
"Maybe we should cool it, for I am in love with another lad"

Her words hit home and burned like The Lindenburg on fire
Amidst the fracas, cracked voice stammered to mask my bruised latent ego
"Nothing improper... Just an attempt to save your locks from the Bunsen burner
Science is my only love, just so you know"

Thanked God for my eyes and the need for correction lenses
Those thick convexes made it easy to not reveal
Steadied my frames and packed in hasty pretences
Accusing eyes followed as I exited the room with tears concealed...

Pieter Meyer
**ryn

A cacophony of wasted space in a mind too full to see
boring holes to breathe or vent
or pray that there is no light to be let in

Was never done dying before yesterday moved
tomorrow is last year a lifetime ago
today, erased by was and will

Tears can't dry in incessant floods
bleeding acid that feeds unhealing wounds
in a mix of steroids and parasites

Faced with all that perception ever was
altered reality in crushed emotion
scraping the dregs of feeling to find a place to sleep

Jagged shards of memories offer the most comfort
as they slice what attempted to heal
killing me slowly anew with each passing moment

Moments torn in a million pieces of equal pain
encased in cemented ideals and rosy falsehoods
yesterday is the only reality left

Outside a clenched fist holding onto nothing
blood crusts in black paint
open or closed, there's nothing left to see

Longing to bleed out through the ****** of dreams
left to die in a place that packs holes with dirt
enough to exist in an invisible life

Killing the long ago before it finishes what it started
seems its own nightmare of weakness
will it alive or will it dead, just will something and make it so

A lifetime of dying in a half-life of truth
gray eats black as anguish feeds on beauty
nothing remains in untouched memories

It's over
No more distractions
Curtain's closure
Save your reactions
Not sober
Justified actions
Come closer
We are a fraction

Love, listen to the earth
Speaking to my eyes
Entering the web
Shove me into a curb
Leave me where I lie
Watch the car flip

Gas leaks
Shards of glass afloat
God speaks
The words my father wrote
Our arms weak
Heads in the radio
Your fingers creak
Blood in the raincoat

Soft, unspoken eyelash
Staring into the sun
Kissing thunderclouds
Dogs barking in the rain
At people they don't know
Echoes on my radio
Cough up my keys again
I can not understand
Why this feels unreal
Hogs passing my remains
It plays on over again
Bodies unconcealed.

(It's over)
(It's over)...

the construction industry is filled with Englishmen... well, let's just say the management and bricklayers, and from i hear it's a ****** management, they think it's cheaper to loan a crane than to install one... as i heard, a typical construction site of has about 30 Englishmen tops, a construction site population of about 400... i might be exaggerating, but i heard it first hand, and i've seen it, well 10 years ago it was a bit different, but the cracks were already showing - how one Brit undermined another Brit, dehumanised one ethnicity using another's desperation / exaggeration of rewards: by lowering wages of the former's.

only a casual inference of the vote -
it's one thing pushing away the psychology
of the collective into the recesses of Hades -
even further into Tartarus -
well, you can see Tartarus from here -
the Titans are above us, Luna, and Helios,
Jupiter and Saturn and Mars - we rise
from this place, at least with faithful command
to whatever childish ambition -
psychology can shove collective psychology
of a populace into theory - that calm resolve
of reason, the unconscious and its archetypes -
but to concern oneself with passions,
that's also necessary - side with the "enemy"
to understand them, and then see past the fog...
in a fashion magazine... citation:
if we block free movement, and experienced
Polish or Bulgarian seamstresses cannot come
into the country, it is not obvious how they will
be replaced - "we couldn't have grown the business
without the help and support of these killed people,"
says designer *Christopher Raeburn, who
wasn't able to find similarly experienced Brits
in London (pedantic note, the dittoing of that quote
should belong to me, i'm assuming direct contact
with the designer and the writer of the article,
ditto quotation starts with third party members,
people like me, not with the person interviewed
and the interviewee - i now understand how
dittoing works in English in terms of quoting
someone - in means as above, but by another person;
but i'm sure the quote was passed as word-of-mouth,
so the person who's first to pass a quote shouldn't
immediately use " " marks, he's not a third-person
encapsulation of a newspaper article, this isn't
a novel - simple math: origin (0, on an axis of
x, y, z), person who first encounters the origin-al
notes it with precision 'the sun will come up
tomorrow' - after that a person who encounters
'the sun will come up tomorrow' will then pass
the message down as: "the sun will come up tomorrow",
and then the dittoing cascade appears - the way
gossip spreads - it's not exact - it's ~truth -
people add to it, change it, overhear it and modulate
it - only the first person from the naked origin
should be allowed to ditto the quote - i.e. use
the " " marks - the second person directly citing
the origin makes a single layered membrane encapsulation -
after that it's a repeat of two layers, with the second
layer ably fluctuating, hence not loss of the origin
but a polymer of interpretations - Odysseus said of me:
'Homer' cited the 'Trojan war', we cite "Homer" and
the "Trojan war" as 'Odysseus' said, myth making in ambiguity
or the gossip factory, but given the sequence
0, 1, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 2... nth
a, 'a', "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a", "a"... nth we all have a
chance to cite something from the third person,
after all, isn't fiction's limit based on the third person?
the pedant in me had to mule over this to get some
alcohol frenzy from it... and hey! i did).
it wasn't immigration to be honest, the racist smears
were a smokescreen... look at it this way...
the English Civil War... a friend of mine at university
once said: 'no great nation emerges without a civil war',
i could have written something in excess of that
but then i'd be writing as a third person " " inventing it
and almost treating it as my own, which is a no-go
zone - but from scraps you get the idea - go home,
things are about to get ugly between our civil partners...
and it doesn't boil down to wages as such,
Brits love the fact that Swedish students come to
the Norfolk fields for strawberry harvests, or whoever...
you know what i think it is? London urbanity got
to the vein of countryside folk, or Manchester being
overshadowed, actually globalisation ensured that
only capitals are "representative" of each nation
(inverse the dittoing, that's insinuating a passing-on
from an abstract, like Sartre's notation of "ego" meaning:
imitate me in between each "ego" with my narrative) -
they're not, but the golden nugget in my reasoning
is primarily concerned with You-Tube Sensations -
you name them: eat a tablespoon of cinnamon
and then sniff a ***** sneaker - film it, earn a billion -
become a unit of advertisement, sell it, bin it,
record your life, people binge on it, earn a windmill -
Vlog Blog Bog Sven and Fjoorn - remember when
children were employed in Victorian England?
this isn't between a Brit and a Bulgarian - this **** is
about a Brit and a Brit, hindsight: the English Civil war...
one Brit is saying, deep in the countryside:
you know what, there are people in urban environments
that teach their children that milk comes from
supermarkets and not cows, there's a borderline between
milking a cow and ******* on a part of a woman's
body overly sexed up - this has nothing to do with migration,
well, party it does, it want labourers to understand
a master, some ******* Bulgarian who speaks one
sentence of English gives about two nanoseconds trying
to understand authority - it's not demeaning to him,
he's told what to do, and off he goes and does it and
daydreams about his family reaping the benefits back home...
but employ someone proficient in the language,
who understands it, who has leisure time in it,
and you get a different picture dear Oliver - please sir,
can i have some more? no! back to work you filthy
little Beatnik! it's the self-worth pride, the self-sustaining
pride of nations - the people are saying: did we reduce
our youth to write video biography entries that only
tell other young people to buy the stuff they're advertising,
and all of them have become so fragile as to write poetry?!
well... better think again! minus the influx of migrants...
the doctor that relocated the upper-part of my index
was Hungarian... if it weren't for him... i'd probably have
to use a door to pull it back in...
and i understand what they're saying: i'm not racist... but...
my own countrymen have become so ******* lazy
i have to disguise my racism against other ethnic races...
because if i don't... it's back to Cromwell and the
Parliamentarians of the Square Table.

Nanoseconds streak naked like
rebellious starlight in spacetime
responding to no sentient's censure
striking hot the wired constellations
strung about my fingerless grip
they slip
retreating
eternal
into
The Void.

I've spent the last 3 months in rehab
rebuilding myself after you tore me down
and admittedly there's still pieces of me I haven't found
little pieces at the bottom of your sea, drowned
It's a struggle everyday to get by
yet as time passes, nanoseconds at a time
I remember less how great you felt,
how without you I though I'd die
And like every ****** and great addiction
I relapse, back into my rose coloured world of fiction
as much as I long to be clean, I guess I subconsciously
like it better when you're mean, ruthless
and equate me to dirt, as though I like it better
when it hurts
or else why, what keeps me falling back
with every unintentional relapse
and though I may not physically let you in
your venom that I crave seeps into my skin
that every time I acknowledge your existence
you win
Now, I know this isn't a game, win or lose
it's that dark, shadowed, familiar path I choose
because pain is always better shared between two
And, thus I'm back to rehab today
so that I might find a better way
to hold myself up and to myself say
It was never love,
just a drug induced hallucination
my chemical flooded brain caused adoration
and the constant feeling of fascination
that you're immune to it all
and it's my favorite addiction
but I can't last as a ******
cause this is real life, fact not fiction.

We met a very long time ago.  We both were world travelers,
and we both desired a deeper understanding of our past.  We
met by chance, and it was not love at first sight.  I found her
to be far too passive and cautious, unable to see the thrill in
life.  She found me too brash and reckless, willing to put
myself above others to achieve my goals.  We both had our
points, I guess.

We kept running into each other.  It became a competition
to see who could leave the site with the most artifacts.  At times,
it was quite a heated battle.  Words were said.  Lines were drawn.
This went on for quite some time before we realized we could
do much more for our science if we worked together.  The
first few months were hell.  We spent our days silently
working in each others shadows.  We spent our nights
at opposite sides of our tent, poring over the data from
the day prior.

I don't remember the day it happened, nor the year,
but I do remember it was raining.  We were arguing
about the proper reference notation for a particular
discovery when she turned and called me a callous ****,
right before tripping on a branch.  I was about to
laugh and tell her it served her right, but just at
that moment, as her wet hair framed her oval,
tear-streaked face...

I truly saw her for the first time.

I think she must have done the same, because she
didn't say a word as I picked her up and brought
her to the first aid tent.  She bit her lip quietly as I
treated her swollen ankle.  We both knew it,
though neither of us would ever speak it.

Things were different now.

Our newly forged companionship breathed new
life into both of us.  There was no terrain, no peak,
nothing on heaven and earth that could stop us.
If there was something to be discovered, you had
**** well know it was going to be us doing the
discovering.  It was a golden age when I was by
her side and her by mine.

Our travels finally took us to the unknown during
one particularly muggy summer deep in uncharted
jungles in the south.  We had heard whispers on the
wind of a legendary artifact, one that had been cited
in ancient texts throughout the ages.  We didn't know
exactly what it was, but our nature compelled us to
find it.

We were laughed at, blacklisted by our own colleagues.
We started losing supporters, slowly at first, but soon
our funding was drying up.  Despite every reasonable
chance we had to turn around, we simply could not. It
was emblazoned in our DNA that we must pursue this
unknown thing.  It became our passion, only superseded
by our love for each other.

We did find it.

Eight years later, in the middle of the rain forest, in a spot
so remote that it had never had human footprints, we found
an underground system of caves.  We set into them, and
immediately found ourselves lost.  Traveling for what seemed
like weeks, we survived on moss and spring water.  Just as we
were about to finally extinguish our faith that we would find
what we were seeking, much less our way out...

There it was.

It was stone, approximately 3 feet in diameter, and sat on a raised
pedestal.  It had raised markings on its surface that resembled a
language, though no language that I had ever seen.  The regular
sound of water dripping into it was the only sound outside of our
ragged breathing.  It was a well.  It was our well.  I don't know how
we knew it, but at that moment we both realized that this was the
purpose of our existence.

As we peered into it, we saw what I can only describe as the separation
of time from space.  What I saw burned itself into my brain, threatening
to drive me mad.  The last thing I remembered hearing was a voice inside
my head telling me "At the end, it shall begin".

We woke up at our home, this vivid memory still fresh in our minds,
thinking that it had been a dream, until we saw ourselves.  We were
young again, just as we had been the day we had met.  Further
investigation showed us to be, for better lack of the word...Immortal.

At this point, the years feel like they flew by like rifling through the
pages of the book.  Empires rose and collapsed.  Weather patterns
changed, tectonic plates shifted, it all was mundane at times.  The
one thing that seemed to plague the human race throughout the
eons was the concept of hatred, which saddened us.  We were like
ghosts, sitting on the boundary of humanity, but even that great
chapter eventually ended.  I won't bore you on the details of how
the human race met its demise.

We walked the empty planet watching rivers erode into canyons,
as forests became deserts.  Volcanoes erupted, violently altering
the landscape.  Species continued to evolve, eventually giving way
to other intelligent beings.  They too built massive civilizations
on the planet that humans had once called their own.  They also
made beautiful arts that were a wonderment to our eyes.  They also
hated. All of them eventually ended up in the museums of their
successors, ancient bones the only sign they ever existed.

Five billion years later, the Sun enveloped our planet.  We did not
feel the burn, but we were left with the unfortunate problem of no
longer having solid ground to stand on.  We floated throughout
the universe, hand in hand. We laughed, we cried, we made
love in the place where no one can hear you scream (in ecstasy).
We couldn't speak, but at that point we didn't need to.  The universe
continued to expand, as we continued to float aimlessly.  We had
seen more than any intelligent being could begin to fathom.  We
remembered everything, nothing was lost to the haze of forgotten
memories.

Eventually, the universe slowly began contracting.  I won't even
bother telling you how long it took.  It waned down and down.
It became the size of a nebula...the size of a galaxy...the size
of a planet, until it was so small that it could fit inside of your
wallet.  We contracted as well, our atoms pushing together
as we embraced each other.  It shrank until it was the size
of a single quark, with us inside it.  2 minds occupying
an infinitesimal space.

The we exploded

In nanoseconds, we expanded destroying the emptiness
and filling it with light and heat and life.  We became
every atom in our own universe.  It was freedom, to
no longer be trapped inside of a body, but to just be.
There's no word that can properly describe it.

Billions of years later, our first intelligent life came
into existence.  We did our best to nurture it, but we
admit we are not perfect. We may have taken too
active of a role early on, giving miracles to those
who we deemed kind, and punishing those who
we deemed wicked.  Eventually we realized we
were doing more harm than good.  We retreated,
becoming mere observers of our own creation.

Hate still existed, but we also saw wonder and beauty
that far out shined even the worst souls, much like
light banishes the darkness with such ease.

People always think of God as some all knowing,
all powerful being that knows your soul and
passes judgement.

We sometimes wonder if they would be amazed

or disappointed

to find out that God is just two star crossed lovers
who lived just a little too long

I awoke this morning with all my
nanoseconds whizzing by—

spiraling, they broke for their exits,
they disarrayed my sky.

Each now and now and now
seemed a face, flash color,

many worlds. I could not sense
their place of start or stopping.

Morning sun peeped blue curtains.
I tried my usual breath, felt
heartbeat, wiggled foot.

My dog, he stretched
and bumped my bedframe
with his chest.

Against my fear I placed and pushed
messages of gratitude.

I thanked all things changing
and all of changing time.

Rather than elsewhere, I was here.

Instead of dead--
alive.

oh hell, every time i write some embarrassing a day prior, i turn into honour killing from Pakistan enveloped by shame... 'what the hell did i write last night? i can't remember, but i know for sure that i didn't roll down the stairs or **** in a phonebox'. well, i could sit here romanticising like Marcel Schwob, or just dig into like Marquis the Sade... honestly and oddly enough the latter did give me an *******, and he was half-the-pervert that everyone deemed him to be, flashing his buttocks from the Bastille... his uncle abbé de Sadé (i love to put that accent in on purpose - sounds better to me, less boorish) - and yes, Creedence Clearwater Revival does more justice to the harmonica on graveyard train than Bob Dylan and **** Jagger put together... it's just there, and it ain't it's because it's there that makes it... ha ha... groovy - maybe that's why they spared him from the guillotine, in that he wrote more of his exploits as wished to be done, and of the actual exploits too many were hidden in his blabbering prose undone; ****** is by far his greatest work.

i told you the black and red Oranjeboom is a trip, they used to sell it at 8.5%, now they dropped it to 7.5... that beer can get you crazy in nanoseconds, quicker than a formula 1 crown jewel of a Mercedes-Benz, i'm serious, the ****'s lethal - you drink with me you'll be talking l.s.d., you'll end up a Mongol somewhere in Siberia, stark naked in minus forty saying the words: 'where's my umbrella? where's my umbrella?', indeed on repeat... 'and that yak? i was riding a yak... where's the yak?' we have European bisons to await you colonel... 'about time, i was waiting for a bison... isn't that the place where storks migrate to to make butter over the summer? and the Jews hid when the Black Plague was sweeping across Europe leaving them immune in the vicinity of Cracow?' yes it was, Herr Mascherschtic-Messerschmitt -
'who's on the oboe? and the soloist violinist?' we don't know, working it out, 'you better, because i don't really long for a drum-beat of knocking two stones together to spark anything but fire, rather, a conversation; 40 days in the desert with Jesus trying to relocate the Jews to Goa worked out so splendid that they moved North, started speaking riddle Hebrew that's Yiddish and followed suit with ****** being gassed, but instead of trenches, death chambers - people tend to forget he was himself gassed and dated Eva a Jewess... no far right assimilation, i spoke with a grandpa that asked for sweets from an SS-man and a great-grandmother who fed her daughter opiates to hush her on the eastern front so she wouldn't cry - sometimes stating a self-consciousness detached from thinking (the inhibitor of existence) is as random as a lottery - because it's just that, thought is an inhibitor of existence, being is an exhibitor of the (sic) stated - oh please don't read me if you're into ******, i'm with the bookworms and freaks, premature ejaculators and whatnot, go eat a ******* macaroon in Morocco or something - of all the admirable circumstances worthy a stage thinking isn't really allowed, it's not exactly glorified, in two sentences:
- *i thought about it             (how two pronouns
                                               interact without Freud,
                                               or meet, or are the proton i
                                               neutrons thought about
                                               and the electrons it)...
it's a permanent duality of expressing something and anything,
we need the first person, the eyes give it away,
but in the end we're either touching an axe to chop
down a tree or attaching ourselves to a detachment of
chopping the tree down for the Freudian third it -
it's no longer a game of 'you're it!' tagging of
the kindergarten game but a work of fiction, transitions
like that must be painful - third person narratives are
generally conceived from being lazy in the first person,
how many people do you actually need to **** the poet off?
film credits: and it's a long list, mind you.
oh yeah, that word: dzwiękać - it's about making 0.1% of
a Mozart symphony with two stones smacked against
each other for what the feet used to do, a drumbeat,
it's not exactly an act of Prometheus' Odyssey into
the first glimpses of chemistry -
alternatively?
- i am it / or some alternative to something even more alternative,
  in the French school of thought dubbed deconstructionism
  that's also a blah blah reduction,
  Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinclair, a slum-dunk
  by the Lakers - it's still supposed to mean that i intended
  the phonetic encryption, i visualised nothing for
  you to follow-up on, sounds, poetry isn't cartoon,
  the harsh reality of having to read the Mandala of
  mouth expressions without, eye, eyebrows or cheeks
  or chin - ends up being dentistry when you want to
  say a but end up adding a            h     while
  the dentist inserts a blunt object into your mouth for
  an ah (be my guest, macron or umlaut depending
  on the volume of your lungs added to the a for reasons
  of reality's prolonging the seance of rotten teeth).
what i meant was the notion that thought is a different
type of being, or expression of out of every instance -
thinking too much won't grant you access to
people who say: 'are bored with their *** life. especially
gay men, who 'see *** as something you have to do
while on drugs'. so once **** no reassurance with
forever ****? **** it! could have given it a one-over
back when i didn't have a monkish demur.
well i can admit i'm jealous, but i just remember *******
before puberty and feeling the muscle sensation and
seeing no *****, aged 8 - the ******* help, and incubator
for all that raging monotheistic operatic harem wanton -
it's still a balancing act writing a sentence,
you are basically juggling two words, both are pronouns -
you throw a boomerang, you throw it as yourself
and expect it to come back as yourself,
pristine, juvenile, ******, intact with a pride of being
a person not influenced by others... the origin of
Columbus... it doesn't work like that,
the boomerang ends up like a windscreen with
several bugs attacked to it, bugs like Kant, like Heidegger,
whoever... whatever, free-love **** *** is overrated for me,
the ******* build-up and the flashing lights and whatnot,
i approach *** like a lumberjack a tree,
axe, tree, chop chop, tree falls... i'm out after an
hour having paid £110 for the pleasure... so you can take
your little feminism into the annals for these free-love
festivals (burning man in Nevada, killing kittens
in the hamptons etc.), preach there, leave me and my loser
****** high libido crew in the shadow of the crucifix -
judgemental ******* - i never expected so much stigma for
giving an ****** that i paid for to give, it's like an
Albert Camus novel, or worse, his life,
paid for a train ticket but decided to travel to the desired
destination by car, dead in a car-wreck - Irony with an ism.

I once had it.
It was in my hand.
The moment I went to close my tattered fingers around it, to keep it in my grasp, they began to oxidize.
Not only was it as if the caretaker had forgotten to properly oil the cogs of the clock in the tower in the center of the town, he had also forgotten where he had hid the skeletal key.
The fingers began to crumble, what was once hovering within nanoseconds of my grasp had slipped eons away.
I once had it.
I let it go.

Go.

Go.

I see the earth crumble
                As I close my eyes
   In the mirror
                            A hundred civilizations  
Vanish in the literal blink of an eye
           Tectonic plates sliding together
    Forming volcanos in my pupils
          I cry magma
Hot tears burning holes in my cardigan
                   Fully shut, I can hear the subtle sizzle
            And untimely titanic "BOOM" of an imploding world
      The flames burn through my lids
          In incalculable nanoseconds
               Somehow I can sense
                       The smoke
                           It feels
                             Like


Marijuana.

My life is in shambles
So time where are you?
I'm waiting upon your arrival with flowers
Neck deep in anticipation

They say
"Time kills all pain"
"Time cures the deepest of wounds"
So I wait. I tally the
Nanoseconds, the minutes, the days.
Submerged beneath a huge mass of sentiments
I can't reach the surface

Time I need you.

The frail nature of the soul
makes for confused company,
especially in
a world of moving fingertips
clicking precious-time away.

Passions run deep &
our minds travel
in nanoseconds,
we grasp glimpses
of each others worlds
on the dark side of the moon.

Yet, we still remain
a million miles away,
trapped in cyberspace,
endlessly flowing.

We forget
the contact,
the touch of our lips,
those loving-arms
embraced around our hearts,
human reactions,
only to remember
genuine frustration,
continual loneliness
& isolation.

Seems forever we look
for super nova,
remaining hardwired,
inspired.

And hopefully,
we never lose
faith,
hope or love
traveling like this,
missing kisses.

Pockets of air that pop into existence
Nanoseconds turn into centuries
We pop again, alone always, out of reality
The cycle repeats and we turn into particles
That join with the rest of the galaxy

your body
   my body
together
   apart

they remember
they recognize
   each other
register sensations
exchange molecular information

   receptors and synapses clicking
   data processed in nanoseconds

output:
you are the one I love

I opened the shutters and light eventually claimed
the perfection covered by my blanket. Dozing off
like it wasn't past eight and he had work
to do.

Last night was beautiful. It seemed like we were the after-effect
of a writer’s figment of imagination. No existing words
could ever describe and give justice as to how graceful and
stunning we were.

He held my hands – filling up the spaces that once stood
alone (but now never again). He touched the small of
my back and danced with me in the moon lit veranda with
only candles to witness us both.

His neck radiated of fresh soap and mint. His breath of
chocolate-covered strawberries we have shared fifteen minutes
ago. His soft, delicate hands tracing the non-existent contour
of my waist.

We swayed along Muse and Switch foot. As the last seconds
of our last song neared, he took me in his arms, and
put my lips against his. No one to see, no one to judge, no one
to ever write of.

Time flew so fast, yet so slow. Seconds turned into minutes,
minutes turned into hours, hours turned into centuries, and
after all my infinite nanoseconds, we were back under my covers
giggling like 5 year-olds, as love-stricken back in 2002.

And seeing his eyelids flutter now, I wonder if you are
ever going to leave again. Leave me back in my slumber, with no
deep brown eyes to wake up to. And without you, no one’s going to
*empty my aftershave or tie up my necktie anymore.

the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
the N.S.A. is my friend,
detention lasts an hour,
how many times do you think
i'd write the statement?
this is before the dark-web,
before Contraband Anonymous,
oh hell, i can write you Orwell's
1984 in nanoseconds,
about how you should drink and not
ingest hallucinatory drugs,
not least the pharmacist quotient
available...
but prior to... hmm... the N.S.A. is
still my friend, they have the conversations
of the culprits, and Tsar Putin jacking
off to the sound of Apollo 13's mission failure...
and have i the ***** to say it?
i think i do.... unless a Martian descends,
or Jupiter encrusts into a ball of hot
cranium of fire, then we're left with Pluto being
the penultimate ice-ball before
the thing that killed the dinosaurs comes
along in hookah Kiwi haka style
for a fantasia of the Parisian catwalk...
chew wee a mega fibia, aye Scotch,
aye Ben Nervous - mega choo backpacker
and mm, hoo see the Nedtherlands!
and then we all get to nibble on our excited-lower-lip
the French revolved around to hark:
oriental in Romanian: h = r = haaark!
agling to a gagging too.
poetry - you make sounds, you don't
intend to make sense... it's your *******
tongue as a trumpet... what else?!

Millenia a moment
wishes on all the starfish in the ocean
wouldn't make Wilcox happy in love

Indivisible divisions
infinite wisdom where math and science
will never meet God

Did science create a universe or simply define it?
Where beginning meets end in pinpoints of minutia
that by definition and design will never actually meet

Cradle me in your arms for nanoseconds
each holding an eternity
If only time could be held by more than mere memory

Maybe, everything until the now that is never the now
can touch a moment
that can never be broken into its smallest parts

Twisted-life symphony
It seems so real
Brimstone meet misery
Balancing on oily steel
so glad you're not me
Namaste metal thunder

I have to leave you
vacant online junkies today
with your video eyes
and your mouths gasping
playing your games
Namaste ******-headed rag dolls

You'll read a couple from Chechov
Admire the lines of Baryshnikov,
oil your friendly little Kalashnikov
under satellites and stations and junk
Namaste deaf, dumb and blind nighttime sky

You wasted your days with excuses
you played on your DSes
til they faded away like UFOs
carrying your doughyness
down, down
Namaste Friday night parking lot hometown

How large is the rock
Stopping my float
My rotten boat's making a
last trip from the dock
Promising ice-cold dark caresses
Namaste cold, crushing depths

How long is the rope
snaps my neck
So much loss of hope
in the blink of an eye
a bloated blue ornament
Namaste choking collar

Plug in now, oh wow!
Gigabytes in nanoseconds
Gigabods in nanomoments
Gigaflights in nanospans
What's a moth's life
Weigh dominion
Namaste my sweeter side

Why don't you join?
Are you scared of freedom?
Just flip this cosmic coin
Just a game, it's just a game
Filled with pain and ecstasy
Namaste en garde, sil vous plait

I think I might just play
lose without trying
play a freewheeling style
Nothing really matters
I'll come back hereafter
Namaste, hasta la vista

By the handful the liquid appears colorless

But a quick glance across the rippled surface convinces you it is blue

Cold water surrounds me as I descend

Gazing upwards as I take my seat on the floor

People seem to be flying, a butterfly, though it isn’t true

I know about buoyancy, I know they are merely supported by the water

As long as they keep pushing their way through, they’ll move

The waves on the surface distort my vision

More than I originally thought

The light moves more slowly through the water

Granted I can’t perceive the lag

That little kid running along the pool deck

The action happening maybe nanoseconds, probably smaller

Before I was able to begin perceiving it

With the same idea

I could look into the sky tonight and pick a star

It may very well have died, a fiery hell or a disappointing fizzle

Millions of years ago.

My lungs ache

I push off the floor, relief when my head breaks the surface

Gasping

Time is relative.
It can yell. It can scream.
But it can't run backwards.*

It takes 8 minutes for the light from the sun to reach the earth,
And hundreds of thousands of this exact timeframe
for the sun's inexistent sound to permeate in permanence.
A solar explosion would annihilate the human force.
Everything we know would sublimate into a vacuumed space.
All knowledge of everything,
Vanished in a fiery apocalypse.
Death would arrive before it even happens.
So what is the purpose of life if death could already be here,
Eight minutes from this moment?
The time it takes to boil noodles,
Take a shower,
Eat a bowl of cereal,
Could be the last spoken,
Thought,
Performed part of everything.

How should I believe time is real,
Death is cheated,
God is listening,
When this minute could be my eighth?

I swing my chainless pocket watch and count each of my five hundred seconds.
And wonder if it would be simpler to exist where time doesn't.
But each child climbs higher on the playground's jungle gym,
Reaching for doctorates and dissertations,
Their watches not as precisely examined as my own.
No worry of things that are all too possible
In just a matter of time-
School shootings,
Asteroid strikes,
Uncontrollable plagues-
While my watch counts nanoseconds as it falls onto Earth's surface,
Their watches spin rampantly,
Drilling into their sandboxes.
I see this,
The same age I was years before,
And these children melt into wheel chairs and death beds alike,
Their children mourning their passing,
While their children's children,
Crippled with tears,
Hold the hands of their parents in desperation
for an agony so ripping.
And all the while I see the sun exhale its time.
The trees ignite,
the sidewalks smelt with the burning grass and buildings.
And just as I peer into the beyond,
My rusting pocket watch clinks with the sanded surface of this childhood play box.

Perturbing looks lock

Seconds could be years I wish

But are nanoseconds.

Sheer exhaustion
was my companion last night,
knocked me right out,
pulled my eyelids shut
in nanoseconds.

So deep I fell,
not one dream
entered my mind,
only the sound of silence,
a cousin to rest.

The crazy world moves in nanoseconds,
mountains, terabytes of nonsense
move at supersonic speeds
along the info-highway,
traded between
infinite faceless entities.

What of our raw emotions,
those fleshly feelings,
the electrical synapses’
causing such great commotion,
stirring the wildest imaginations!

And who really reads philosophy anymore,
what person respects the words of a poet
when it seems to be all about the net these days?
For after all, everything you read there
is surely the gospel-awful-truth,
such total madness
exploded into a billion+ clusters,
cataloged into whatever floats
our boats.

It seems the real world is sinking
into advanced technologies,
synthetic pied pipers ply us
with their artificial intelligence,
humming dangerous notes that taste metallic,
with everything made somewhere else.

O human-kind,
my kindred,
please tell me,
where are the true artisans,
where are the keepers of the authentic minds,
where are the hopeless romantics with beating hearts?

Where are they?

She's ghost-bound
Dead,
Counting silent breath
On airwaves--

And oaken elephants--
Weather through
The distillation
Of time-

We're time-travelling
Whispers; nanoseconds
Catching spores,
Spelling--

She's mine-
My only one.

a tilt of the face communiqué / 's cool, and bad at the same time / it becomes your advantage / a suggestion takes flight / there's a straightforward coyness / so i twitch, writhe, and laugh internal / a scared lamenting chortle / a painful squirm / i'm unable to line up the edges of this mysteriousness / you fade in, and then out / i suffer acutely / i'm at a dead end / in the silence of your smile / moonbeams are razor sharp / showing deep cuts / while wordless nanoseconds morph into uh oh's / yes, you sharked into my waters / there's an uncertainty of trust / gnashing 'n gnawing / as real life goes, some things never change / as tears reverse my invisibility

by  "ooznozz"

A pretty flower for a pretty face. Oh how I wonder where you go during my days. To the museums you adore. To gardens and to the sea shores. Wherever you go. I'll find a pretty flower for your pretty face. A garden for every summer I remember you. And silently smile.

I once said that people have atmosphere's within them. Worlds in their eyes. And a massive collection of fireworks on their tongues. And I once wanted to have her atmosphere to make it rain within me. I wanted her comfortable nights to coincide with my anxious days. And I wanted to feel the slow explosions on my tongue. I wanted her. Not for how cute she is. Not for how lovely she is every day to everyone around her. For the smiles I earn. For that tiny grin that assures me for a few nanoseconds that I do have a reason for being here.